a wild, wandering soul
Beneath the melody of spear against spear and form against form, her thoughts seem almost delicate. There is a subtly to her own viciousness that's a small echo of the Khan's. A cocked hoof, lazy weapon, and the lion like looseness to her muscles. The violence is an easy thing to see, it's tangled with the wildness in the flare of her wings and the glow of her skin. But the viciousness is deeper than that, almost nothing more than a quiver of her skin that might be nothing more than a chill in a wind as it sweeps through.
Or maybe the Khan can see it anyway, no matter how subtle.
When she laughs it's another wind rolling through the desert, a golden hue of dawn over a corpse, a whisper of blood drawn by a blade. Amaunet smiles with teeth as she turns to focus solely on Avdotya. Her wings settle back to her sides, her body going from sleepy lion to reckless youth in no more than a thrum of her heat. “If I have any interest in kingsblood it is not for the divinity of it.” And it's a glimmer in her look, a blasé glare, that promises Amaunet has very little in her yearns for something that is holy.
She leans closer to the Khan and her spinning spear. The power of her own wills taps against the edge of it, angles it out toward the city on the other side of the desert. Each of her teeth shine bone-bright where the sun catches on them. It's a feral look, a violent look, a look not yet falling into madness, blood-lust or viciousness.
There is intelligence there, a wicked sort of cleverness. Both are in her movements as she presses her lips towards the Kahn's ear. It's a gesture that could be a kiss, a hint of something profane, a promise of that same more, more, more the Davke are always yearning for. But when she whispers, “If you're thirsty Kahn we'll have to find you some water.” Each feather on each of her wings rustles like she's already flying towards the oasis.
Water is never a hard thing to find for those who know the direction in which it flows.
“Speaking.” @Avdotya
Or maybe the Khan can see it anyway, no matter how subtle.
When she laughs it's another wind rolling through the desert, a golden hue of dawn over a corpse, a whisper of blood drawn by a blade. Amaunet smiles with teeth as she turns to focus solely on Avdotya. Her wings settle back to her sides, her body going from sleepy lion to reckless youth in no more than a thrum of her heat. “If I have any interest in kingsblood it is not for the divinity of it.” And it's a glimmer in her look, a blasé glare, that promises Amaunet has very little in her yearns for something that is holy.
She leans closer to the Khan and her spinning spear. The power of her own wills taps against the edge of it, angles it out toward the city on the other side of the desert. Each of her teeth shine bone-bright where the sun catches on them. It's a feral look, a violent look, a look not yet falling into madness, blood-lust or viciousness.
There is intelligence there, a wicked sort of cleverness. Both are in her movements as she presses her lips towards the Kahn's ear. It's a gesture that could be a kiss, a hint of something profane, a promise of that same more, more, more the Davke are always yearning for. But when she whispers, “If you're thirsty Kahn we'll have to find you some water.” Each feather on each of her wings rustles like she's already flying towards the oasis.
Water is never a hard thing to find for those who know the direction in which it flows.
