[P] a beast amongst flowers

[Marisol]

by sword
by salt

Marisol does not know fear, in the common sense of the word: she fights too often and too hard to be afraid of anything less than death. Her job demands it. 

But she does know suspicion. Right now it’s building in her chest, a rising wave of saltwater, and despite her lack of real trepidation she finds herself leaning back, heart thrilled and disturbed in equal measure by the way he looks at her. His blood-bright eyes burn like gasoline, shine like stones of garnet. The roiling, turning redness of his gaze stirs something in her stomach—nausea in the purest sense, a horrible, limb-tingling feeling she can’t quite discern the root cause of.

She swallows. But her throat is too dry, it doesn’t feel quite right; for some reason, she can’t escape the impression that they are not in the plains anymore but the desert proper. It’s impressive that one person can make the world feel so Solterran. Mari wonders vaguely if she does that, too. Does she have the strange power to change the world around her into her own home? Does she bring with her the smell of salt? A dusky sky, froth-flecked by the rising ocean?

It seems improbable. But then, stranger things have happened.

A snort of incredulity escapes her when he speaks. “Little bird?” she repeats. The idea of it is so ridiculous she’s not even sure she can be offended. Little bird—she is not so much smaller than he is, and perhaps overconfidently sure she could take him in a fight. A laugh burbles into her throat. Just the beginning hint of a smile, self-satisfied, begins to curl her lips. “Hardly. You’re a bigger fool than you look.”

Marisol leans her weight onto a back hoof, ignoring the itch of dry grass as it begins to bite at her ankles.

“Speaking.”

credits