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12-16-2013, 05:29 AM
Zuriel the Seraphim</style> i fought the angels here today. </style> The angel descends on silent wings, a beacon of light in the depth of the forest where not long before, a Reaper claimed her heart. Silver and sapphire in the mottled light, she floats on split hooves and hums to herself, a tune of the sea that her mother once sang, the moonlit strands of a silken voice weaving together a thing of grace. Like everything the girl does her humming is not idle; it is carefully constructed, a lacy web of secret things she holds in her mind and wears on her sleeve. Zuriel is not trying to hide her presence, nor does she want to attract attention undue; she is looking for the best one, the right one, a butterfly for her net.
The little buckskin mare may just be perfect. A stout little thing, the equine mare is a quiet looking thing, her eyes downcast and her ears alert. Does she fear the monsters in the wood? Our angel thinks this may be wise. She has come upon little Ms. Lonely here quite by chance, at an intersection of crooked paths that weave through brush and soft, crushed grass. Perhaps the hornless heard her coming, with those twitchy ears and big doe eyes, or perhaps she had sprung from the trees as a wraith, avenging angel sent by an angry god to strike down the unworthy where they stand. The little mare draws more clearly into her sight, and the angel arches up, neck held high in nonchalant authority, horns glittering harshly and eyes bright as she hums. She breaks through the trees a length ahead of the other, suddenly perpendicular, suddenly there, and pauses, blue gaze settling on the small buckskin mare, daring her to take a step, daring her to speak out of turn, a slight smile dancing across inky lips. She wants to be cruel but holds herself back, holds herself for provocation, for an excuse others will buy and sympathize and forgive. She wants to strike the girl, to break her hornless skull. The angel smiles. The angel waits. |
