Encroachment upon province was added to the priced sum of arbitrary destruction, desolation, extermination and departure from umbra received as a bestowal upon the decrepit build in which they had been so savagely born into, for many, the lull of persecution and anguish that was shown as bold scars across terracotta frame was not taken from them so simply. She wonders, marvels, insights upon why and in which law have wanderers found it rightful to crawl across the Foothills borderlines (never the mind most had not stepped foot across the invisible barrier in which she deems so sacred), she is piqued with interest (resentment) at baleful eyes and arrogant children, and she will observe them as the insects the are before smashing the ants with the sole of her boots. The Foothills is not a crying, whimpering babe, not whilst the Princess Earth of Elysia stands among their ranks, no, and wounded pride may be with burns and ache of a swollen and bruised back she canters forth to the caw of a noisy bird that begs to be put out of it's misery as a slobbering canine littered with rabies is cursed to befall doom. A mercy killing, for a life that has no reason to go on, a life unsuitable for the land of the breathing, the fit, for this is a survival of the fittest and the Princess was brought up iron-clad and iron-bred. Benevolence did not run in her steel veins, nor were armies born from gentle encouragement and kind hearts.
Champions were born from grit and dust, hard work and sweat, and the Princess of Elysia was a mix of all infernal four.

Her shadow looms before her, long and outstretching, grasping greedy fingers towards petite frames, minuscule in comparison to the Princesses' wraith, accursed in that one smelt of the Foothills and one smelt of the Wild's. One may take a clever gander at which spurred the largest amount of distaste (she'll give you a hint, it wasn't the one with the cerulean stick that jutted from his brow).
Oh, no, as she slowed to that just enough that Earth and dirt sprayed upwards in a froth similar to the foam of the sea's waves, she found that she appreciated that at least one of their civilians had the gall and gut's to stand up to a meager vagabond, freckled as she was, the Princess sized her up as a wolf may size up it's next meal. Gleaming bronze riddled with ire, foul and plain dislike that rose a acidic flavor underneath a widespread, rosy tongue. She already despised the freckly faced brat that shoved her nostrils at the borders of her homeland with the foolishness of a spoiled rich woman's childe, given far too many sweets for anything other then haughty domes, a repulsion to any whom came to greet them with good tidings in mind and hoof. What this pretty girl needed was a none too subtle kick on the backside out the front porch of her house, and she would gain manners quite soon after that.
The Princess of Elysia believed brat's needed training like dog's, not equines, not that which gathers enough brain to shut up and not spew forth nonsense from their over-sized lungs.
Stupid kid.

And then, as if begging her to guffaw, her companion on the right side of the borders spoke the word's she had said so very many times since coming to this Kingdom.
"What do you want?"

The Princess did not laugh, however, did not mock the childe that sat at their borders before them, did not crack a dry smile upon drier lips.
The Princess allowed a cold, icy river to flood forth from her maw, accented with the language of her motherland, harsh and firm and lilting.
"State your business, kid, or leave this premises at once."




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