.svg/2000px-Google_Chrome_icon_(2011).svg.png){kind=icon}
04-07-2014, 05:05 PM
|
Turning at the sound of a deceptively dulcet voice, she stares death in the face. Illynx's beauty is of legendary proportions, the kind that starts wars, even marred by angry puckered cicatrices as it is, but it is easy to see through the mask to the pitiless machine beneath. A chilling realization hits Saphiron; it isn't because the dark lady can't hide it. She simply chose not to, at least here, now, with the two of them alone in an empty field that stretches unadulterated from mountain to mountain. In another time, in another place, another life perhaps, the pegasus would admire the golden warrior; not solely for the sacred craft of her form from the smooth slope of her strong back to the metallic crown of involute aureate that marks her as unicorn kin, but the compendium of battle that is written out all over her well-exercised body. This was someone she could look up to, idolize maybe, a mare physically capable; if she was in the habit of preferring those who looked at her like they wanted to eat her and be done with it, that is. Although built similarly, their bodies whipcord lean and regal in elegance, it is the way Illynx carries herself and the hungry gleam in her fierce eyes that elicits a tremor from the younger one. There is zero interest in sparring here, and her blanched yet wary expression is good evidence of that. Subsequently, her first desire is to dissolve into a slobbery mess of apologies and solicitations to spare her life, but she knows that would be tying her own noose. Predators thrive on that reaction, turning almost uncontrollable, the pathetic image of a breakdown almost too much for them to contain the disgust and anger that froths up from such a poor sight. So as much as her little heart pleads with her to flee, each hummingbird hammer inside the cage of her chest a desperate prayer, her razor fine perception manages to pull through and smother the anxiety before it has a chance to ruin her. Likewise, she refrains from putting on a front; surely this grand empress has been bored to tears with the masquerade of fearlessness and blatant disrespect so many others costume themselves in with clownish flare, as if throwing off a creature with the tenacity of ancient evil was reasonable and probable. She chooses to speak to her earnestly, not treating her as a woman to be conquered or some untouchable goddess to appease with false worship. "I see that I am trespassing," she states, a sotto voce for the 'trespassing' but otherwise matter-of-fact in its delivery. "I was south of here, getting a lay of the land, and this storm," she gestures with a shrug of her shoulder, although not at anything particular, "knocked me off course. I'll leave. I've no desire to meddle in your affairs, mistress." And I am sorry, I really did not mean to remains unsaid, but hangs there in the pregnant silence that follows. Any more information she would offer if prompted. The nuns at the monastery were surprisingly well equipped to deal with hostage situations and espionage; while they did not particularly go out of their way to teach a silly filly decorum in regard to potential enemies, the occasional snippets of advice managed to filter down. One of the rules was to keep your tongue from being loose, or find it gone. What she can glean from this encounter is physical and subjective; the truth, the real manner of temperament of her enthraller, is an abyss of the unknown and not something to taken lightly. |
*
[OOC: Yay I got an @[Illynx]. No matter what happens!]
