It was a question she didn’t expect. And one she didn’t have an answer to.
Vytln wasn’t ugly. His features were… inhuman, but not unpleasant.
Blocky, rocky, hard and uncompromising. His nose was square, his jaw was square. The ring of short horns on his head were rough and chipped in places. They looked like they’d do a lot of damage if he rammed them into someone. Something she could too easily see him doing. It seemed like the sort of wild, half bestial attack he would make.
His shoulders were broad, his biceps were big, his hands were like plates, his thighs like tree trunks. He wasn’t the biggest guy on the crew, but the proud way he held himself, the way he stood unapologetically, the way he towered over her, cracks and eyes burning like embers, made him larger than even life.
He was human-ish, but completely monstrous. Like a rock ogre or a golem. She couldn’t say that she didn’t like it though. He was interesting to look at. She was curious about him. She wanted to know how his body worked.
And since she normally had no interest in the squishy sciences, that said a lot.
So… maybe?
Is this what attraction was? It wasn’t similar to the itch she sometimes scratched with other nomads she passed. That feeling was just a biological urge to purge. Something she did that felt good, that satisfied in the moment but was quickly forgotten.
No, this was more similar to the excited fluttering in her belly she felt when she discovered something new and interesting to learn.
But because it was new, because it was unfamiliar, it took her too long to decide on the answer.
Vytln must have decided that her answer was a negative one, because – rather reluctantly – he released his grip on her and stepped back. Allowing her more room to look over his body. The gray jumpsuit he wore on his legs looked like he’d ripped off the top part, leaving the waist above his belt messy and frayed. The black boots on his feet were huge, like boats. She kind of thought she could see more cracks there in his legs and on his chest, faintly glowing through the fabric.
She blinked at them before gesturing at the biggest glowing mark she could see there on his right forearm. Spreading out there on the outside of his arm was a thick network of cracks, like safety glass that had shattered but maintained its form.
“What are those being?” She asked. “Marks?”
He lifted his arm, giving her a better look at the crisscrossing series of cracks. They were 3D, creating crevices in his skin. They were chaotic and beautiful, and she wondered if those were like some kind of fancy tattoo she didn’t know about – very possible – or maybe they were like birth marks for his people.
The look on his face gave her a clue before he said softly, “They’re scars.”
“Scars,” she repeated, frowning, her eyes moving over them again.
The thick network on his right arm, the slightly less thick network on the left. There were more on the rest of his arms, across his chest, one cracking up his neck. They must continue under his pants, almost certainly around his back where she couldn’t see. His face, really, was the only place free of them.
She thought they were beautiful.
But they were all… scars.
Injuries. Wounds. Unhealing cracks and crevices marking him permanently. So many. All over his body. Looking at them, knowing that they were proof of him being hurt, suddenly made the beautiful horrible.
“I am being sorry,” she said, reaching up and, slowly, gently, putting her hand over the crisscrossing network of scars.
He was very hot blooded. She could feel the heat coming off of him like it was pouring off a campfire. But she loved it. She was always cold, probably anemic, if she ever cared to get it checked, and she was used to working around hot engines. It was pleasant to her.
The scars looked like they would burn. Like glowing coals that were the only remnants of a once raging bonfire. She even hesitated over them, half worried they might burn her, but also giving Vytln a chance to pull back if he wanted.
But he didn’t, and when her fingers gently came to rest on the marks, she found that they were definitely hot, but not burning. They were rough though, like a hardened scab. Or a raw piece of pumice stone.
“Don’t be sorry,” he said, staring at her hand where it rested gently on him. The barest hint of a connection that felt somehow both delicate and powerful. “They’re wounds I earned fighting. They are marks of my power. I’m proud of them.”
“Would others being proud of them?”
He didn’t answer, which told her enough. She smiled at him again.
“I am liking them. Very warm. Very tough.”
He gave her a look that told her he didn’t at all miss her weak attempt at agreeing with him. Even if she did mean it, the words had absolutely sounded placating.
“My people are tough,” he said, turning his arm, showing her the soft underside. Softer. His entire body was hard and toughened, so it was a relative term.
