Yseulte didn't expect company.

Then again, she never expects company. She has yet to become accustomed to the positive attention she has received here in Helovia. Liridon was a different tale—a sad, lonely story. And so it makes sense that she is surprised and pleased by the possibility of company.

The hoofsteps are soft and tentative, a mere whisper in the grass, so subtle and fleeting she cannot even be sure someone is even here at all. A tickle dances on the ridge of her spine, cool and chill. For a moment, she assumes it is the cool thunder-weather, but then she identifies the unmistakable feeling. She is begin watched. Even then, she can't be sure. She continues grazing in the wane afternoon sunlight, though her lips are merely brushing the spring growth. To all appearances her lean form appears languid and loose with supple relaxation, when in reality, she is coiled like a snake, ready to strike at any given moment. But she can't bring herself to be worried, really, for she finds unexpected danger thrilling and intoxicating. Her expression is as peaceful as the mist-wreathed meadow—still, serene, and touched with vague strands of light that have strayed through the shrouds of mist.

She tastes something on the air, something metallic and bitter. Blood. Whatever worry she had previously pushed away suddenly rises in her throat like bile, even though she knows her body isn't capable of such an atrocious action. And just as quickly, she falls into peace as dragon-scent is pushed her way by a cold mountain breeze. She recalls her mentor's companion, Fajira, a sprightly, clever little dragon, and Torasin's sweet Kiba who dearly loved play. In fact, she still feels the sting of snow and ice against her cheek where the little dragon and his bonded defeated her in a glorious snowball fight.

It is a peculiar thing, to have friends.

She's comforted by the dragon-scent and continues grazing, paying no more attention to the mystery hidden in the pale sheets of mist and sunlight. Until the mystery reveals himself, that is, prowling through the mist with unexpected grace for one with such a powerful figure. As if connected, their gazes lock for a fleeting moment that seems to span a lifetime. And in that delicate silence, she doesn't lift her head more than a few inches from the grass. Her body is so still and motionless she might have been carved from stone, save for the blonde hair stirred loosely across her face by a cold mountain breeze. His eyes are strange silvery gray, like polished steel they are gray as the face of the mountain, churning and ever-changing as gray seas and thunderclouds.

He is curious fellow, to be sure.

She tilts her head slightly to one side, the movement subtle as the flutter of butterfly wings. The grass tickles her throat as she observes him evenly, noting that he is of a hardy, powerful breed, obviously built for survival, but he has a young face that perhaps has yet to learn of the destruction his body can cause. His vibrant auburn color reminds her of a living, breathing flame, and the sight plucks at thread of darkness in her heart as if it were a harp string, until the ominous feeling thrums through her veins like wildfire. In her experience, she has learned fire only destroys.

But she gives him the benefit of the doubt, anyhow.

She raises her head slowly as he finally speaks a brief apology, shattering the fragile silence with a murmur so gentle it is nearly lost to the wind. She can sense his unease, and it both amuses and irritates her. She has always despised her appearance and her father for being so treacherously beautiful. Perhaps if she were ugly, or even plainly modest, he would be more comfortable in her presence. His reaction is not uncommon, but he is young and he will learn. Again, she is amused by this thought. She cannot be much older than him, if at all, and yet she feels as if she has walked the earth an entire lifetime.

She considers fleeing, just to see if he will follow and because she yearns for the thrill of the chase. But instead, she settles for playing a dangerous game.

"And if I do not forgive you, what then, little dragonboy?"

She especially loves playing with fire.

yseulte
apprentice craftsman of world's edge