There has always been a thrill in the sight of something dangerous, some hidden monster of the flesh, rolling across the dunes to her. Her heart quivers and her skin spikes into a feverish glow at the deadly gleam of his pearl horn in the moonlight. The pulse in her veins stutters and takes up a dim echo of his steps through the dunes-- slow enough and steady enough that she knows no man, no mortal beast of war, is not so still without a hundred oceans of rage rising in a tidal wave against his skin.
This icy look in his gaze, full of a careless and emotionless warning, is why she did not come the first night.
And when he pauses before touching her, she wants to laugh at his askance at the gates of her. She had hoped, as all hunters that hope for a thrilling chase, that he would take his horn and cut tameness into her skin with nothing more than a snarl.
Amaunent has no want, no need for a gentlemanly thing. Chivalry and softness are nothing more than bones whittled down and strapped to the tip of her training spear. She devours things that ask and so perhaps, she thinks, she will devour him.
Part of her had hoped to be tamed, or chased, or hunted like the queen teryr in her bloody cave.
But perhaps he is no better than any foolish idol of violence that thinks to best her in the pits. Perhaps he is no better than a boy with a leash in his mouth attached to a tiger called a pet. Perhaps he is no better, no more dangerous, than a thing raised and felled by the chaos in her blood.
Her smile is a feral thing, all feral and violent and bright as his horn in the moonlight. The sound her wings make as she snaps them out against him is deafening in the night (the one that is only not-silent by the hush, hush, hush of their heartbeats and their lungs). And she does not try to push him away but pull him closer, close enough that his horn is whittled down into a weapon of touch instead of war.
Amaunet does not want a war with him-- not yet.
“What had you expected, unicorn,” a warning for a warning and a touch for an askance of one, “if not a game?” It is always easier, in the end, to swallow up a nameless thing.
@Martell
