Shrike says little once she arrives with Raymond and Calliope back at the gathering-place. She keeps to the outskirts, near to the black unicorn, her dark eyes watchful on the regimes. The paint knows little enough of any of them; she hadn’t been much more than a ghost in Solterra since her arrival.
All she knows is that she cares for none of it – the waiting, the magic that weighs the air, settling like iron in the pit of her stomach, the finery of these frivolous, foreign horses.
But with Calliope it does not matter. Shrike could be standing at the gates to hell and she would not mind it, not with the black unicorn at her side once more.
Then comes the collapse. Then comes a scream that splits the air, a clarion call, a battle-cry she has answered before and will answer again and again and again until there is nothing left of her but dust.
She does not follow Calliope in her mad charge up the mountain; her expression of rage, of distrust, is much more an inward thing. Instead she only watches as other horses gather, as Raymond’s voice rings out, as they begin to do what little they can.
She longs for the bear that once lived in her bones – thick shoulders to push, paws to send boulders tumbling out of the way. This body seems to her such a breakable thing.
But there is little room at the fore, anyway; the entryway is not narrow enough for many more to dig. And so Shrike only paces wrathful half-circles, keeping an eye on the rocks and the trees and the sky, waiting for the next sign of more danger.
The gods never rested in their trickery, and neither must they.
Then her gaze snags on a familiar sight – another unicorn, one fashioned of iron and of blood. She is another beast escaped from the riftlands, and Shrike goes to her then, wondering at such small twists of fate.
“I remember you,” she murmurs, between the ringing of horn against stone. And she smiles, then, though it is a grim thing – for she knows that no gods, no kings, could ever hope to control what has been freed from that sick, twisted world.
Shrike has faith, but it is only ever in unicorns.
All she knows is that she cares for none of it – the waiting, the magic that weighs the air, settling like iron in the pit of her stomach, the finery of these frivolous, foreign horses.
But with Calliope it does not matter. Shrike could be standing at the gates to hell and she would not mind it, not with the black unicorn at her side once more.
Then comes the collapse. Then comes a scream that splits the air, a clarion call, a battle-cry she has answered before and will answer again and again and again until there is nothing left of her but dust.
She does not follow Calliope in her mad charge up the mountain; her expression of rage, of distrust, is much more an inward thing. Instead she only watches as other horses gather, as Raymond’s voice rings out, as they begin to do what little they can.
She longs for the bear that once lived in her bones – thick shoulders to push, paws to send boulders tumbling out of the way. This body seems to her such a breakable thing.
But there is little room at the fore, anyway; the entryway is not narrow enough for many more to dig. And so Shrike only paces wrathful half-circles, keeping an eye on the rocks and the trees and the sky, waiting for the next sign of more danger.
The gods never rested in their trickery, and neither must they.
Then her gaze snags on a familiar sight – another unicorn, one fashioned of iron and of blood. She is another beast escaped from the riftlands, and Shrike goes to her then, wondering at such small twists of fate.
“I remember you,” she murmurs, between the ringing of horn against stone. And she smiles, then, though it is a grim thing – for she knows that no gods, no kings, could ever hope to control what has been freed from that sick, twisted world.
Shrike has faith, but it is only ever in unicorns.
get your war paint on
let them know we're out for blood
let them know we're out for blood
