born and raised in rain

The lightning maiden is a symphony; the beat of her heart is the drum, the cascade of her blood the choir voices, the rustle of her wings the reverent silence of the audience. She is an electric warrior, feral in her young beauty, with eyes that boil and blister with the heat of a thousand volts; a fulmination-crowned queen who sizzles and burns through the air like the striking whip of the storm. Tousled tresses are caught by the wind, sashaying dancers in the cool breeze, ebon dresses fluttering in the caress of air-currents; but even the curl and lick of her mane is incomparable to the third pair of appendages she daresay names and thinks of as freedom: wings, magnificent and spanning the sky broad, rise and downstroke, harmonious repetition as she soars from the briny ocean. Even as she glides, uncatchable on the fly, she fondly remembers the whisper of the ocean creeping up the shoreline, the enormous sea which she counts as friend with the hush-hush of its voice, rather than vaguely pretty scenery.

The Fireslayer's grand-daughter is a song, carried by the zephyrs of the sky, she being what could have been a promisingly hopeful silhouette on the horizon to those of the underground- but it would not be so.

Wings tilt and shiver, primaries flushing wide for maximum lift; she rises, effortless, lithe and flexible in the manner of a cat, if only cats could fly; spiralling upwards on a column of warm air beneath her, she looks down. There is no vulnerability in her heart that might send her shrieking in fear at the astounding height she has reached— no, with her hawk eyes she watches below, the world laid out at her nimble hooves. Sinister beasts, ambitious and power-hungry, might laugh, to see the country seemingly small beneath them, but to her it is larger than ever here up in the azure yonder. It is here, in the sky, that Azulee can see it goes on forever, and remembers her insignificance in comparison to it. Down below are horses like Kri and Midas and Onni, once horses like Azzuen and Cassiopeia and Cirrus with her companion, Sitka; she wonders if the world, so big, can remember all those so small.

It is in reverent silence that the progeny of the Ardent and the Star-breather watches, breath stolen by awe at Helovia's majesty, and as she studies the earth in scholarly quiet, she finds a clustering of equine pelts far beneath her. Pitch brows delicately furrow as she makes studious note of silver and gray, black and gold backs; and then she begins to make easy descent, moving in a wide, carefree circle downwards, late to the ball.

Enormous wings back-stroke, tail ruddering and compensating, as she lands at swift canter some distance away; it takes her several strides to slow to a rather more suitable pace. Voltaic blue eyes sparkle with curiosity as she trots towards the group, composed of unicorn and pegasus— ears tilt forward and she gives a thoughtful little hum to herself, drawing herself up tall and queenly, a marvellous picture of confidence and regality, light on her cleft hooves as she approaches. Ahead of her, she sees a little tortoise (surely the commotion cannot be other that?) but as she combs through the scene again, there she sees it— a gleam of white, bright as the surrounding snow.

It falls into place, and so she simply awaits, and while she does, she remembers the hellhound named Sitka.

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