—
He is not afraid of her, this girl who more resembles the ghost of her mother as she was than the false skin she wears now. He is not afraid of her and her wolf, their color like smoke, their teeth gleaming white with youth.
Even though he knows that she has killed. Martell has heard the stories from the others on the ship - tales of her bravery, her savagery. They were awed, of course, by Isra and her daughter, worshipped the pair of them - and the stallion, too, quiet and stolid and scarred, with his axe that whistled in the air as it worked. Isra’s mate.
If he had been there, for that battle, would things be different?
Surely not all four of them would still be alive.
Her words are defiant, more threat than answer. He wonders if she remembers him at all, that day they’d left, as goodbyes were said on shore before both ships sailed, leaving behind a ravaged city with smoke still curling in a dozen places like a dragon’s sleeping breath. For his part Martell does not respond in kind; his mouth stays even, a smooth red shoulder shrugging. Both his relief and disappointment he tucks away. “I would say I’m not surprised. He doesn’t seem a fan of parties.”
Almost before he gets the words out her grin turns feral, and there is a tremendous crash, followed at once by gasps and shouts. The unicorn flinches instinctively, but even as his gaze cuts between the aghast musicians and the girl he knows it was her doing, and he wonders how many other dancers know, too, or wonder. Surely they find her a strange thing, this gunmetal girl who chose to go away to war, daughter to a woman who could be a goddess, if she wanted. (Did she want?)
Avesta makes no attempt to hide her strangeness. And Martell does not like the eyes on him, not when his skin itself is a secret, but he still lifts his head higher than hers and looks down at her with an expression that is almost sardonic. “I didn’t care for that song, either.”
@Avesta
Even though he knows that she has killed. Martell has heard the stories from the others on the ship - tales of her bravery, her savagery. They were awed, of course, by Isra and her daughter, worshipped the pair of them - and the stallion, too, quiet and stolid and scarred, with his axe that whistled in the air as it worked. Isra’s mate.
If he had been there, for that battle, would things be different?
Surely not all four of them would still be alive.
Her words are defiant, more threat than answer. He wonders if she remembers him at all, that day they’d left, as goodbyes were said on shore before both ships sailed, leaving behind a ravaged city with smoke still curling in a dozen places like a dragon’s sleeping breath. For his part Martell does not respond in kind; his mouth stays even, a smooth red shoulder shrugging. Both his relief and disappointment he tucks away. “I would say I’m not surprised. He doesn’t seem a fan of parties.”
Almost before he gets the words out her grin turns feral, and there is a tremendous crash, followed at once by gasps and shouts. The unicorn flinches instinctively, but even as his gaze cuts between the aghast musicians and the girl he knows it was her doing, and he wonders how many other dancers know, too, or wonder. Surely they find her a strange thing, this gunmetal girl who chose to go away to war, daughter to a woman who could be a goddess, if she wanted. (Did she want?)
Avesta makes no attempt to hide her strangeness. And Martell does not like the eyes on him, not when his skin itself is a secret, but he still lifts his head higher than hers and looks down at her with an expression that is almost sardonic. “I didn’t care for that song, either.”
@Avesta
