She is a storm made woman under a sky of falling snow. Winter's frost kisses her world in one last show of strength, before spring cusps the horizon in bloom. Ice curls into the ivory of her mane, and snowflakes fleck her burning flesh — melting into droplets of stars that burst as soon as they touch her warmth. Her feathers dance in the chill that cradles her close; the great expanse of her wings tucked close to her sides. She inhales — breathing in glass and fury. And then she exhales, loosing free the chaos that ripples in lightning underneath the cage of her skin. Over and over again. In a flurry of crystal that swirls around the ebony of her frame, she walks with purpose. Her steps are near silent on the white blanket at her feet; a wraith borne of shadow and smoke in a land made colorless by the cold. Twilight hides behind a curtain of blizzard grey, but still, she feels the shimmer of stars that begin to wake from slumber. The Night daughter is embraced close by the darkness that grows in the long hours; the shadows reach out to her in the little light. She is a phantom penumbra, with a collapsing nebula hiding in the curve of her ribs where her heart should be. Too long had she denied the song of war cries and blood kissing her knuckles. Too long since her muscles have tasted the sweet agony of bruises, and the bliss of ripping enemies of their titles. Too long had she pushed down the warrior that she had grown to be. Too long had her training, her desires, her instincts been imprisoned into walls of moonstone and adamant; bound tightly in chains crafted of starlight and gold. Too long, too long, too long. But no more. Calligo's dark fingers wrap around her gypsy warrior, her guardian, her Court's sworn protector. The shadows dance in what little light shines through the break of grey clouds that mar their skies. Whispers of snow whistle in her ears, twinkling the coins wrapped around her throat — the only sounds save for the thunder of her heart. The stars above murmur to her through the snow that builds at her ankles and twists along the silk of her coat. Her goddess holds her, as if to say: Make them pay, my dear. The stormsinger does not hesitate as her hooves step into the boundaries of her battlefield. For hurricanes do not ask permission to wreck havoc on seas and cities laid too close to shore. Tornadoes do not ask to rage against an unsuspecting earth. Lightning does not ask to strike the land in swords of fiery stars. And thunder does not ask before it roars like an angry lion in the home of violet skies. She does not ask as she steps further into the heart of the Steppe. Aislinn was a storm made woman, after all. @Torstein let's do a thing! I'm ready to do a thing. "Aislinn speech." |
