[P] unbowed

[Avdotya]

She wants to pluck every pearly white tooth from his mouth when he smiles, if only for the sake of satisfying the swelling rage that sits inside her chest. With every pop of burning flesh, every smoky breath of air filling her lungs with death, Avdotya feels the need to seek justice for her fallen sister—for the rest of the Davke that lay enshrouded in flame behind them. How many times? she wonders in the midst of Toulouse speaking, how many times must they suffer at the hands of a monarchy before they are free of its reach. And what more can she do? She has snuffed out the life of a false king, diminished the capitol to ash and yet still she is sending her kin to their god at the crown’s hand. The viper takes a hard breath. She looks at Toulouse in time to hear him spinning her sarcasm into that of his own, a joke of sorts. Her expression remains flat and unamused; had the context of the situation been any different, he may have been able to stir a chuckle from the mare. ”The only regret I have is failing to burn that throne and all those who bow to it.”  She hisses lowly, watching him close the gap that barely exists between them. He seems to take pleasure in testing his fortune. But Avdotya does not snap. She doesn’t slip away into the blind fury that nips so persistently at her heels. It would be wasted on a man like Toulouse. For that, she peels away from him and prowls through the maze of burning bodies, memorizing the last details of their faces before they wither into dust. ”Power is a dangerous thing,” she glances up at him through the flames, her face askew with radiant heat, ”it makes fools of men and then brings them to their knees. They all claim to be different until they’re not.” In the end, each and every one them taste the bitter flavour of failure upon their tongue. On she strides, winding and weaving until she accidentally steps on the wooden handle of a spear that splinters beneath her weight. She lifts what remains of it, holding it just before her for but a few seconds while her mind wanders. Again she is wondering: how many spears—just like this one— lay in the Mors, half-buried in the sand and left for time to slowly push them further below the dunes... down until it is like they never existed at all. ”It must be very entertaining to see all of this, I’m sure.” She gestures to the skeletons that are slowly beginning to emerge, then finally smiles. This is what happens when royals do not learn. @toulouseimage © pacificdash