Little did the mother of the Silverflame and the golden childe himself know that in the depths of the midst lurked that of a Daughter of Elysia, bronze and flame wielded with metal and molten core, stark against the drab and ashen backdrop of the skies and the mists, a candlelight flicker that has grown within the contours of a forest to become that of a wildfire. And neither, did the Princess of Elysia know that one of the Princesses of Dixtrod slept but a few fox-lengths from her location. No, the Princess of Elysia knew none of this, as hefty wings flapped downwards and upwards in such precise unison that the term perfection did not quite describe the seamless movements between the two of her appendages, for the Princess of Elysia had learnt from the best, had been carved from stone and chiseled with the divine skill of her mother Inanna, for though the Queen of Elysia was spiteful and pitiless, none could deny that the Queen could sculpt the finest of lineages.

Sunlight fought to escape the prisons of the clouds above and the mists below with fierce determination, yet letdown and disappointment taunted the tremors of warmth that baked the top of the crystalline surface, and from the expanse of the heavens above, the sight of the battle between the elements came forth as a glorious war, in which the Princess was obliged to observe. The backs of the cool mists below tempted her to reconnoiter, to have that of a cessation between the thunderheads of frustration and anger at the herdmates which she had momentarily left that grew in her soul and her heart, screamed and thrashed and cried out with rage at the very thought that she lived amongst cowards and buffoons. What had the Princess of Elysia done, what made the Fate's smile down upon her back with such sour smiles that she was cursed to patrolling lands in which her kin did nothing but graze to fill fattened bellies and allow wanderers of outcasts and other lands that smelt of salt and the sea and moss step over borders and dance among their flowers?
Did they not have a sense of honor, nobility, of pride and principles? Did she live amongst mad men, with no laws to govern the masses?

With sights set upon the slate blue surface beneath her, mists that danced and weaved as the Sea, the Princess thought naught of the possibility of mortals that might have chosen the fog as a place to rest their heads, as well. She thought nothing of the idea that her landing may come as a surprise to beings that stood beneath her sights, thought nothing of the danger, and with narrowed, warm, melted cores of the Earth itself, the Princess swooped.
The speed of the falling star began to gain in her downward slope, the wind ruffling through primaries and under secondaries and brushing through already messy locks of brunette and greenish-bronze, and as the star falls, her wings tilt in accordance to the sloped degree of her landing, to keep her frame steady and even when her hooves hit the Earth below.
The mists are calm.

And then a gaping hole breaks through it's smooth back and takes on the shape of a Pegasi, massive wingspan yanked upwards with such sudden force that the ligaments attached to them feel a sudden ping of pain through the muscle and cartridge, through the Princess merely grimaces, and with heavy flapping as her weight is pulled backwards in a attempt to slow her landing, the Colossus feels hoof hit moist Earth and grass, mud sticking to feathers and flying upwards into the obscuring fog as Brighid makes herself known about as quietly as that of a bison rampaging through a forest littered with dead twigs.
This is where things go wrong.

For even as the Princess falls into that of a canter, her wings swoosh forwards once more to aid her in a descent like that of a trot, and as they press forwards, the tips of her feathers thud against something very solid and very sharp as the tip of a branch sticking upwards from the ground below, yet the Princess of Earth does not see a log as she draws her wings down to her frame and finally comes to that of a standstill, leaving a trail of destruction in her wake. Burnished pearls turn with the dome of the Warrior, grit floating with absent movement in the once calm air, and mixing with the swirls of startled fog.
A glint of golden skin meets her hardened gaze, before it is lost in the mists, and a frown catches upon her maw.
"Show yourself."



:: Permission from Ina to say that Brighid whacked poor Azarel baby over the head. Sorry about the clumsy oaf Aza baby!
Tagged: @[Delinne]



Brighid</style>
PUT ON YOUR WAR PAINT</style>