R
He stood beside Aislinn, a cold tempest in the wake of Aislinn's thunder storm. Where he'd been warm, he is now cold, colder than winter's breath, colder than death's frigid caress. A blizzard barely contained in equine form, the Moon's lance ready to pierce at a moment's notice. Gone is the kindness had lined his regal features, the careful brush stroke is now an angry smear of what had been. There is no kindness swimming in the depths of those lilac eyes, there is only barely contained contempt. Loosely leashed anger that coiled and slithered, serpents in a pit of oil over his skin and across his senses as his chin tipped in an apathetic light.
The moonlight bathed him in her illuminating glow, the iridescense of his pale hide shimmered. The braids in his hair remained, outfitted with gilded coins similar to the coins his beloved wore. He smelt of dragonfire and ash, he smells of war and the battlefield. It is a comfort, in this time, to slip back into those old smells and drink them deep. Inaction is no longer the plan laid upon the field, and Isorath shed his skin like the serpent would, and adopted one that was more familiar.
They come as Aislinn called, like wraiths from smoke. They dance into focus in the way they only know how to, they move to a beat that no one else can hear. The dance of something intangible and fierce, and he committed each and every one to his memory once more. There is a flicker of pride in his features, but draconian claws enclosed around it and snuffed it out, replaced it once more in a casual flick of his gaze toward the burning night.
In the distance, the pass burned and it's demise is sung into being by the music of dragons.
Aislinn spoke, and Isorath listened. It suited her, this title, the diadem she now wore fit her like a glove. So sure is she, he might've mistaken her for royal blood truly. The blood carefully crafted over an era of careful marriages, the right lovers falling into certain beds, destinies pre-selected and carefully cultivated. Wild yet contained, she is fierce as she is kind. Ruthless when called. In her Isorath found a semblance of a kindred spirit. Slitted pupils glanced at her leisurely, calculated and measured as she becomes more and more animated beside him.
They wanted to protect them, and the price of that was often the villains shroud. It is the sword pointed toward the crowd and sins laid bare, it is a show of force. Denocte has ran too rampant for long, and now they will learn.
Their games are over, and they will come to heel. One way or another.
Only when Aislinn softened, did Isorath come to life beside her. Life breathed into his icy bones and his moved with the sharpness of a life spent being trained for action. It is the movement's of a warrior, a commander, a dragon. He sized each face upon, as he towered on pillars of snow and ice. His bones sang and his chest vibrated with a hum — melodic but fringed with teeth.
"You may leave, but my dragon offers no assurances of safe passage once time is up." Isorath agreed softly, a purr not unlike aether's before he unleashed a torrent of flame. He smiled then, before it disappeared and masked itself with an apathetic indifference. "We have allowed ourselves to be swept up into chaos, allowed games and petty squabbles to escalate. It's time that we seized control of our destinies once more, and that starts with Denocte herself."
@Reichenbach @Aislinn
