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03-03-2014, 10:31 PM
 With cleft hooves planted stolidly on soil, she was a soldier, with voltaic eyes and tousled locks of starless nights; with infinite wings outspread, she was a mournful dancer, balletic queen whose presence sang and sparkled with all the feral beauty of electricity. Even when she stood, grounded, she dreamed of the sky, envisioned feral storms that roared in her ears and played with her as a cat did mouse, and other skies too, more tame heavens: robin-egg blue, and spring silver, clouds laden with rain that hovered, omnipresent, awaiting the chance to shed tears. As efforts became futile for reuniting her with family, she lingered by the gateway to the earth. Sometimes, if the right breeze came by, she could smell the fresh air, taste the frigid cold, and her heart gave an excited flutter- before she remembered out there was death waiting to steal the lives of those fool enough to venture alone. But the Ardent's daughter lacked in the sweet patience of the elderly (leave them to their virtuous restraint! She would not allow herself to be afraid of a little darkness) and convinced herself: yes, she could at least spread her wings, surely no wraiths could fly? Correct or incorrect she might've been, but as she slid free from the grim clutches of the heart caves, she found herself confronted with a blessing. Light, dim and sullen, but a sky not just darkness. The laughter sang up from between the cage of her teeth, and there she held it, unwilling to let it go even when it so rudely demanded freedom. Wings unfurled. And she leapt into the greasy gray sky, winging upwards, at last feeling the wind caressing her tangled mane and breezing by her ears and whispering through her primaries. Here in the gilded light of the sun, soaring in the endless vault of the sky, was where she was meant to be. Not locked away beneath the earth, ancient relic to grow dusty, to age, all without seeing the light of day again, but here and now, with the winter air filling up her lungs and burning in her eyes. To the west she goes, to scent brine and salt, seaweed and sand; to remind her of home in a dragon's throat. azulee the grave looks cold, but we're still young |
hard mode—HP: 65/65
physical force and magic is permitted to be used on Azulee at any time provided it does not involve powerplay (unless specified otherwise); please contact me before attempting to kill.
please tag me!
