A leer seems to crawl across the girl's lips, offensive and grinding, and cerulean gazes upon the stick that raises forth from the man's brow. Fortitude and restraint do not run high in her veins on this eve, and she is well aware of the look of disdain the girl is giving her companion of a lad. It is the same expression that she has sought, pilfered, grown in solitude, brewed among the harsh embers of a long-forgotten fire, the same expression that burns within her heart at the sight of those whom lack feathers at their sides. It scalds, burns, comes across as gratingly rude in a way that is hypocritical, for even she has been known to fall to racism again and again, time and time over, and it is well-known within the midst of a hardened heart that she, one day, too, will go insane as the Queen who birthed her. That does not matter now, when a little girl is looking upon a brother with such annoyance that is is bemusing to the eye, and a curl of the lip expresses her own distaste in return.
But unlike the girl, it is not aimed at the man at her side.

It is aimed at the freckled-face that she loathes with such complete hatred that it is a miracle they do not realize it, step away from the flickering fire that rages within her core, there is a sprig in her wing and there is crusted blood where it has been ripped through to the other side and she just fought two equines and she is sickened by the sight of a haughty lass upon their borders, heightened by the recent attack upon the blackened Pegasus mare that she hopes lives to this very hour.
Oh, how the Princess detest's her, her hideous flesh, the stupid look upon her face, and she would be more then happy to kick her croup to the road if she even dared take a step across the sacred land in which she guards with the fierceness of Elysia's finest. She is a well-oiled machine, built for war, for blood and the pain of those whom come against her, heavy bloodlines and dinner-sized hooves in which to break fragile babes like that which stood before her. Arrogant schoolgirl.

She awaits, shifting, uncomfortable, cracking at the seams with the urge to slam bodies and whip hides into submission. She stares the pretty girl down as she speaks to her, and the boiling anger that resides within her chest almost spills over into a river of insults towards the pretty girl's face (it would be so very easy to lean forward a little and snap the moron's bones), a rumble of warning as she tells her she shall keep the words she listens to her to herself. Ice slushes out of her vocal cords, hoarse from battle, resentful as one whom has the right to be is righteous in infuriation. "You are not my King, nor my Queen, Adrixaura. I will take orders from them alone, and not from a vagabond whom comes to our borders demanding our presence. You are at the borders of our land, lest you forget it, and have no right to demand orders from either of us." A whisper, a nagging tremor of a thought in the back of her mind, a thousand different voices, a thousand different times. The ink slides into her veins as the material of drugs, and it's voice murmurs kill, kill, kill. She registers, dim, in the backlight of her mind, that the man is standing up for her. God's knows she doesn't need it, but perhaps some soft part of her soul left undiscovered appreciates his defensive words.
She refuses.
For the Foothill's sake. Not her own.

No. If it was left up to her, the freckle-face would be in the dirt, tattered and broken as a porcelain doll, tossed aside by a young childe.
Words are spoke, high harks twitching to accommodate each interwoven lyric that spews forth from the doll's maw as such sewer, a disinterested glaze taking over the Princesses' gaze after what seems like millennia of the freckle-face speaking. There's nonsense about the Grey (who are the Grey?) and something about pain and agony and aid, yada yada yada.
Can she crush her skull now?

But no, the pretty girl is asking her opinion, and after she reflects on what the freckle-face has said, she simply twitches a ear towards her companion.
"I don't trust liars, kid. That's what I have to say. I think he can speak for himself."
What?
The Princess wasn't reknowned as the Daughter of Warfare for her politics, darlin', and she never will be. Nor does she want to.
Apollo, or so she assumes is his name, since the pretty faced freckle girl keeps insisting to call him that, speaks soft words to the girl now,
denying claim to what she wishes to take from them, and a blunt jerk of the dome is given in response to his choice of actions. She approves. The Princess doesn't like liars.

She can kick her out now?
"You have your answer." Chocolate and bronze cut as such daggers towards the freckle's dome.
"Troublemaking is for children. You should know better, Adrixaura. Go."




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