Reyna

Silence envelopes her, as warm and woven with ease as the spring air that plays with her long icy tresses. October eyes slip to a close, lashes like butterfly wings as they kiss her cheeks, reveling in the abnormally warm zephyrs that curl and kiss on her coat. Welcoming her to this foreign land, deeming her a treasure to be gazed upon, of enough import to secure the attentions of the wandering denizens that were sure to be drawn by her presence. Was this the reasoning behind the wanderlust magik of the area she had found herself part of? Did it draw forth those that claimed seniority to attend to the lost and lonely? The song it sang to her soul was a peculiar one, a foreign language with only a few familiar words, and thus undecipherable.

Whether her suspicions are worthy of confirmation or not, evidence is presented to her nonetheless. From the oddly inviting shade of shadows brought upon by this abnormally warm land, a youth saunters forth, macabre and skeletal in the nomad's eyes. He is peculiar, and she watches him with the intensity of a lioness waiting for her prey to venture too close to her deadly claws. There is an arrogance in his form, a haughty toss of his head that does little to impress her. Even so, he is a satire in the cruelty of her past few hours, a quenched thirst to her parched curiosity. Her own tiara tilts to mimic him, eyes sharp like sphalerite gems. Unyielding, demanding he reveal his secrets to her.

Mischief curls on his dark lips, sin and secrecy like poison on his maw as it widens to taunt her with a demeaning name that arches a brow of her aristocratic features. "Boy," she rumbles, though it is cold and aloof, uncaring. A miming of his own words, but with a splash of cold that underlines the fact that she does not care to rise to his antagonistic ways. She does not deign to rise from her little bed of clover, gazing up at him calmly, watching the concealed emotions that flicker like rushing entertainers behind thick curtains. Hardly perceivable, yet there all the same, whether definable or not.

"It has yet to show me that it is as interesting as you proclaim," Reyna states, for all she has seen of this strange land is what lies around her, exempting the odd youth that seems to falter and quiver beneath her unwavering gaze. No smile stretches her lips, as intense as she had ever been, and though she does not care to take pleasure in his squirming there is no reason to put up a false pretense of kindliness. It seemed he would not be one to appreciate such a forced notion, as well.

Another comes, and Reyna's head tilts to observe the spotted fae that flounces into her little clearing with the same gaze she had cast upon the less friendly colt. Feathers fan in display, fine body put on a pedestal worthy of show as the exuberant soul exudes her joy and joviality with every delicately crafted fiber of her being. Slowly, for Reyna lives only on her own time and never the time of others, the mistress gathered her long legs beneath her and ascended to her full stature once more. The lady's introduction and the boy's unanswered question prompt the same response.

"You may call me Reyna, daughter of Priestess Scotia and Her Majesty Nerezza, heralder of lightning and shadows. Though in this land, those titles are meaningless." With unerring ease it is shrugged away, as if such intimate relationships mean nothing now that they are lost to her. Colorful irises turn to the boy who stares at her, as if hungering for a taste of her flesh. Idly, her tail twirls round the delicately boned structure of her left ankle, seeking his gaze. "You view me strangely. Are my scales unnatural in this...Helovia, you say?" Briefly her eyes flicker to the maiden at her left, and though it is said with clear uncertainty, it is as if she has rehearsed each word, with how composedly it leaves her lips.

"I do not doubt the wonders you have seen. Though I will reserve my judgment of this...place, for I have little substance to review." It is a clear, unspoken meaning that Reyna does not hold much weight in the words of these strangers. They may tell her it is a beautiful, perfect world. The queenly mare is unable to be fooled, for she is more than aware of the fact that such lies could spin off tongues as pure and naive as gold. The mare's shadow is noticed by the nomadic woman, but she reserves her desire to call her out on the obvious lie that slips from her mouth. More reasoning for why Reyna would not deign to leap for joy and profess her newfound love for this 'Helovia'.

"Your name remains a mystery, young warrior." It is not odd to her to label him as such, for where she hails from, all are proficient in battle. All are warriors, regardless of literal status. "Shall you share? I am most intrigued by you." Such blunt confessions do not give her pause, the orange fires burning in her eyes centered wholly upon the nameless youth once more. Oh, but she had a thousand answers for his tremulous questions. Surely he would desire a trade?

devils don't fly