Out of the woods and billowing snow from whence she came, a shadow moves and enters the fray of her battlefield, her war. He is not one of subtlety, but then again, neither is she. The stormsinger only stands at the heart of the Steppe, silent and still. A statue of ebony marble as white flecks swirl and dance around her ankles, her frame. They are in the eye of a storm, a blizzard, and now, she has never felt more at home than in this moment. Winter's kiss cradles this land in one final blessing of ice that seeps deep into her bones, but it only stirs the waves that churn far inside her. Building and building into a slow symphony of thunder and lightning and tsunamis. She only needs a spark that will coax such storms from where they hide beneath the surface of her skin. How brave. Aislinn has not deigned herself to turn around and face him, not yet. The winter winds whip the untamed wild of her mane around her in halos of starlight and ink. A muscle in her upper lip twitches, as she cannot help but feel a chuckle rise in her throat. The stormsinger's chin rises, defiant, as she watches him circle her. She does not flinch as their eyes meet. Instead, her orbs flare with narrowed blue fires; promises of hurricanes and thunder quaking deep in their depths. Insolent, talkative bastard. Does he think that his words would scorn her so? What is it you seek, my love? A sense of purpose? Her laughter rolls off of her lips in waves of ice and stormstruck winds, unbidden and short. "You talk a lot for someone who is supposed to be intimidating," she spits. Her knuckles crack as the lightning laced her in blood crackles, sizzling through her veins in sweet ecstasy. The waves of her storm crash; brutal, violent, needy. She craves the taste of his blood on her lips like mulled wine, and torn fists as she smacks the words out of his fucking mouth. Aislinn can only watch, for now, noting each centimeter of his movement as he comes to stand facing her. They are only feet apart, and still, he dwarfs her.. and she hates how she cranes her neck back to keep his eyes upon her own. Her storm rages and builds to its peak, needing only a whisper to break into a crescendo of her wrath. So, what does the birdfetching bitch say? The side of her lip curls, lovely and wicked and cruel. She eyes the soft spot beneath his neck, where the curves of his cheek hide in the thick muscle there. A tender spot where she can nearly imagine his pulse beneath the bones of her teeth. Her muscles coil under her skin, as her wings bunch closer to her frame. "Oh," she muses, almost sweetly, crooning even, before her voice falls flat and drips in poison. "Go fuck yourself, you sand sucking son of a bitch." And then Calligo's grasp around her unleashes the hellfire of her rage. The stormsinger launches forward in a flurry of snow and ice, her teeth aimed for the under side of his neck. Her throat hums, just enough, just barely, and thunder claps around them in a deafening roar. The storm that churns is a mirror of her anger, and she answers it gladly as she screams forward like a spear of starlight and shadows. No one can help him now. @Torstein oh shit (I'm sorry for this poop post btw but basically she jumps forward and snaps at the underside of his face where his neck and head connect, in attempt to rip open a vein xD) "Aislinn speech." |
