like having your throat cut,
just that fast
just that fast
Battle-fury is still an aching drumbeat in her bones when her father's staff drape the regalia across her shoulders, coat her skin in gold-dust, and paint bloody lines of red in a half-moon below her eyes. Her teeth throb like a mouthful of hearts as they braid her hair and whisper the rumors of the court into her ears. Amaunet wants to tear into them like a feral thing, a monstrous thing, a thing that is not bruised and battered from the tournament.
They will never see your wounds, they whisper in her ears like ghosts, all they will see is gold. She tries not to hate them, these dove-like fools, flitting on the edge of her sword and calling it a willow-tree.
Amaunet wants her wounds and her gold laid bare for the world to see. She wants to be a fury of a girl, a god, a sand-hurricane in the crowds of mortal men bloated with liquor and greed. She wants to be chaos, and embers, and a storm of a girl.
And she is chaos when she steps through the palace doors and walks down the stairs like a bit of smoke instead of flesh. Her skin is gilded in dew-gold and gold-dust. The cloak trailing in her wake where a shadow should be (she is too bright for even that bit of darkness to hold on to) is as blood-red as the tournament sands. The expanse of her wings does not settle, not even when the crowd pushes into her space like a pack jackals.
She is unashamed, brazen, and as furious as a star in the clouded brightness of the crowd. She is teeth instead of the simpering smiles of the nobility gathering in corners like mice and hens. Like a bear, a wolf, a lion, she circles the room all lighting energy without a direction.
It boils in her skin and shivers down her spine like a caress. It begs like a broken thing on bloody knees for anything, anything at all but tameness draped in gold.
Amaunet listens like a god to her magic and the lighting.
When she passes by him, the unicorn with the forest-green eyes an a horn as pale white as ancient bone, Amaunet lets her magic turn to prayer. She greets him as a storm might, with a bared throat and a smile that challenges instead of welcomes. “You look as bored as I feel.” A purr, a warning, and a promise all at once.
Because they don't have to be, not tonight, with liquor enough to conquer a world running in rivers around them.
And she wonders if he has been playing the game for as long as she has.
@Martell
They will never see your wounds, they whisper in her ears like ghosts, all they will see is gold. She tries not to hate them, these dove-like fools, flitting on the edge of her sword and calling it a willow-tree.
Amaunet wants her wounds and her gold laid bare for the world to see. She wants to be a fury of a girl, a god, a sand-hurricane in the crowds of mortal men bloated with liquor and greed. She wants to be chaos, and embers, and a storm of a girl.
And she is chaos when she steps through the palace doors and walks down the stairs like a bit of smoke instead of flesh. Her skin is gilded in dew-gold and gold-dust. The cloak trailing in her wake where a shadow should be (she is too bright for even that bit of darkness to hold on to) is as blood-red as the tournament sands. The expanse of her wings does not settle, not even when the crowd pushes into her space like a pack jackals.
She is unashamed, brazen, and as furious as a star in the clouded brightness of the crowd. She is teeth instead of the simpering smiles of the nobility gathering in corners like mice and hens. Like a bear, a wolf, a lion, she circles the room all lighting energy without a direction.
It boils in her skin and shivers down her spine like a caress. It begs like a broken thing on bloody knees for anything, anything at all but tameness draped in gold.
Amaunet listens like a god to her magic and the lighting.
When she passes by him, the unicorn with the forest-green eyes an a horn as pale white as ancient bone, Amaunet lets her magic turn to prayer. She greets him as a storm might, with a bared throat and a smile that challenges instead of welcomes. “You look as bored as I feel.” A purr, a warning, and a promise all at once.
Because they don't have to be, not tonight, with liquor enough to conquer a world running in rivers around them.
And she wonders if he has been playing the game for as long as she has.
@Martell
