News of the grand “Party of the Season” had easily reached Denocte, the noble families abuzz with gossip and excitement at the prospect of attending. Better still was the news that Lord Arden Sarrallon had turned his nose up at the invite, disdainfully declining the offer. Locae had made his mind up, upon hearing his father’s response, that he just had to go.
A night of high class revelry with no expense spared and the chance to wander the halls of a Solterran noble’s palace rather excited the young Lord. That and of course the prospect of frustrating his father whose disdain for all but the highest class of Denoctians almost outweighed his disappointment of his wayward son. Dressed in the finest velvet money could buy and crowned in a halter of gold and ruby, Locae perused the marbled halls of the Ieshan’s lavish home, his hoof-falls lost to the echoes of the towering, painted ceilings. Though his outfit marked him as one of them, as someone with staggering wealth and grand holdings, the scars wrought across his plain ebony fur did more to draw attention than any gold or rubies could. He felt like a lion prowling among them, wreathed in a mane of auburn. But the Sarrallon Lord was under no illusions that there was many a viper and desert cat in the court of Solterra.
Though Locae was all too happy to attend the party as a manner of annoying his father, he had very little interest for the finer things in life and even less interest in the conversations between this noble or that. In fact the only thing that would make the evening at least somewhat enjoyable lay spread out across a number of rather vast tables.
The heady blend of alcohol and fine foods wafted from the gigantic hall as Locae greeted Prince Pilate at the door, a smirk upon his lips that suggested any pleasantries he spoke were entirely false. Then he made a beeline for the whiskey, weaving artfully despite his sheer size between the many horses that had packed out the room. The fruity cocktails and multi-coloured drinks promised more than just the usual effects of alcohol and were far too garish for Locae’s tastes and he instead went for a glass filled part way with amber whiskey. Sipping on it in a refined manner (or as refined as the scarred brute could be), he surveyed the packed hall and the guests within, searching for any faces he might recognise.
Amaunet is a wildfire in the forest of wealth. She is a cracked open sky with blood-red peeking through the golden billows of clouds. In her gaze, as she walks through the crowd like a beast with a hollow hunger cut loose from the chain, there is a howl hanging moon-dark in her smile. And when she turns her head towards the music, and the dancers, and the gluttonous beasts of men, there is a warning that begs caution as much as it begs for lust.
The bangles on her neck sound the whisper of swords as she curls her neck coquettishly and snaps her wings as if she is nothing more than a thing unprepared for the glory of gold around her. Satin whispers behind her with edges of fur stained with black ink from the touch of paint, and lust, and wanting. And she does not try to hide the smear of it curling across her hip where art has been marred by lip and tooth. Eyes linger on the marks, of course they linger, but she tries not to snarl a warning when they mark her as something eager for a drucken touch (and it would be their last touch if they dared).
She does not dance in the crowd as she pushes through it as a dagger pushes through the chamber of the heart. She does not pause to drink at the bar as she passes that too. Her wing snaps out to strip the glasses from the table and send them to the floor. And she does not pause to linger in the chaos of her destruction as rage sparks and smolders the wake of her.
Amaunet only smiles, like a dangerous girl is oft to smile, and turns the golden glow of her form to Locae as he stands at the end of the bar. And when her smile turns wicked and she snaps out both her wings every inch of her begs him to pray for salvation of his own drink. It’ll take more than whiskey and blood to soothe the awoken thing in her skin.
Blood hewn eyes trace faces across the elaborate hall, cast around again and again as he leisurely sips his drink. Within their depths burns the mirth, the anticipation of what chaos awaits; they need only spy a target.
Among the sea of face- both richly adorned and slightly more plain, Locae picks out one belonging to a rather feeble cousin of his. A sneer paints the crevices of his scarred face, the cruelty of it matching the vicious tears in his ear, the lines of battle strew across his visage. The young Lord had never particularly liked this cousin and was rather enjoying imaging the various ways to toy with him, especially given the stumble in the lesser lord’s step, the way his glass of wine swept emphatically as he conversed with some other nobles, the burgundy liquid splattering his pale coat. Oh Locae would certainly enjoy toying with his cousin. Frankly, he was even more of an embarrassment to the Sarrallon name than Locae, though for his feeble nature, arrogance and overindulgence in drink and expensive escorts. That was the kind of embarrassment many expected a noble to pose, not roughhousing the streets, earning scar after scar like badges of honour. No, Locae’s cousin had the luxury of more anonymity, less pressure, something the darker steed would always envy him for.
