So few bodies mill about the woman thought she would be undisturbed, left to brooding and silence and thoughts of the past, thoughts of the future, all allowed to blur together until the time she would be needed again. Dalmatia should know better than to think such thoughts. Since her freedom was regained, released from that dim, grimy prison Dalmatia has found herself endlessly bombarded by body after body, face after face, voice after voice. They never leave her alone.
The soft, star-studded voice of the girl next to her is no different. Silver splatters upon skin that is as equally as dark as it is light. She is far more lovely and equally as wild as Dalmatia will ever be. Where one screams of the heavens, the other shows ties to the earth just as strongly from the green of her eyes like the green of the trees in the snow. Even her skin, of similar colors in a different pattern, is more akin to a bird made to scavenge, made to survive than a star made only to live and fall and die.
In the end, they would all die alone. From the heavens or hell, it makes no difference. Dalmatia knows this as much as she knows the taste of blood in her mouth and the color of it heavy and wet upon her wings.
It is nothing like the cool water that stares at her, and at last, it is interrupted by one, two, three, four...she counts, it continues, until it hits seven. Seven rings distort her face. Seven circles of hell await the woman who failed so many. She knows, she has always known, that she is the woman who will not fail again.
So Dalmatia lifts her head, her brooding eyes, to peer into the otherworldy eyes of Warset - a woman who, in all respects, looks so much more elegant, much more gentle and refined and stretched out and ethereal, than the warrior will ever be, and is still latter despite the curvature of her that is as fragile and spun glass. Rough, cut from stone, shreds of a life once lived, it is the sound of her voice that rumbles out, cool as the lapping waves at their ankles.
"The mountains make everything colder by night," she replies, stoic, as though it's some secret code used in days of yore. It is not. She is nothing special. Not now. Not anymore. What more is there to say? In some ways, the Pegasus has forgotten what it is to talk with another, for silence and dripping water and mold had been her only companion for three long, dark years. It may still be the only thing she craves just as much as she does justice.
Even if she were a shooting star falling, Dalmatia would not know the line between vigilante and justice if she were to crash face first into it.
Even if she were falling, she wouldn't put out her wings to stop it, only hope that the crater she leaves behind leaves a big enough mark to mean something...
Beware: I am fearless, and therefore, powerful.
@Warset | <3
