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A bark of laughter slashes the air, bounces intimately against taut flesh and turns her nerves to steel. She can't decide if the wraith creature's amusement is directed at her or its soul-bonded, but either way Azulee poises herself. The storm-bird, all long limbs and rough edges, captures her strength in the instinctive craning of her neck, the hoist of ebon wings to half-mast. She knows her strength, the passion of the storm that paints her skin being the same which electrifies her veins and sparks through eyes of the same voltage; some sort of feral gene run rampant through her blood; a ghost she feels all around her. Or ghosts, perhaps—the ghosts of those who have left her to be alone in the world. Ignore him. The warrior snorts, obliging. She wills her attention to drift away in quiet condescension, to the mare with a coat of ash, a sobering hue in the company of amber and roan and piercing blue. The woman answers her remark curtly, so deadpan that Azulee feels a prick of bad conscience for her snideness. It passes quickly. At least they can move past the topic of trees, and this woman seems to share her sentiments. Her gaze lingers as Syrena dips her head in greeting to another. And then it occurs to her: one by one, a welcoming committee gathers 'round like moths (only none of these "moths" have wings—those lovely appendages ruffle atop her back, and she is thankful for their weight). The Ardent's daughter seems to have drawn a crowd and she can't shake the claustrophobia that wakes tongues of static to lick up her heels and crackle through her feathers. They offer titles and exchange pleasantries that are entirely without consequence to this daughter of (Dragon's Throat? she could hardly claim that title, being the stray that she was) and she wonders what exactly draws them to her all at once. They would find no new recruit in her. Azulee knows well where she is going, having landed to make some of the journey to the sands of her birth on foot so her wings might rest, but now feeling the blue yonder above beckoning her. For a moment, she imagines herself up and flying away, leaving the rest of them far below. She is wild enough, but perhaps there is something to be gained of this gathering, yet. And so Azulee observes and listens, slim black ears pricked forward—radar dishes searching for pings of significance amidst what she can only name trivial. First, the black stallion with the blood red horn brandished proudly betwist his brow, bands of scarlet clawing at his eyes. Azulee thinks she may have met this one before, but... no. She's never met this particular blood-marked unicorn; the other called himself Voodoo, who also had a "pet" fox. Having little understanding of the bond between companions, it is strange to her that some choose to enslave other souls. Her sister had even done so. But as he mentions Dragon's Throat, the storm-singer smiles: teeth like lightning splintering a dark sky. This time it is much more genuine as she offers it to Syrena, and then to Sacre. "I have questions—" she begins eagerly, just as a honey-tongued man with a coat to match prances onto the scene. He is all flowery words, and his charisma is lost on her. She regards him cooly, neck arched and nose tipped downward, voltaic eyes and cryptic smile giving away nothing. To no one in particular: "What do you know of Dragon's Throat?" Perhaps this comes across as pointed, but she has never been one to dance around the point. She has many questions, but will take what can be given, and find out the rest for herself. Her answer most certainly comes. The first mares voice turns to steel and there is no velvet to soften it, just cold accusation and a stern word of advice. Azulee's ears swivel back. Ampere flashes in her mind's eye and her brow furrows, recalling the meeting she'd attended years ago. It went something along the lines of the "Mother of Companions" scolding someone (she can't summon to mind) with idiotic shrieking and dire warnings. It makes her question what exactly she will find has become of the once great Dragon's Throat of old, the one her father General'ed under Kri: the mare who—in the eyes of a filly drunk on fanciful notions of honor and duty—seemed to be able to make the world bend with a stomp of a hoof. Don't go back. Azulee has never been one to take suggestion. For whatever loyalty the Ardent's daughter has to the land of fire and sun, she'll at least see for herself, not yield to the blind testimony of a stranger (and a unicorn, at that). She seems to recall Ampere's scolding having not been without merit. What'd you do to piss them off, she'd like to say. But instead, she unfurls her titan's wings, ebon feathers flushed wide, and with a great thrust downward, she shoves her slender form brusquely into the air, air bursting from beneath her like an explosion. And then, she was gone. ooc ; Azulee out. thank you guys for threading w me <3 i've got your wild-eyed ways. |
@toulouse @sacre
@sikeax @syrena
hard mode—HP: 65/65
physical force and magic is permitted to be used on Azulee at any time provided it does not involve powerplay (unless specified otherwise); please contact me before attempting to kill.
please tag me!
