This keening soul;
She is stood in the pool, illuminated by the silver light of the moon. The clouds are fast this night, rushed on by a billowing spring breeze. The night light illuminates the painted sigils and markings upon her face and body. The surface water reflects the sky, stars and moon and gauzy clouds painted upon the pool’s surface like art upon a canvas.
It is assorted midnight bright colour, until a shadow passes over her, crossing the moon, slipping like an ink spill across the water, toward the oasis sands. The silhouette grows smaller as its owner descends out of the sky. He lands, his feathers a mere whisper, but at his feet the sands spray and scatter and hiss like a serpent. The grains roll away from him like flees. Leto watches them go, watches how this newcomer marks the desert’s face with his arrival.
Through nebulous eyes she watches him, notes the gold of his skin, sweet as honey. The blue of his eyes is nearly a bruise, dark as the satin midnight above. His eyes reminds her of the depths of the ocean, where the weight of it presses down upon her spine and the cold of its embrace sinks into her bones as it reaches into her lungs and pulls the air out of her. She can only ever stay there so long before she has to rise up toward the surface again. Leto was not made to be so low, so close to the earth’s core she can hear the susurrations of its lava blood running through stone veins.
So she always rises, back to her stars that grieve her loss and try and shake the darkness that holds them sticky as a web. This night, the stars watch her, they whisper to her starfire magic and her veins glow, white, white, white with her whitehot blood.
She moves to this man, stepping out of the water as a priestess rising from a sacramental rebirth. But her rebirth was so many months before, deep in the sea, held fast between the silvered lips of a kelpie woman. Now she moves, slow as a panther, black as ink. Her galaxy eyes press upon the sunshine of his body. He looks weary to her kelpie eyes. They enjoy picking up the weaknesses of others and whispering them into her blood where instinct runs, feral and savage.
He smells of no place in Novus. Upon him are foreign scents, they will not last long, unless he flees soon. But Novus is like an insect trap, once landed it glues ones feet tight. Her eyes tumbles down the long, muscles length of his limbs to the sands at his hooves - does he feel it yet?
“Welcome, stranger.” The priestess breathes, watching him steadily from amidst the sigils on her face. Leto bathes him in starlight with that look. How long will it be until he feels that the silken silver light is not cool at all, but burning, burning, burning, as her stars above are swallowing the darkness and all around them, pulling everything into their blazing hot mouths.
She may just burn this stranger alive.
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Anyone! | "speaks" | notes:
