At the quiet sound of footfalls, Fever pivoted a single ear in the direction of an approaching stranger. With a sharp inhale, her eyes slide to her backside, narrowing at the approaching figure. The mare is extremely petite, her body full of soft and full shapes that suggest kindness and warmth, her eyes large and the color of dying days: a dusky blue, round and full of life despite their ghastly pallor. At the sight of a crown placed on her head, Fever could feel a shiver of panic run through her veins.
Was she nobility?
The last type of person Fever wanted to fraternize with is a social-ladder-climbing, pompous, arrogant smudge of a person. Fever's teeth grind in detestable fury as the lady invites herself to lay next to Fever. The stare in her eyes is something akin of spite and desperate fear, careful to not spit venom, assuming that if she were to cause a scene the stranger would scream and project herself and guards would swarm them, identify Fever, and swiftly end her life.
Fever was not afraid of death, but she needed to stay alive to find her mother.
And the words of the clairvoyant echoed in her head. She needs to play nice, she needs to cooperate.
But cooperating is so difficult when she is so used to warring with everyone.
Fever lifts her chin in distaste at the pastry - what if she is trying to poison her? Does she know that the last time she ate with nobles she poisoned them? Is this some wild and wicked revenge scheme?
Her paranoia makes her words bitter as she speaks,“I don't need your pity, and I care little for your child stealing plights.”
After the words left her mouth, she could feel the sting of them, like a double-edged sword where no one wins. As she looks down to the gilded palomino, her stomach twists in knots; the warmth and generosity of this small one reminded her of Temper. Briefly, a moment of shame touched the bay chimera's face, her mouth a frown as her gaze is downcast. Fever wonders if her tongue has taken it too far, so blinded by her selfish emotions that she had forgotten herself: she loves her court, she loves the people of Solterra, in all their grit and sun-clad glory. She adores the common folk and their steadfast nature, their ways of rising above despite always being labeled as blood-thirsty and savage.
A deep sigh shakes her body,“I don't have any love to give, Cordelia.”Fever's eyes are apologetic, though quickly return to the ground, her prickly-pear senses still advising her to keep the walls up.
@Cordelia
Was she nobility?
The last type of person Fever wanted to fraternize with is a social-ladder-climbing, pompous, arrogant smudge of a person. Fever's teeth grind in detestable fury as the lady invites herself to lay next to Fever. The stare in her eyes is something akin of spite and desperate fear, careful to not spit venom, assuming that if she were to cause a scene the stranger would scream and project herself and guards would swarm them, identify Fever, and swiftly end her life.
Fever was not afraid of death, but she needed to stay alive to find her mother.
And the words of the clairvoyant echoed in her head. She needs to play nice, she needs to cooperate.
But cooperating is so difficult when she is so used to warring with everyone.
Fever lifts her chin in distaste at the pastry - what if she is trying to poison her? Does she know that the last time she ate with nobles she poisoned them? Is this some wild and wicked revenge scheme?
Her paranoia makes her words bitter as she speaks,“I don't need your pity, and I care little for your child stealing plights.”
After the words left her mouth, she could feel the sting of them, like a double-edged sword where no one wins. As she looks down to the gilded palomino, her stomach twists in knots; the warmth and generosity of this small one reminded her of Temper. Briefly, a moment of shame touched the bay chimera's face, her mouth a frown as her gaze is downcast. Fever wonders if her tongue has taken it too far, so blinded by her selfish emotions that she had forgotten herself: she loves her court, she loves the people of Solterra, in all their grit and sun-clad glory. She adores the common folk and their steadfast nature, their ways of rising above despite always being labeled as blood-thirsty and savage.
A deep sigh shakes her body,“I don't have any love to give, Cordelia.”Fever's eyes are apologetic, though quickly return to the ground, her prickly-pear senses still advising her to keep the walls up.
@Cordelia
![[Image: 45505141_kShAGp5UVRG2Lvt.png]](https://f2.toyhou.se/file/f2-toyhou-se/images/45505141_kShAGp5UVRG2Lvt.png)
i am a forest fire; i am the fire and i am the forest
and i am a witness watching it
