The frisky foreplay between Aasimar were noteworthy, especially from a hawk’s perspective. 

[i]Full of tenacious punctuation and aberrant exclamation.[/i]

Inscribing in the now repossessed journal, the beautiful solon feverishly confined her perverse cogitations onto the paged mausoleum, subjects spanning from the disentombed avian ornaments to the Celestials’ theories on exhumed spirit and resolve. Most of the ruminations' paragraphs dedicated a redundant anaphora on the clumsy topic of passion regularly exchanged amongst their troupe. 

[i]Wit willfully wrestling with worship.[/i] 

To the reborn sage, it seemed, their corporate empathy and friendship organically stemmed from the company’s evolution of a haphazard [i]storge[/i] into a brotherly [i]philia[/i], now ever marching under a united cause. The natural affection, each possessed for one another, spawned forth from the trenches of this accustomed kinship mounting into that meshed mob felt amongst all as a closely knit family, who forever would tend to their clan’s wounds and afflictions as if they were their own. 

[i]No matter what.[/i] 

[i]Fascinating.[/i]

If this was the case, this inkling struck the cleric as not dissimilar from the recent brawl against the giant ravens, no less instinctually foraging and buoying resources for their younger brood above the waters of extinction, engineered to do so from a mindless, genetic lineage.  Bred from [i]thelema[/i] and other erotic programs. Built upon hormones and decaying obsessions. 

[i]Could such mechanical adoration ever paint an agapé, decorating altruistically the ceiling of their emotional chapel upon the scaffolding of charity incarnate? A worthy legacy against demonic self-aggrandizement, portraying virtuosity amongst Light and creation.  Was this love not gentle and kind, but deterministically self-serving? A contingency constructed out of social trust and expectations?[/i]

A sigh expelled.  

[color=ec008c]“I believe my eyes have questionably stomached the tyranny of conscious and archived thought, long enough. It happens our jaunt pukes forth both sharp and flat…” [/color]

The warlock silently capped her pen, while closing the chronicled memoirs to such fleeting fantasies, as the pirate poet commenced a song of rest. She comprehended and thrived within that isolative honesty and detested the intrusive confusion such expressive relationships fetched.  However, discussed dialectic was an echoed necessity. Her face generated a fascia of camaraderie to camouflage any buried awkwardness.  This new body proved useful to this ulterior intention, where her former elfish existence would have been slightly less graceful.   Mocking a fake grin, the erudite youth sculpted a supplement to stalk the denouement of one of Cesar’s tunes.

Then, a yawn. [color=ec008c]“… notes in our wake. Low and…” [/color]

Standing and clapping, she continued. [color=ec008c]“High. Excellent, Cesar! Your melody’s clout merits that of ten armies.  Life requires such a militant pulse. Bravo!”[/color]

Wick’s smirk and applause quickly dissipated as she glanced upon this world’s luminary, simultaneously treading further into the vale’s orchard. 

[color=ec008c]“The frozen sun appears to never twirl to the tempo of the day, though. Come! We must not be ensnared in the silence of its vigil. Our boots should disperse soon and dance to the wind’s music.”[/color]

[@Zverda][@Hekazu][@JBRam2002][@Cu Chulainn][@The Harbinger of Ferocity][@Big Dread]