Thana does not lift her nose to the wind like a unicorn should. It's like a lion that she tastes the wind, teeth whistling as the wind rushes through them like white-water. Every muscles in her body quivers for that flavor of death and gold and bone. She wonders why her heart thumps against her rib-cage-- thump, thump, bang. Each throb of it feels like the strike of an fiery arrow and she has no idea why the wind strikes her with fury and hunger and the shimmer of rage.
She wants to turn with her horn first and her knees quiver with the need, the need---- the need for something. And just as she's ready to lunge forward and make her carved out horn whistle like her teeth the sound of a voice smothers that heavy war-song of her heart. Every tight thing in her body pops and releases and she thinks perhaps this is how a unicorn should feel (as sweet as a dead monster can be).
Then again Thana rarely knows what to think, she only knows that she doesn't want and want and want anymore. Whoever owns that voice is not something or someone that she has come for.
When she finally turns it's slowly and the rot creeps along with her. A petal under her resting blade turns black as soot, a stone at her hoof dissolves down into dust as if a million years have passed in the time it took her to slowly blink like a hibernating bear. The grasses moan in their quiet way beneath her and it's no longer just the wild wind plucking their stalks like harpsichord strings.
But then she's looking at the horned mare with youth in her gaze and small moons of death at her feet and Thana forgets how the meadow sobs and sighs.
She forgets everything but the shine of gold in the dull-light of dusk. Only the flick of one ear suggests that she has any understanding for this language at all. The way she tilts her head like a fox and the way she continues to blink slow as a glacier give little hints to the turmoil of strangeness that blooms like hyacinth in her mind.
“Hello.” The word sounds exactly like the repetition it is, breathy and strange and underlain with an edge of rusted steel. Part of her wants to close the distance between them. The larger part of her is afraid that if she moves that war-song in her chest will come back.
And so she only waits to the young mare to come closer in a tangle of trepidation and the shivering ice of a rage quickly smothered.
@Angharad
