The lady is no longer as fierce as some have come to know her by. A weariness has settled in about her bright plumage like a hoard of ticks to a dog; try as the maiden might to be rid of such a nuisance, the heavy feeling has decided to stay with her awhile. At first she had thought it to be due to her wounds -- she had been boiled by a lizard, after all -- but the weight in her limbs and tread in her step had stayed with her even after she had been healed. She had settled on delivering a stern word to the fae who had renewed her (apparently not wholly) but the unshakable fatigue had caused the bitter woman to reconsider. Whereas before this blight she would have relished in forcing the equine to yield, she feels no desire for such cruelty now. Could it be because of her fragile new charge that she has begun to think this way? Is it the egg's frailty that causes her to pause, or put her ferocious acts to an end altogether?

A quick glance back at the thing makes the bird believe otherwise. Nothing in this world has the power to change her. She will either choose to reform, or proudly remain the same. Yet even as she decides this, and her fiery eye scours over the egg's veined surface, the warrior cannot help but to dull the vigour in which her wings climb the sky. The powerful strokes of her instruments subside to gentle dips of her primaries; her barred legs no longer press against her ruby belly, but hang limply to provide drag instead. A sense of calm has washed over the beauty as she gazes fondly at her charge, wondering about what might be in there.

If the creature lives at all. She winces at her own harsh words, turning away from the precious item to look ahead. Had I not seen it with my own two eyes, I would have thought the creature lost. Delicate ears spring forwards at the sight of the island she had set her course for. Her sudden delight in finding such an odd land mass is dispersed by her next thought. Should it not be dead? I suffered for this puny thing. Have my efforts been wasted?

Not daring to answer that question for herself, the Aztec busies herself with the task of landing on the island. The feathers surrounding the egg upon her wither stiffen, lifting themselves higher to form a protective cage for the orb to rest in. The tendrils themselves are not very strong, but the maiden will undertake any possible task to ensure her captive's survival. Among those is landing in one of the streams that run off of the isle's edge. The water should, in theory, make for a lighter landing. Or perhaps I am more of a xolopitli than I give myself credit for.

With the darkening horizon before her the peahen makes her descent. Rapidly swaying wings appear almost to glitter with the fading light's touch, and when her hooves stir up the water it only increases that effect. Should another look upon the glistening peahen, their breath would certainly catch at such a sight. It is not every day that you see so fine a creature. Constructed of myth and colored with beauty, the vehement goddess takes pleasure in such a dazzling performance. The illusion itself, however, is shattered as soon as she surges towards land.

"-better be worth it," are her almost inaudible words as she growls at the egg. "-take forever to dry... -outrage!" Her porcelain weapons grind against each other, further inhibiting her speech. The waterlogged vixen barely takes notice of her discomfort, her mind is so focused on the prospect of finding a suitable place to dry off. When at last her orange pools rest on a copse of shedding trees, the Aztec relieves her annoyance with a snort. Could she just be in dire need of a rest? Is that why weariness plagues her so?

Dragging her wet banner behind her as she approaches, the exotic woman settles in on a pile of pink blossoms. Memories of a less desirable experience among the flowers take hold of her mind, but it is not the image of being caught in a tree that haunts her so. It is the other figure that captures her attention, the one that yells up at her and has the audacity to use her for his jests. It is not a fond memory of the silver-stained boy, but it is still a memory of him nonetheless.

The maiden lifts her blue crown, her eyes probing the darkness of this foreign island in search of the familiarity that he possesses. Briefly she wonders if he has yet to leave this place. Gull. Are you around here?


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{@[Gull]
xolopitli -- imbecile; fool; idiot}