#shakespeare is shaking tonight we are playing up that beauty and beast angle

[rafent]

🎲 roll! that! die!

[ 🎲 ] Roll that die ~♪ 6. A gentle peck

Maiden and malefactor; human and dragon; beauty and beast; many were the labels that might describe two who stood in great contrast. Far fewer were the names that troubled inhibitions went by.

Hesitation and conscience to prove his limiter, the unseen wall which separated thought from action and he from her, Rafal's hands circled Dorothea's waist with the faintest pressure. Each touching finger a whisper not a shout, the whole of his grip scarcely above a phantom toeing the line between imagined and real. Beautiful was Dorothea - heartachingly so, with the silky sheen of her tresses aglow and the amicable traits of her virtue extended on this night as much as any other. The pristine red dress she wore suited her as much as blood suited Rafal.

Comely the songstress, in every way.

And so very unsightly the sinner.

For every ardent evening must arrive an end, one last needed step to bank or douse its flame. In that name, he leaned down a short ways and kissed her, a brief and uninspired peck of lips in answer to her closed eyes. Whirlwind passions, tightly cinching hands, and burial in the sepulchers of loving gazes for which one might gladly expire; Rafal knew vaguely of these. Knew clearer they were not for the dragons that better men slayed, for Dorothea's princes of wrong and misshapen kind.

"Good night, Dorothea."

His hands drifted from her; to his own understanding, a wisdom. Whatever expectations of romance germinated beneath the luminous streetlights were pruned there also, a wilted garden. One more that the Fell Heir had made.