MINYA
take that look from off your face
you ain't gunna burn my heart out
you ain't gunna burn my heart out
The prairie grasses brush against her ankles. Their touch is not soft with summer, but scratchy with winter’s chill. They sway in a fierce tide, pushed and pulled by the winds that howl in off the sea. The grasses care not for the girl who stands in their midst, a rock, unmovable, even in the sea-storm brewing. Salt clings to her skin, it is bold upon her tongue. She thirsts, for more than just water to wash away the crystals upon her tongue and lips.
The wind that pushes the grasses, tugs too at her mane. It trails behind her, rippling like a banner, bright as a beacon upon the sea edge. Her skin is stone and Minya builds herself as hard as rock. About her that wild mane dances, pink as bubblegum and sharp as acid.
Her lips part and the wind steals it with a howling laugh that pulls the gems hanging from her crimson antlers. Her tail laps at her hooves like the hem of a dress. It tugs out to sea, pulling, pulling. Waves rise, reaching, clawing up the Cliffside for her. Minya watches their groping, listens to their desperate hiss and does not move. Stone, that is what she is and that is how she stands. Unmoved, except… except for the shadow in the wind.
Against the endless grey of a moody sky, the shadow weaves and dips and loops; It is a bird against the wind fighting the feline air. Minya watches the creature struggle and loom larger, larger. Soon it is no bird shadowed black, but as Pegasus with a satchel bag clinging against its breast. The cliff rises to meet it as it descends. She is moving, with trinkets clinking. Her eyes do not sway from the creature as her walk turns into a trot and then a canter and a gallop. Suddenly Minya is flying and the salty air abrades her lungs. Ah! The ache, the vibrant throb that reminds her she is alive…
She slows as he lands, as she climbs to him. He is trembling and the air tastes of sweat and sea salt. Heat curls lazily from his flesh, it dances like silver flames – it is a dance she knows. There is a memory of smoke upon her lips, within her soul. She breathes and silver smoke oozes past her lips. An ice dragon girl stands before this stranger and he is shivering with cold, with heat, with the bite of winter not yet softened by spring’s awakening touch. Yet he does not see her like she does him. Minya stands, waiting and windswept, as he studies and scribbles in a worn notepad.
I seem to have made a miscalculation For a moment the wind pauses to better hear his misfortune, it howls its laughter across the sea and its shore. But there is no smile upon Minya’s grey lips. Her eyes silver and bright as lightning, drink him in with silent regard. “Haven’t we all.” She drawls, dry and yet soft as silk. Minya was made for the hazy warmth of luxurious clubs, for the lights of the stage. She brings glamour to the rugged prairie, her hair continues a dance, caught by the winds. “You will catch your death out here.” She says as she drinks in his slick skin and wide emerald eyes. “There is a fire not far from here. Come, get warm, and you can tell me just how badly you have miscalculated.”
Like a dancer she turns, her hair reaching for him, beckoning him. Minya does not look back for the stranger, she does not wait for him to fall in step. She expects him to, or if he doesn’t, it is his loss.
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@Boudika| "speaks" | notes: eee <3
