Her fury never cools before his stillness. It smolders in her bones in a tornado of rage fulling down, down, down to the pits of her soul. And each time it almost abates or changes to embers Calliope blinks and remembers the blood across red-flesh and Shrike's screams as a bird dared to carry her away. Even remembering the darkness does not temper her to anything more than a molten edged blade.
Calliope could consume a world with this hate.
The walls are nothing to her, the tomes of books along the wall nothing but kindling. And the stares of the faithful, the devils of religion-- well those are another thing to her all together (bone and flint and flesh and nothing more).
Asterion's heavy stare feels like smoke. Where her gaze meets his something as thick and churning as a hurricane builds, gathers and circles in that empty (but thin) space and silence between them. All the things she could say, both what words she wants to give and which words she wants to choke on, die when the doors burst open and that storm silence fills with frantic calling for the king, the king, the king.
He is a king and Calliope a unicorn full of lion's fury. For a moment she had forgotten, forgotten that only one of them doesn't belong in this world of chains dressed up as freedom and castles.
But oh she remembers now!
Calliope watches him go out into the drizzle where the world is chaos and bones and the only thing that breaks the silence are the sparks of her lungs and her hooves when she turns to follow. From the tip of her horn a bolt of lightning strikes through the stone of an altar tucked in the corner. It explodes in stone and dust and metal.
And when all the others turn towards that fury of sound Calliope lets the door slam behind her.
BUT THE BEAUTY OF HER FORM BRINGS VIOLENCE
A LONG AND LOVELY FALL NO WILL OR FIRE CAN OPPOSE
@Asterion
