Yseulte made a vague sound in the back of her throat, surprise and disbelief, mingled with curiosity. She knew of the StormChaser, one of three leads of the Foothills, or rather former leader, according to his vague reference. Upon her arrival in Helovia during the dead cold of Frostfall, Lace had thoroughly debriefed her on current events and past history of Helovia, but focused mainly on World's Edge and its current struggle with enemies who sought vengeance against the Qian, so she knew precious little about the outside world. Pursing her lips thoughtfully, she gazed at the silver-eyed boy in a new light, unable to hide the incredulity flickering on the smooth planes of her usually impassive features.
"Mighty indeed, for one so young. A thief of thrones, I see," she said at last, a warm purr thrumming behind her words. Had she accomplished anything so honorable and knightly in all her life? She scoured her memories desperately for anything even hinting of might and prowess, but all she found in the deepest, cobwebbed corners of her heart was bitter despair, guilt, self-loathing, and the stains and shadows of a long ago murder. Hardly commendable traits compared to the stallion with silver eyes and scars lacing a story across his body of battle, victory, and honor.
"Tell me, little thief," she said softly, hesitant, her eyes scorching his with the intensity of her gaze, "Have you ever stolen a life? Do you know what it is like, to take something that does not belong to you, something that is not a throne, nor a home, but a life?" She didn't know why she grilled him with such a cold, cruelly personal question, or what she hoped to gain from such an inquiry, but her heart yearned for answers, longed to know she wasn't alone.
His response was curt, reminiscing, he said, and Yseulte could tell she had stumbled unknowingly upon a tender, private topic. She considered pushing him more, but decided against it. If she were ever grilled for answers against her will, she would have speared the ignorant fool in the eye, relieving both herself and the intruder of such stupidity. And so she said nothing, merely passing him a knowing look, and her own heart ached with remnants of another time, another land, where magic ran wild in the veins of the earth.
Her touch was fleeting and soft, swifter than the arch of a shooting star, and withdrawing just as quickly. The dance with the opposite was relatively new to Yseulte, as she had been raised among the company of fighting warrior women in the heart of a barren, scorching desert with only the scorpions and rattlesnakes for company. In fact, her arrival in Helovia had been her first encounter with stallions elders than herself, and she found them simply fascinating, like a child who finds a revolting new bug and can't decide whether to prod it curiously or squish it mercilessly. She found herself facing the same decision now, eying the silver-eyed stallion with a feral, dangerous gaze, waiting for him to please her, or waiting for him to make a fatal mistake.
But Yseulte grew bored easily with such frivolous games, and she clung to this one by a single, unraveling thread. Who would be the first to severe it? He asked for her name, his voice so soft it was nearly swept away by a passing murmur of a breeze. She tilted her head slightly to one side, drawing near again, her sweet breath blooming from her lips like a spring flower and unfurling across the planes of his strong face. Her lips curled into a half-smile, still dangerously feral.
"I do not think it wise to give such information to one who calls himself the King of Thieves."
(ooc: fail, I'm sorry. D:)
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where now she wanders none can tell, jackal
