like having your throat cut,
just that fast
just that fast
Today, all gilded in sunlight and red silk, she is not the pit-fighter with a mouthful of blood. She is not a hungry thing, a violent thing, or a thing made for war. In the sunlight she is bright and ripe with the nobility of her blood and the promise of the deserts when they gleam like gold at noontime. Around her the crowd pushes like a herd of tame sheep almost lost without their shepherd. In each of their gazes she can see uncertainty and worry.
The darkness of the empty throne beats through the crowd like a second pulse. And Amaunet has never, never loved her city more than she does in the market today.
Her eyes do not linger on the tables packed with goods. She does not fawn over the daggers still stained with the blood of their dark enchantments. When a pygmy dragon stolen from the night court screeches frantically in the distance she does not turn towards it like a war-hungry girl. A band takes up playing in a tavern outside the market and her heart does not take up the sounds of drums in her chest.
She does not pay attention to the chaos of the market, the promise of strife in all those uncertain gazes, but her magic drinks deeply of it. It drinks and drinks until her skin is dew and dawn dusted in rose-gold glow. The magic in her blood is still drinking when she spots the Regent lingering over a table with his snake a hissing promise waiting across his back.
Amaunet had liked the look of him better when his Davke tattoo’s had been bright instead of fading. She might have passed by him then, instead of cutting through the crowd like a wound to join him. When she smiles at him the look turns to a thing of wealth in her golden glow. And she wonders if he’ll notice the gold, the scars, or the bloody red of her war paint first.
When she looks down her smile brightens into something as feral as it is lovely. “All the wonders in the whole court and you linger over a journal.” She steps closer and snaps out the wing furthest from him to create a bubble of space around them (like a secret meeting between Davke, or like a cage?). “I would not have expected it of you, Regent.” Amaunet does not laugh at him though, not yet.
Because deep down, where she is a noble’s feral daughter who cannot help the violence of her blood, she almost (almost) understands. But unlike him, any failings of her own, had been cut out from the smiles of others.
@Jahin
The darkness of the empty throne beats through the crowd like a second pulse. And Amaunet has never, never loved her city more than she does in the market today.
Her eyes do not linger on the tables packed with goods. She does not fawn over the daggers still stained with the blood of their dark enchantments. When a pygmy dragon stolen from the night court screeches frantically in the distance she does not turn towards it like a war-hungry girl. A band takes up playing in a tavern outside the market and her heart does not take up the sounds of drums in her chest.
She does not pay attention to the chaos of the market, the promise of strife in all those uncertain gazes, but her magic drinks deeply of it. It drinks and drinks until her skin is dew and dawn dusted in rose-gold glow. The magic in her blood is still drinking when she spots the Regent lingering over a table with his snake a hissing promise waiting across his back.
Amaunet had liked the look of him better when his Davke tattoo’s had been bright instead of fading. She might have passed by him then, instead of cutting through the crowd like a wound to join him. When she smiles at him the look turns to a thing of wealth in her golden glow. And she wonders if he’ll notice the gold, the scars, or the bloody red of her war paint first.
When she looks down her smile brightens into something as feral as it is lovely. “All the wonders in the whole court and you linger over a journal.” She steps closer and snaps out the wing furthest from him to create a bubble of space around them (like a secret meeting between Davke, or like a cage?). “I would not have expected it of you, Regent.” Amaunet does not laugh at him though, not yet.
Because deep down, where she is a noble’s feral daughter who cannot help the violence of her blood, she almost (almost) understands. But unlike him, any failings of her own, had been cut out from the smiles of others.
@Jahin
