The raven-haired woman.
Eyes greener than the poison ivy that spiders up the side of your mother's quaint cottage. Heavy-lidded. Bedroom eyes. Dark lashes, the source of hurricanes and manipulation. Curled, femininely long, framing almond-shaped eyes. An underlying expression of distaste hidden behind the irises, accompanied by the single crease of a frown between angled eyebrows. Those eyes. An unintentional culprit of making him fall in love all over again, ensuring that he would stay loyal to her. Head tilted downward, glancing up with those eyes: he would always come back.
Full lips, darkly tinted depending on the occasion. Bitten and pouted, chapped in the cold yet swiftly replenished with a simple lick. Smudged rouge not only smeared across her own lips, but his also. Pearly-whites rarely displayed to allow for a vague smile or a perpetual frown of thought. Closed-mouth laughter, clustered in the back of her throat.
Soft hands. Slender hands. Spindly fingers, all nine of them. A stump of flesh replacing her left little finger, wrapped in a single piece of thin black thread which is tied into a small, barely noticeable, bow. Nails of a decent length, long enough to pick off a pesky strand of hair or to drag along the tender flesh of his back.
A willowy figure, with the harsh protrusion of scented collarbones. Lavender and clary sage. The thick black ribbon choked around her neck, brooch-less. A body of typical height, weighing on the slimmer side. A small bosom which requires an additional corset lift. The contours of toned muscles due to excessive training: feminine and sleek as opposed to the bulk of a barbarian. The valley of her spine was familiar to him, even more so with his pale touch upon tanned skin.
The teeth marks of a wolf-mother stricken across her right upper-arm, a reminder that chasing after a man was not worth the time of any woman. Small burns and scars to indicate her bad behaviour and her additional punishment. The physical evidence of a swift marriage of a once teenager and an older man, and the bitter relationship which followed.
A cascade of hair. Deep waves, frayed ends. Thick and concealing, blacker than the night-sky and imitating the feathers of the raven. Laying upon the curve of her bosom or swept up in secure fastenings to allow for shorter strands to drop down in her way. Long enough to wrap around her like a shawl or tickle the skin of his face as she leaned down upon him. Hair. The most recognisable trait, the easiest way to identify this woman in a crowded space, an enigma of sorts, holding a common dislike for most folk. This sweep of dark hair being often the only association given to the name 'Ashaia'.
Ashaia, the raven-haired woman.
