like having your throat cut,
just that fast
just that fast
The gong is still echoing in her ears like a roaring sea of steel. The sounds makes it almost easy to forget the ache of her wounds and the patterns of her feathers strewn around her like leaves in autumn. She wonders if they could consider it a forfeit if she lunged forward again to pick off pieces of his flesh. Would they stop her? Would they only bellow again for more blood, more violence, more gluttony as Solterrans are oft to?
Surely one bit of him for each feather of hers in the dirt is a fair price to pay.
When she turns it is by halves-- one wing curling towards him like a claw and the others towards the crowd like a banner of furious flight. Between the two she seems a thing strained between civility and wildness. The blood curling a half moon below her eyes and the lines of it painted on her from the battle shines the color of fire. She smiles below the fire-shine and each of her teeth are just bones, mortal and fragile beneath the feral glow of her chaos.
When he goes, as hounds do into the silence and the dark, Amaunet laughs and takes to the skies.
Only those who know her well will notice the wavering weakness of her mighty wings. Only they might notice way her glow seems duller, and duller, and duller as her blood drops on the crowd like holy rain.
Amaunet does not make it far before she has to land. But it is enough to know that to the crowd she seemed more god than girl in the wake of battle.
@Dune
Surely one bit of him for each feather of hers in the dirt is a fair price to pay.
When she turns it is by halves-- one wing curling towards him like a claw and the others towards the crowd like a banner of furious flight. Between the two she seems a thing strained between civility and wildness. The blood curling a half moon below her eyes and the lines of it painted on her from the battle shines the color of fire. She smiles below the fire-shine and each of her teeth are just bones, mortal and fragile beneath the feral glow of her chaos.
When he goes, as hounds do into the silence and the dark, Amaunet laughs and takes to the skies.
Only those who know her well will notice the wavering weakness of her mighty wings. Only they might notice way her glow seems duller, and duller, and duller as her blood drops on the crowd like holy rain.
Amaunet does not make it far before she has to land. But it is enough to know that to the crowd she seemed more god than girl in the wake of battle.
@