Yet, before he could take even one step in his cousin’s direction, a face he knew anywhere entered the room. She was living, breathing chaos, a creature honed from violence and hewn from the desert that adorned her scent. She stood out from the nobles, an exotic predator amidst the frilly prey, the paints of war across her earthen hide. With the strike of a single wing, the glasses lining the bar were swept to the floor, the chattering disturbed by the shattering of glass. For a mere second only silence followed, until those closest erupted into clamouring anger, admonishing the waste of alcohol, the disturbance of the evening. Locae hardly pitied them, a family like this could replace the entire table of glasses ten times over without even denting their wallet. He did however feel bereft of the chance to sample more of their expensive liquors for free. Nevertheless, a smirk plays across his dark lips; usually they were competitors, each trying to fuel the fires of their respective fighting clubs, but tonight- tonight they were in accordance. Tonight they were both lions amongst sheep. Or so Locae hoped. Amaunet was wildfire and desert winds, untameable, unpredictable and entirely intoxicating. Whether her whims would encompass him or capture him, Locae wasn't quite sure. The Lord found himself quickly swallowing his drink, lest it find itself spilt across the floor (or worse, his coat) in the same manner as the rest of them.
Wings outstretched, Locae might have compared her to a preening swan as she sliced through the crowd with decisive ease. But to compare her to a swan was to diminish the wild, dangerousness that cloaked her like a second skin for she was no elegant genteel, beautiful as she was.
“A pity,” he said, his ruby eyes regarding the travelling puddle of alcohol with a tiny amount of mournful distaste, “whatever shall these squabbling nobles do without drink to make their evening slightly more bearable.” A devilish smirk crept across his lips with each word. The wickedness in her eyes had him anticipating their verbal dancing tonight.
The chaos sparks like a bit of deadwood anointed with an ember behind her. It starts with the lament of one stallion and the ire of another. It grows as a wildfire does. Spark- to wood- to flame- to apocalypse. She can hear their bellows like thunder in her heart and it swirls like a storm in the edges of her golden gaze when she flickers her gaze (flame quick) between the coming fight and Locae.
Somehow, despite the feral brutality behind her, the beauty of her violence is becomes art against a gilded frame. And she does not try to hide the bright glory of it. Chaos and violence have been bred into her soul as it is bred into all children of war and suffering.
She smiles at him, above the lakes of liquor refracting her own brightness back at her, and steps closer. It’s always closer with her, like the world is a deer torn asunder and she is nothing more than a wolf in the middle of winter. Even the flare of her nostrils is more predator-like than horse-like when she lifts her head like a gauntlet in the space between them.
Already she has counted the number of his ribs, his blinks, the pulse flickering firefly rapid at his throat. She has drawn maps to the end of the world in the patterns of his scars. And she has imagined, twice as much as that, the ways in which he might be convinced to fall apart at the press of her teeth at the apex of his jugular.
“Will it not be glorious to watch them discover it?” Her words twist between the bright violence of her smile and the bleating whispers of wings (that have not learned how to settle) against skin. The hair down her spine lifts like there is a lighting storm churning above them. She breathes in the whiskey on his breath and the bated darkness of the soul sleeping like a snake below that. And when she turns to stand side by side with him, wing to rib, her heart stutters in her chest to learn the melody of it.
Because she needs to know the song of it in order to tear it apart, note by note and chamber by chamber.
With her natural magic she grabs the lone surviving drink from the bar. Amaunet does not flinch as she swallows it and licks the lingering drops of liquor from her lips. “My money is on the bartender.” And when that same bartender lifts his eyes to her, with a spark of hate ember bright in them, Amaunet smiles back.
Like tinder to flame she waits for the burn.
And it’s the same burn she’s waiting for, when she lays her cheek against his as if they are lovers instead of rivals.
