born and raised in rain



There's a springtime madness in her veins, a certain kind of loveliness to be found in the warm breeze dancing through her cascading mane. And it's not just a feeling, it's a song, spun of the inexplicably comforting; the rush and pound of scarlet blood in her ears and through the valves of her heart, the feeling of great lungs expanding to push against her ribcage, the murmur of the wind humming in her ears. Perhaps the lightning maid does not realize it - but this world of childish blue is more her home than the cracked and scorched throat of the dragon below.

Wherever she travels, the sky remains the same, a place of safety and solace when she is discomfited and childish, when her muzzle wrinkles in a frown and her eyes are damp; it is her hearth, even when greasy grey clouds loom on the horizon, a promise of humbling rain and lightning.
And yet, there is no denying that those she has taken as family are below, at least the majority of them.

I am not a wanderer, she reprimands herself with a gentle firmness. I am not a vagabond of the sky; those are whimsy fantasies. No, her place was on the grit and dust, where the sand caught in every crevice and sea spray lathered instead of sweat. Despite her dreams, her romantic notions of beautiful loneliness (and she does know they are romantic notions, she knows they are not realistic in the slightest) she cups and twists her wings, and circles down to earth.

Dark appendages fold to satin flanks and her leonine tail-tip flicks, a graceful ripple traversing the length of dark locks. Voltaic eyes lift, drifting towards the crimson-faced figure. Azulee remembers him from the meeting, by face if not name; her cranium gives a lupine tilt, and she studies him for a moment from afar, considering moving to greet him. Despite his being part of her so-called family, she couldn't quite conjure up like for him - it looked as if his orifices were bleeding, as if blood was dripping from his nostrils and seeping from his very face. It was an eerie appearance, and his horn, his sickly crimson horn, did not help.

Family, she reminds herself firmly.
It is then, with a fair reluctance, that the long-legged mare moves towards him, quiet in her approach, arranging a courteous, albeit distant, smile on her face.

"Hello," she says pleasantly, halting within a few strides of him. "I am Azulee - I'm afraid I can't remember your name?"