wren
How can I be substantial if I do not cast a shadow?
The jolt of her sister's frame against her was like a dagger to Wren's heart. She knew there was no way to explain to Kindred her thoughts on this particular matter, no way to cut through the fog of terror that had clutched her beloved since the night they had escaped. Though it hurt to put her sister through any kind of pain from her own making, it was a sacrifice she had to make for the greater good - keeping Kindred safe. Wren gently knocked the base of their horns together, heterochromatic eyes delving into the milk-whites of Kindred's fear. Unflinching, solid. The rock that Kindred would always, always be able to lean against. "You will never fight again if you do not wish," she vowed, forcing her lips around the words for her sister's sake. Urging her silently to do just as she'd said - trust her. To know that Wren would never do anything to endanger her other half.
"Always fight for you. Always."
The sound of brush being crushed underhoof has her ears slicing back into the coils of her braided mane, immediately whirling on her hindquarters to face the newcomer. Though she had beckoned this mountainous creature, trust was not so easily awarded. Sharp, narrowed eyes strip the maiden, committing her to memory even as one broad wing arcs out to shield Kindred. The soft white of her inner feathers are like the poisonous etchings of other animals, a beacon of warning that if this creature strikes, she will be get only a mouthful of poison and death. Broad shoulders tensed and settled back, head arched high and macabre white marks upon her cheek glinted in the halflight as she assessed the mare. A silent language, a promise of brutality at the first hint of violence.
A slight twitch of her long tail at Kindred's shuddering voice is her only other movement, distantly amused by her sister's stuttering denial. The fae could care less what relationship she assumes between them, and withholds a snort at the idea that intentionally calling out somehow meant Wren craved secrecy. Nonetheless she is here to barter, and the words hold heavy on her tongue, depressing it into her jowls as she works to break her own entombed silence.
"Mare," Wren calls across the distance between them, voice a monotone thrum between the darkened boughs that shelters them. Soft nares flex to receive Sloane's scent on the stale wind, seeking information. The border they straddled was like a glowing mental beacon, a claim upon the land placed by scent and patrol that Wren was unaccustomed to as a vagrant assassin. She knew this was some sort of herdland, at the very least. A step in the right direction. After a moment her crown dips almost imperceptibly, the smallest give of acknowledgement. As much as she detested it, they were at the disadvantage here.
"We seek haven," thusly falls like lead from her lips, primaries flexing to brush back against her sister's breast. A hidden, secretive comfort. Perhaps not just for Kindred. "Can offer skills. I am Wren, soldier. Kindred, medic," she announces stiltedly with a sharp tilt of her head towards her trembling twin. Announcing their abilities with the assumption that this stranger has the intelligence to understand she is advertising their potential specialized uses. "Can you lead to one?" The smallest twinge of emotion finally bleeds through her grit teeth here, despite her impassive face remaining affixed to her faelike features.
Asking for help is not something she does. It is a weakness to admit defeat of any sort, and perhaps this mare - so similar in build, in apparent sarcastic apathy to Wren - can understand that. But this land is unknown to her, its regencies a maze of landmines she cannot hope to safely navigate with Kindred's safety at stake. Were it only she to bear the brunt of her decisions...but Wren will not place Kindred in that particular line of fire. Even if this mare proposed a contingency of returning to her previous murderous lifestyle, if it meant Kindred would be safe and at peace, Wren would do it. Poll inclines farther, despising her demure stature, and Wren prepares herself for anything.
@Sloane @Kindred
"Always fight for you. Always."
The sound of brush being crushed underhoof has her ears slicing back into the coils of her braided mane, immediately whirling on her hindquarters to face the newcomer. Though she had beckoned this mountainous creature, trust was not so easily awarded. Sharp, narrowed eyes strip the maiden, committing her to memory even as one broad wing arcs out to shield Kindred. The soft white of her inner feathers are like the poisonous etchings of other animals, a beacon of warning that if this creature strikes, she will be get only a mouthful of poison and death. Broad shoulders tensed and settled back, head arched high and macabre white marks upon her cheek glinted in the halflight as she assessed the mare. A silent language, a promise of brutality at the first hint of violence.
A slight twitch of her long tail at Kindred's shuddering voice is her only other movement, distantly amused by her sister's stuttering denial. The fae could care less what relationship she assumes between them, and withholds a snort at the idea that intentionally calling out somehow meant Wren craved secrecy. Nonetheless she is here to barter, and the words hold heavy on her tongue, depressing it into her jowls as she works to break her own entombed silence.
"Mare," Wren calls across the distance between them, voice a monotone thrum between the darkened boughs that shelters them. Soft nares flex to receive Sloane's scent on the stale wind, seeking information. The border they straddled was like a glowing mental beacon, a claim upon the land placed by scent and patrol that Wren was unaccustomed to as a vagrant assassin. She knew this was some sort of herdland, at the very least. A step in the right direction. After a moment her crown dips almost imperceptibly, the smallest give of acknowledgement. As much as she detested it, they were at the disadvantage here.
"We seek haven," thusly falls like lead from her lips, primaries flexing to brush back against her sister's breast. A hidden, secretive comfort. Perhaps not just for Kindred. "Can offer skills. I am Wren, soldier. Kindred, medic," she announces stiltedly with a sharp tilt of her head towards her trembling twin. Announcing their abilities with the assumption that this stranger has the intelligence to understand she is advertising their potential specialized uses. "Can you lead to one?" The smallest twinge of emotion finally bleeds through her grit teeth here, despite her impassive face remaining affixed to her faelike features.
Asking for help is not something she does. It is a weakness to admit defeat of any sort, and perhaps this mare - so similar in build, in apparent sarcastic apathy to Wren - can understand that. But this land is unknown to her, its regencies a maze of landmines she cannot hope to safely navigate with Kindred's safety at stake. Were it only she to bear the brunt of her decisions...but Wren will not place Kindred in that particular line of fire. Even if this mare proposed a contingency of returning to her previous murderous lifestyle, if it meant Kindred would be safe and at peace, Wren would do it. Poll inclines farther, despising her demure stature, and Wren prepares herself for anything.
@
I must have a dark side if I am to be whole.
