DAUGHTER OF STORMS.
You will come.
And oh, how they arrived. When the earth had split and been made anew by only divine hands did the brave wander too close. Shadows slithered beneath the canopy where warm bodies crept into the cavern, vanishing into the terrifying dark. The doors had been opened, then. From above — far, far above — she watches, solitary and wrapped in summer’s feverish kiss. And only when her king steps forward, curled in Calligo’s grasp, did the stormsinger dive towards the earth. Her hooves prance along the sweetgrass and stone, stilling. She is the calm before a storm, the sky’s collective hush as the heaven’s hold their breath for fury. Yet, beside her.. together, they were the stars and night eternal. Blue orbs flicker with knowing, with thunderous rain on a sea as she beholds them both. Her king, the sovereign of shadows and smoke, and her emissary, the Flamekeeper of porcelain and gold. Calligo’s own, in flesh and blood. Her gaze speaks without words. Shall we? The cave mouth yawned for her, for them, as she is swallowed in the dark. Firelight dances across her skin where her goddess’ fingers hold her, holds them all. Reichenbach and Isorath are a familiar warmth near her as they enter, and it is as if the silence quakes. Faces both foreign and familiar find them, but she does not falter. She does not bow. Although her wing aches at the memory of the desert queen, her thoughts flash pink blossoms in spring when she notices the dawn sovereign, and.. and.. Aislinn exhales hurricane’s cold. The severed ties of her heart are gone. There is only an emptiness, a galaxy’s black hole where twilight had once been painted across her soul. She only moves to rejoin her family around the table. Not a word nor flicker of somethings on her stone cold face. She looks at them once. Brother and sister. Her friend and once-prince. And then the look is gone; instead, her stare falls upon the glowing statue of their summoning. The god of gods. The father of her own patron goddess. Tempus. For a moment, she could swear the smooth sweeps of stone and eye and hoof moved — a blink, a shudder, a shift — and then nothing. She even finds that she should be afraid. Intimidated, even. Maybe she is a fool then that she is not. Quite the party. Reichenbach’s baritone pulls at her, snapping her focus back. His words are the flint that ignite the flames of her own disaster. She is an untamed fire, a kindled temper on a brink. ”It’s only getting started,” she muses, a whisper-wicked smile curling the edge of her lips. Let it begin. REGENT OF THE NIGHT COURT
bam bam super rusty
”Aislinn speech.” |
