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of the sea
The gasp, the hiss, the locking of limbs and flurry of snow as the foal slams to a shocked halt before her— it does not surprise the militant woman. Others find her ridges strange, her stare alien, her fins otherworldly. And they are right to. She is otherworldly. She is from the Rift, from beneath the waves; she is a woman that knows the martial arts much better than how to converse with a foal— a filly, as the lilt of this blood-marked child indicates.
Scaled ears pin as an icy spray of snow precedes the abrupt halt of the filly. A harsh, snarling snort shakes free the snowflakes from her face, but still some takes purchase amid the ridges of her neck— uncomfortably cold and slowly melting amid her scales. Large eyes stare unnervingly into the child’s gold eyes, impatiently waiting for an answer to her question.
She falters over her words at first, causing the seahorse to flick of her tail that brings a rattle from her barbs. “I thought you were someone else.” Her scaled lips twitch, “Clearly.” Her low voice was dry, as it is apparent by the shocked look on the filly’s face (and her following question) that Aquila is not what the youth was expecting.
The tips of her sharp teeth purposefully show as she answers the brazen, demanded question of the filly, “I am Akvian,” her throaty voice is proud, now, as ridges flaring on her arching, muscular neck. “My name is Aquila,” her gaze still does not blink or break from the filly’s, “Yours?”
Though the youth’s bold nature rankles the mare as a challenge, she cannot fight the child. (Can she?) So, instead, she waits for an answer.
Scaled ears pin as an icy spray of snow precedes the abrupt halt of the filly. A harsh, snarling snort shakes free the snowflakes from her face, but still some takes purchase amid the ridges of her neck— uncomfortably cold and slowly melting amid her scales. Large eyes stare unnervingly into the child’s gold eyes, impatiently waiting for an answer to her question.
She falters over her words at first, causing the seahorse to flick of her tail that brings a rattle from her barbs. “I thought you were someone else.” Her scaled lips twitch, “Clearly.” Her low voice was dry, as it is apparent by the shocked look on the filly’s face (and her following question) that Aquila is not what the youth was expecting.
The tips of her sharp teeth purposefully show as she answers the brazen, demanded question of the filly, “I am Akvian,” her throaty voice is proud, now, as ridges flaring on her arching, muscular neck. “My name is Aquila,” her gaze still does not blink or break from the filly’s, “Yours?”
Though the youth’s bold nature rankles the mare as a challenge, she cannot fight the child. (Can she?) So, instead, she waits for an answer.
@Sabre
Please tag Aquila in all posts.
