Yet more proof of a indolent, lethargic herdland is placed within sight of the Princess of Earth, hardened beating of her heart thrashing within a coiled chest, for she is pressed far too tight already, a spring to which threatens to bounce upward at the merest touch. What is wrong with these pathetic, brainless, unintelligent, immobile (and imbecile) fools that they could not move their rumps but five inches to the borders of their land, that they could not place a hoof outside of their comfortable sleep to respond to live threats and wanderers at their borders? That they let the Outcasts of the realm and creatures of the other herdlands that the Princess has not yet been told what are parade through their borders and frolic in the sunset? The Princess soon expects to see a glorified muscle man with added drool in a tutu prance through her sight next, the woman does not find it so far fetched with the lack of pride her herdmates - the Princess shudders at the name - have now. It was the Foothills luck that the third Princess of Elysia, Daughter of Inanna, knew how to train dogs to grow up and become men. She would teach them to become elegant machines of war, rise them from the ranks of mutts to become the finest of clockwork.

But what had the Princess on a tirade this eve?
A child had her on this tirade. A over-glorified child who stood at the very edge of their borders and seemed to decide if she should dance on her land or not.
If the little brat took a step over the invisible lines of her land, she would rip her a new hole in her body and carve it out nice enough that the imbecile could surgically add a new wing in there for themselves. A three-winged monster, the gleeful voice of the Ink added within the contours of her mind. But no, the Daughter of Inanna would not shred the brat yet, for though the child impressed her not with her gold banners of glitter glue and crayola, she might have the been born the capacity of a brain. Not that the Princess was hopeful - and she valued muscle over the ability to think - but the Princess was coming quick to the conclusion that anything was better then the sparkled Lady of the Hills. Even the term of respect sickened her to her core, and she feels the dramatic urge to vomit her innards out at the very thought of her Queen being a worshiped prostitute.
None of that mattered, of course, as the colossus began over the rolling hills of the glorious landscape, blank expression and condescending stare turned towards the little girl, wings pressed close to warm, slightly sweaty flesh, forelock sticking to droplets of perspiration that formed on her dome. The heat of the Sun above did no favors to the Princess, and the woman cared little of the knowledge it gave her. What did appearances matter?

She was anything but adorned with stealth. The girl would see and hear her far before she came close, if she wished to race away as some fearful mouse.
As she came closer, the firm stare flicked over a deep purple bruise along her left flank, and if her gaze did not betray her,
the scattering of red through light primaries. It told the Princess that the girl had been in a fight, and her blunt voice echoed towards her as she came yet closer, long strides churning the Earth beneath her into gritty, fine dust, and cool, obsidian grime.
"Did you win?"

The rasp of her tones bellowed across the space between them as she came to a standstill on the edge of her borders, a mask of indifference layering a unwavering, uncanny glower.

A mental pause from the stirs of ink in her veins.

What?

The Princess never claimed to be no politician, doll.


— AUTHORS NOTE: I cannot accept you, but I felt your thread looked a little lonely for the time being and hoped you wouldn't mind if I joined in!



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