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05-23-2016, 02:58 PM
On purple daggers, Zandora left the icy fortress behind. She was tired, oh so tired of the constant reminders of her failures, her mistakes, her miseries. She left her child behind, the cursed child that wanted nothing to do with her except only when blood poured from her limbs, when Zandora bled for Cortana's life. Zandora supposed it was some twisted, dark metaphor, that only she could get wished upon her.
Her life had taken a violent turn to hopelessness, and the vixen wanted no more of it. She would build her muscle, would build her reputation, she would forget emotion, leave the shatters of her demonic past to choke and burn in the hell she was created from, and would become the epitome of power. There would be no other option, Zandora will become the Zandoralia she once was, and there wasn't going to be anyone that could stop her. She would rise a fallen angel, burned and blacked wings now repaired with the lust of something better.
Rikyn had told her about his plan, and like she said she would, the shadow mare came. A few had beaten her to the arrival, but none she knew. Soon though, these elite few would no longer be strangers. Evara stands by her hooves, the cat's green eyes calculating and curious. The companion was like her bonded--skeptical and untrustworthy. Assuring Evara that out of the few people Zandora trusted, Rikyn wasn't one to doubt. Letting her eyes fall upon the black and gold, she looks him over. Zandora had noticed the change in him, the childish curves had disappeared into strong, hard lines, Rikyn wasn't the boy she once remembered. Here he now stood, a king on his hill, armor glistening and begging for his voice to be heard. With a dip of her head, the woman offered him her silence so that he may share. Let the games begin.
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