warbird,
She was a creature of action and so craved any sort. Stagnation and stillness were counterproductive methods of existence, bringing about the slow, steady death of body, and soul. Born innate into her musculature, her bones and blood, was the immortal nature of the Valkyr; incessant beings, following the noble and true into battle, fearless and faultless, with steel drawn and wings spread. But here, clinging to flesh of a mortal nature, she was bound and entrapped, caged in this earthly sphere only as high as her wings could take her. Scars would mar her flesh and wounds, like the stinging one on her right shoulder, would harden into scars. She was not deserving of the other-wordly, ethereal beauty of her mothers.
Not yet, anyhow.
The brute she nears is a hefty creature seemingly hewn out of slate. His brow is adorned with a sharp, slightly listed onyx horn, worn with whorls and ridges and seemingly shot through with lighting; his eyes, too, are reminiscent of the bolts of energy, terrifying and chaotic, which slash across the sky during unruly storms.
They meet eyes, briefly, glowing red and glowing blue, and he dismisses her with countenance lowered towards the water. It bothers her not. She is not prideful insofar as the opinions of mortals carry weight. He seems a lonely sort, anyhow, a bit stuffy and burlish, like a stormhead. Full of himself as water in a raincloud, soot-black and temperamental. Liable to pop at any moment only to drain petulantly over the land.
Such were first impressions.
Warbird lifts her head from the river and gives herself a shake, golden hairclasps jingling together like fine bells. She is still for a moment in her thoughts until the sound of slithering scales brings her ears forward and back in a simple flick of irritation. Stykkislange’s silverite form draws parallel to hers-- Warbird’s black steel spiked sunburst helmet is adorning her serpentine head, wobbling a bit-- and she peers around her master’s monochrome countenance at the stranger in the water.
who isssss that? she asks, tongue a lash in the warm air, can i eat them?
Warbird removes the headwear from Stykki’s skull and with invisible arms tucks it close to her side. “No, you may not,” she contravened, voice a flat, suppressed sigh, “might as be he’d foul your gut, anyhow.” He was far too large for the ophidian to consume-- in one piece, at least.
Stykki, however, was not adverse to a meal of various courses, even if it was a labor of many days of consumption. She pulled the front half of her body into a lazy slouch, peering grumpily at the smoke-colored form in the water.
