a wild, wandering soul
Amaunet could watch the Khan slide across the dunes like water for days and never tire of the sight. It's always been flight for her, instead of sand, that made her hooves feel cased in molten gold and the spirit of the mortal coil. But looking at Avdotya, with her halo of golden sand as alive as a tide and her skin salted with the sweat of freedom, she can admit that there is a certain romantic beauty to it.
Not that she has any love for beauty, it's nothing more than another tool by which to bring knaves to their knees (like altar boys before the holiness of her).
Her smile to the Khan is as wicked as the glare of the spears catching the sunlight below them. There are a hundred silent things in her look, a hundred hidden snares waiting for a rabbit's neck. Her snare gaze follows Avdotya as she circles her until their looking at the same sea of desert monsters. She knows she should dip her head respectfully to the Khan, but she doesn't have it in her to be a tame thing and so she only lifts her head.
Amaunet stays wild.
“Among other things.” A laugh lives in the echo of her voice and the shine in her eye turns wild as white-water, as stardust, as chaos. She shutters her eyes as the word dissolves back into the song of spears and violence. The other things are still her own, too newborn to share and half-formed. But oh, oh, oh, there is a soft glow that starts to ebb from her like a heartbeat. It's desert gold, feeding off the drills below her and all the purposes between spearhead and flesh. Perhaps it's the glow that will give away all her secrets and leave behind a memory of how brightly she shone the day of her trial.
Perhaps.
Amaunet turns away from the drills and the desert sun stinging at her eyes when she opens them. The snare smile still has not faded, nor have her wings (a subconscious statement of her form). At her neck the feather with a single stain of blood-red, swings with the sudden movement. Below them the dune roils like a storm. “And what is it that lives in your eyes, Avdotya?” The sand sounds like rain as it rolls downward. She steps closer to offer her nose, a greeting between almost equals in a way that has nothing to with experience.
It has everything to do with violence and all the things that live in gazes accustomed to looking at the sun and demanding more.
Always more.
“Speaking.” @Avdotya
Not that she has any love for beauty, it's nothing more than another tool by which to bring knaves to their knees (like altar boys before the holiness of her).
Her smile to the Khan is as wicked as the glare of the spears catching the sunlight below them. There are a hundred silent things in her look, a hundred hidden snares waiting for a rabbit's neck. Her snare gaze follows Avdotya as she circles her until their looking at the same sea of desert monsters. She knows she should dip her head respectfully to the Khan, but she doesn't have it in her to be a tame thing and so she only lifts her head.
Amaunet stays wild.
“Among other things.” A laugh lives in the echo of her voice and the shine in her eye turns wild as white-water, as stardust, as chaos. She shutters her eyes as the word dissolves back into the song of spears and violence. The other things are still her own, too newborn to share and half-formed. But oh, oh, oh, there is a soft glow that starts to ebb from her like a heartbeat. It's desert gold, feeding off the drills below her and all the purposes between spearhead and flesh. Perhaps it's the glow that will give away all her secrets and leave behind a memory of how brightly she shone the day of her trial.
Perhaps.
Amaunet turns away from the drills and the desert sun stinging at her eyes when she opens them. The snare smile still has not faded, nor have her wings (a subconscious statement of her form). At her neck the feather with a single stain of blood-red, swings with the sudden movement. Below them the dune roils like a storm. “And what is it that lives in your eyes, Avdotya?” The sand sounds like rain as it rolls downward. She steps closer to offer her nose, a greeting between almost equals in a way that has nothing to with experience.
It has everything to do with violence and all the things that live in gazes accustomed to looking at the sun and demanding more.
Always more.
