from the mind of Chaos’s lonely daughter
and the sun fell heavy and thick
to warm the blood of a world"
It has been hours since her battle, since the fall into violence and blood-lust, since the primordial affliction of violent hearts. It has been hours since her blood should have settled into nothing more than iron and cells. But it hasn't. Amaunet is all humming magic, and bellowing need, and skin with lines of goosebumps traced across it like warpaint. Even now it is still driving her, that prowling restlessness of the thing beneath her skin and glow.
She is freshly painted with more blood-red warpaint. There is the mark of teeth along her shoulder blade, a bloody kiss of lips smeared like sorrow down the fine lines of her cheek, there is a rainbow of gore swiped along the sinew of her hipbones. Other fighters wipe themselves clean of the filth and horror. But not her. She has always relished in the golden glory of her warpaint, of the way that she can taste the iron and wrath filling up her lungs on each exhale.
And on each inhale she's only breathing more violence into the crowd, more hunger, more need, and more, and more, and more. It's still not enough to settle her magic and the ebb the rush of adrenaline and whiskey though her racing, fire-filled veins.
She is an earthquake in the belly of the canyons, a roar of distant thunder.
She is destruction.
Malt and smoke are heavy on her tongue when the boy approaches. The heat of him is the first thing to press against her skin, all Solterran fire and banked agony. Her magic hums for the weight of him.
Amaunet hums for the flash of fang in his half-curl of his lip.
When she tosses her glass onto a nearby table the echo of it seems almost deafening in the pause between his greet and her response. And when she snaps her wings the pull of a bruise settles something wild that had risen in her at the sound of his voice.
Her wings have hardly settled when she turns to him. A distant thud of flesh and hoof runs another line of goosebumps down her spine. The smile she gives him is full of teeth, and fire, and everything that refuses to be banked in her form. “Because no one is like me.” Music rings out from her mane when the bands around her braids sing as she reaches out to brush a line of blood and malt down his cheek.
Half of her wonders if he'll pull away. The other half wonders about the rust in his honey voice.
A glow blooms across her skin like a golden blush.
“You did not fight tonight.” She says the words like the sharp kiss of a knife at the throat of a slumbering lion. There is judgment there, and fire, and a quiet knowing of the blood his teeth have tasted.
Because no one fights like her. No one could.
But she remembers the shine of his skin when he fell into the wrath slumbering beneath every inch of this desert sand and stone. And it's that man who she brushes against when she drags a wing down his side.
@Corradh
