a tornado of divine
First there is only silence beyond the crest of the twin snakes. There is still that weight in the air, that electric hum expanding beyond her form. Even her hooves are near-silent on the sand. Only her feathers make any real sound at all, a soft sigh like whisper, a promise and a beckoning. Perhaps it's the only siren call the ruin knows how to sing-- a melody of sand and flight-dreams, a whisper of what might have been back in the time of gods. And when she drags her nose against the cool stone and inhales there is only the smell of ruin hanging to the dust, ruin and long faded blood-stains.
When the sound starts to trickle back in it's suddenly. It starts with a bellow of rage. There is the sound of hoof, tooth, and claw, that starts to drum beneath the dying silence, feeding the rage. Each sound only encourages the other to grow louder, to be bolder, to comes as frequent as falling stars on a shed-star night of ritual. Here, in the belly of the desert (or is it the belly of the twin snakes?), the world is alive with everything feral, everything reckless, everything hungry, everything born with sand in the blood and a center-of-the-sun where a heart should be. The crowd almost swallows her whole as she wades into it like its queen.
Amaunet exhales the smell of ruin an inhales deeply of the smell of life. She drowns in it.
Her skin is only just starting to glow, a soft almost-in-the-dawn sort of golden, when she circles back to the stallion who followed her. This close she can see the moon-kiss in in his eyes, the silver ring on his nose begging to be tugged. Beneath her skin the magic hums, her hunger hums, the bellowing rage and the sound of hoof-tooth-claw hums. When she emerges from the hot press of the crowd it's directly beside him.
She can almost taste the sweat and sand on his skin when she presses her nose near his. And she can almost hear the echo of not-desert in his lungs and not-desert in the thrumming of his heartbeat. “Hello fool.” There are hardly any teeth in her sun-kissed smile and hardly any venom in the purring rasp of her voice. She's all lion, all Davke, all girl of sand, sun and gold. And here, in the crowd of the pits with her warpaint and her humming hunger for violence, Amaunet doesn't bother to hide the dangerous glimmer in her gaze. Nor does she do anything about the way her wings unfurl themselves over their backs like carrion clouds circling a half-dead fawn.
“Why were you following me?” The question is calm, too calm for the warning flashing in her golden glow. There's a killing in the calm of her, a whisper of something more than that siren song of the almost silent hall to his chaos. There is a promise in the way she drags her teeth against neck and snaps her wings as if the crowd is nothing more than a ring circling, circling, circling around the gravity of her.
And maybe it's more than a promise when almost as one the crowd starts to turn their eyes to wonder at the snapping of her wings (loud even in this den of rage).
“Speaking.” @August
When the sound starts to trickle back in it's suddenly. It starts with a bellow of rage. There is the sound of hoof, tooth, and claw, that starts to drum beneath the dying silence, feeding the rage. Each sound only encourages the other to grow louder, to be bolder, to comes as frequent as falling stars on a shed-star night of ritual. Here, in the belly of the desert (or is it the belly of the twin snakes?), the world is alive with everything feral, everything reckless, everything hungry, everything born with sand in the blood and a center-of-the-sun where a heart should be. The crowd almost swallows her whole as she wades into it like its queen.
Amaunet exhales the smell of ruin an inhales deeply of the smell of life. She drowns in it.
Her skin is only just starting to glow, a soft almost-in-the-dawn sort of golden, when she circles back to the stallion who followed her. This close she can see the moon-kiss in in his eyes, the silver ring on his nose begging to be tugged. Beneath her skin the magic hums, her hunger hums, the bellowing rage and the sound of hoof-tooth-claw hums. When she emerges from the hot press of the crowd it's directly beside him.
She can almost taste the sweat and sand on his skin when she presses her nose near his. And she can almost hear the echo of not-desert in his lungs and not-desert in the thrumming of his heartbeat. “Hello fool.” There are hardly any teeth in her sun-kissed smile and hardly any venom in the purring rasp of her voice. She's all lion, all Davke, all girl of sand, sun and gold. And here, in the crowd of the pits with her warpaint and her humming hunger for violence, Amaunet doesn't bother to hide the dangerous glimmer in her gaze. Nor does she do anything about the way her wings unfurl themselves over their backs like carrion clouds circling a half-dead fawn.
“Why were you following me?” The question is calm, too calm for the warning flashing in her golden glow. There's a killing in the calm of her, a whisper of something more than that siren song of the almost silent hall to his chaos. There is a promise in the way she drags her teeth against neck and snaps her wings as if the crowd is nothing more than a ring circling, circling, circling around the gravity of her.
And maybe it's more than a promise when almost as one the crowd starts to turn their eyes to wonder at the snapping of her wings (loud even in this den of rage).
