[AW] Beneath the surface...

[Illo]

Music thrummed and carried through the air like the constant echoing scream of a banshee. That was, at least, how it seemed to the golden ears that seemed habitually flattened against Illo's golden skull. Diamond eyes flashed with the cold sincerity of distaste as she moved from the all too wanton and carefree dancing of complete strangers that surrounded her. It wasn't exactly that she disliked being around people. No, that would be the fault of the permanent being that rested in the back of her mind, scraping languidly at the veil of power that trapped the dragon in there. What irritated her dragon, often irritated her. So, with the clank of metal on cobblestone, she made a not-so-silent retreat from the street and ducked her scale covered head into a nearby tavern.


She determine the tavern was sufficiently empty, compared to the streets littered with half-drunk equine that seemed determined to either waste their money on more alcohol or ware that were more often than not, worth far less than was half-drunken equine were willing to pay. Her onyx tail slithered behind her, the sound of rock on wood perhaps not giving her the elusiveness she'd hoped. Indignant of the sound, she moved along the wall and found a corner table. Perhaps she was growing tired of the bustle far faster than she'd thought? Her hope was that a few drinks might change her mood.


These days, Illo didn't exactly have much to be happy about. Her kingdom was long gone and unknown to anyone she'd met in these lands. She'd learned early on that she didn't have the control of her dragon form, as she had before. Now her dragon lay trapped beneath the skin, constantly itching for release and Illo unable to supply her with it. There was, deep down, this ache for something familiar and she somehow knew she wouldn't find that here. No, nothing was going her way lately. Nothing seemed to inspire her the way she'd been before coming here. Her fierce nature was starting seem more like that of a crochety old mare, than it was anything like the fiery determination of a ruler with a plan it used to be.


So she brooded. Her pale gaze was cold and icy toward anyone who held it. She ordered, barely uttering beyond a whisper to do so. She'd started off today feeling awkward and unsure of her place in these lands or how to socialize with these strangers. Now, however, she was coming to life; just not the way she used to. Her ire was closer to the surface than her dragon and she was beginning to lose track of just who it belonged to.

@ANY

[Fever]

burning my cathedrals

cause i dont pray anymore

A sheen of sweat had dewed on the mare’s mahogany, ebony, and ivory freckled skin – she had been dancing for what seemed like hours: inviting strangers in to join, letting children touch the bells she wore, winking at someone’s wife and causing their husband to fluff up in fury.

All in a day’s work of being an entertainer. 

As Fever was met with some disapproving scowls, she’d withdraw from the dancing, not particularly looking to fight off drunk men and their tongue lashings. As she waited to regain her breath and stamina, the sound of metal scraping would catch her attention, where she briefly saw the shape of an equine moving away.

Something gold and glittering.

Like a moth to the flame, as if a snake with the smell of something raw and intriguing on her tongue, she would follow the scaled creature, weaving her own path in-between the patrons, her gaze hungry to devour the sharp shapes of this stranger’s skin. This gilded reptile looked dangerous.

Fever loved to dance with danger.

Upon approaching a tavern caravan, she watched the other slip inside, while most of the patrons mingled and flirted amongst themselves on the outside, enjoying their drinks, reveling in the music that permeated the air. The dancer would move past them as if they were ghosts in the streets, uninterested in their idle prattle.

Instead, her venomous eyes would eagerly seek the dragon inside the bar, a smirk beginning to curl one corner of her inky lips.

Conveniently, a bar maid stepped out to bring the creature her drink. Fever extends a long inky leg to cut off their path, insisting the she should bring the mare her drink instead, convincing them that she is a friend and would love to surprise them. Without much fight, she manages to lie her way into snatching up the cocktail and ordering herself one, and with said drinks, moves to the corner where the object of her fixation sits.

She was a dagger of a woman admiring a cutlass. 

“Have the festivities bored you?” she’d ask in smokey fashion, letting the spice in her voice travel to the pinned ears of the other. Gingerly, Fever would set down the stranger’s drink and slide it across the table, inviting herself to take a seat across from her. After a gradual sip of her own cocktail of spirits and ice, she’d savor it on her tongue, letting it burn her throat with a pleasurable and inaudible moan of satisfaction.

“I hope I haven’t crashed your party.”

@Illo

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i am a forest fire; i am the fire and i am the forest

and i am a witness watching it