[AW] Desert Tempest

[Fever]

rip and smash through the hornet's nest

do you understand I deserve the best?

but you'll do what I want, do what i please

and do it again til I get what I Need

Homesick: a nauseous and tumultuous storm of emotion brewing in the cauldron of Fever's stomach. Carefully concealed, this strange sea-sickness had been festering for some time. For a year, at least, she had made her home on the outskirts, living like a rat in the shadows, patiently abiding her time for her return Solterra. Winter was to begin to thaw, and thus, like a child who followed the sun, she would begin her descent.

The rains came; first a mist, followed by fat and frigid drops that would dance along the woman's abstract spine. Each touch of water on her delicate, mottled skin was an angry indicator to reach the desert quicker. The plan was simple: stay alive and return home. She moved like liquid at an extended trot that would have allowed her to travel for days. A long tail snaked lengths behind her, sinuous and thick, a black pennant to play in the brisk wind.

Abruptly, she came to a halt as the twinkle of stagnant water caught her attention. A small pond, edges muddied with a slush of clinging snow and clay silt. The viper would part a sea of starlings, they would flock and fly away as she moved closer to the over-glorified puddle. Fever would approach the mirror not to drink, but to admire herself.

Black and gold eyes stared back at herself in thought, but she wouldn’t be able to indulge in herself for long.

She wasn’t alone.

She could smell the beast before she saw them – sweat and rain on his coat, a foreign musk that indicated he was a stallion from lands she was unfamiliar with. A single spotted ear would swivel in his direction, listening to his heavy footsteps crush the brittle earth. With a coy peek over her shoulder, she would finally observe him.

A black golem – stygian crystals adhered to his night-colored skin, a face curved like the bow of a crescent moon, a tidy series of buns fingering the strong crest of his neck. The viper’s first assumption was initially a warrior, with a cropped tail and ice for eyes; Fever didn’t know why else he would be adorned with thick slabs of muscle if not for the slaying of his enemies.

Her eyes narrowed into daggers as she scrutinized him. She should have been born a warrior.

Alas, she was a mere street dancer.

Just a lowly, simple, harmless street dancer.

A simper wickedly curled up her black lips underneath her mask. She would force her body to relax, her neck curled into an inviting arch, peering at him through a feminine flutter of dark lashes. Her voice would leave her throat like smoke and nectar.

“Hello stranger.”

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@Jarek