It was the sound of rolling sand cascading nearby that stole Rhiannon's attention from her dark, internal musings. An ear flicked, two-toned eyes turning to watch as a copper creature descended the dunes nearby, skidding through sand effortlessly with the same confidence that she used upon ice. Clearly this creature was familiar with the workings of the desert, with how gracefully she traipsed through the cumbersome sand. Envy bloomed anew in the devil's breast, and her teeth gnashed in vast displeasure. Whoever it was, whatever she wanted, Rhiannon hated her already, the burning feeling spurred by her vast discomfort and annoyance.
She froze, halting in her progressive steps, hooves sinking into the golden granules of sand, and her gaze remained upon the golden woman with her ivory mane and tail. Lips drawn back into an impassive expression, eyes narrowing slightly in judgement, she held her tongue. The golden thing was pretty, Rhiannon supposed, at least on the surface. She had no horn, though, and the last survivor of the Plague did not even bother to hide her scoff of resentment. A pretty face, then, and nothing more. What a pity. A good lay might have been just the thing she needed to wind down from such a shitty situation.
The gilded woman spoke, and just as she had assumed, Rhiannon was unimpressed. The sing-song, teasing dulcet of her tone was grating and less than savory, and the dark lady was not in the mood for such frivolous altercations. Molten-gold and frozen-silver eyes rolled, but she spoke to answer, not bothering to hide her annoyance. She was hot and miserable and pissed, flung far from home and left alive.
Why couldn't you have just killed me, too?
"All I need from you is to know where I am," she muttered, the deep, masculine baritone of her voice carrying easily over the dry air, "And how to get out of this fucking desert." Simple. Precise. To the point. Rhiannon lacked the patience for anything else.
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