avdotya,
fearless child,
feral girl, tell me what it's like to burn.
Her mind is teeming, it is fraught with wild fury and a desire to satisfy the hunger that is swelling within her. The image of Makeda’s dead body has not strayed from the viper; the way her hair looked coarse and unkempt, the way her skin hugged every bone in her body, the way her eyes - once lively and bright - had gone dull and left picked apart by fattened vultures. Avdotya remembers every detail as she marches from Elatus towards the dying Capitol, but it is not Raum she seeks - his throat she already knows is Seraphina’s to cut and bleed dry. Instead she yearns to find what is dearest to the king, to find it and then whisper into his ear as he lay dying that nothing he loves in this world is safe. Death will not be his release, for it is total and utter helplessness that she intends to plant within him before his last breath is drawn.
Those thoughts run heavy in the mare’s head while she trots steadily up a rolling dune. She stops only as she reaches its crest, caught by the obscure sight of a golden man performing some sort of delicate maneuver before a rattling serpent, announcing gods knew what to the wind. A look of distaste befalls the features of her desert-dusted face. Foolishness was not something she often harboured patience for.
”Snakes do not care for your...” she pauses, recalling for a moment what he had called it, ”curtsies.” The word may as well have been spat from her mouth, for it even tasted awful upon her tongue. She descends the dune, closer to him and the serpent that continues to hiss its displeasure with their presence. Her spear is secure in her mind’s grip, ready to bore its way through its skull should it decide to strike. She watches it, yet speaks to him. ”This is how you wait for death?”
With Raum at Solterra’s head, waiting for death was all any of them could do.
@atlas
Those thoughts run heavy in the mare’s head while she trots steadily up a rolling dune. She stops only as she reaches its crest, caught by the obscure sight of a golden man performing some sort of delicate maneuver before a rattling serpent, announcing gods knew what to the wind. A look of distaste befalls the features of her desert-dusted face. Foolishness was not something she often harboured patience for.
”Snakes do not care for your...” she pauses, recalling for a moment what he had called it, ”curtsies.” The word may as well have been spat from her mouth, for it even tasted awful upon her tongue. She descends the dune, closer to him and the serpent that continues to hiss its displeasure with their presence. Her spear is secure in her mind’s grip, ready to bore its way through its skull should it decide to strike. She watches it, yet speaks to him. ”This is how you wait for death?”
With Raum at Solterra’s head, waiting for death was all any of them could do.
@atlas
table by sunny | image by Krystallizedart @ dA | for novus use only
