the kind of thing that eats you
The desert is no home, not home in the very harshest of ways, to flowers. No matter how golden they look in the sun against the red-stone dune or in the dappled light racing across the canyon at dawn-- all flowers ever find in the desert is death, and decay, and sunburnt petals. It feels strange to her to walk though acres of flowers planted for a festival alone, with no purpose but beauty to be found in their rainbow appeal.
How soft, she thinks, to frolic between flowers instead of the bones of desert-beasts and dead cactus.
And perhaps the thought lingers in the golden glare of her gaze as she walks through the pathways like a predator in a pack of lambs (they are too soft to even be ewes). She does not pause to wonder why the horses look strangely at her, nor why their eyes shift away quicker than the time it takes her to smile with a mouth full of teeth as them. In the end, it does not matter, for they are still the lambs and she is still the thing walking slow enough to brush her feathers against their sides just to seem them flinch away from the heat of her.
As the twilight sinks lower, and lower, and the shades of rose and blue layer upon each other like wounds, she turns towards the crowd gathering at the cliffside. Someone offers her a drink colorful enough that it promises nothing that interests her. Instead she pushes through them, wings spread wide enough that it is impossible to stray too close to her, to the mare standing too near the edge.
Amaunet wonders if anyone has ever tried to push her off (and she wonders how quickly the party might end if she does).
When the mare turns to look at her, she gives her another smile full of teeth beneath the pale-dawn glow of her magic. “No.” She answers, just no and nothing else. Because where is the chaos in being as typical as a golden mare that weaves flowers in her hair just to enjoy the sunset?
Where is the danger?
“Speaking.” @Elena
How soft, she thinks, to frolic between flowers instead of the bones of desert-beasts and dead cactus.
And perhaps the thought lingers in the golden glare of her gaze as she walks through the pathways like a predator in a pack of lambs (they are too soft to even be ewes). She does not pause to wonder why the horses look strangely at her, nor why their eyes shift away quicker than the time it takes her to smile with a mouth full of teeth as them. In the end, it does not matter, for they are still the lambs and she is still the thing walking slow enough to brush her feathers against their sides just to seem them flinch away from the heat of her.
As the twilight sinks lower, and lower, and the shades of rose and blue layer upon each other like wounds, she turns towards the crowd gathering at the cliffside. Someone offers her a drink colorful enough that it promises nothing that interests her. Instead she pushes through them, wings spread wide enough that it is impossible to stray too close to her, to the mare standing too near the edge.
Amaunet wonders if anyone has ever tried to push her off (and she wonders how quickly the party might end if she does).
When the mare turns to look at her, she gives her another smile full of teeth beneath the pale-dawn glow of her magic. “No.” She answers, just no and nothing else. Because where is the chaos in being as typical as a golden mare that weaves flowers in her hair just to enjoy the sunset?
Where is the danger?
