Had the vixen ignored the others present here she certainly noticed them now. At the scorching wench's speech a plethora of emotion rises up to mix with her fury; the bird may hasten towards outrage, but the flicker of an ear towards her Czar indicates that she has received his words. As much as her skin itches to redirect another sort of fire back at the bitch, the color-stained warrior must admit that her leader is right.

Diving to the right -- which throws the squawking boy into the base of one wing -- the bird arcs back towards her lead. She finds her place beside him, lazily keeping her body there as if she has done it a thousand times before. The maiden may hold a new place among his herd, but that will not halt her desire to be closer to the top.

She casts a glance over to the stout little man. Her burning eyes may betray her suspicion, but her lips certainly do not. "As you see fit, Midas." The Aztec redirects her stare to that of a frosted boy, and her heartbeat starts to quicken. What is one so young doing out here? It is a dark curiosity that she possesses; one filled more with distrust than with genuine interest, although the feeling is not directed at the colt. "As soon as that tzitzimitl makes a move on the boy, though, do not expect me to remain by your side." Her words are cool, but the Chieftess wants the hovering man to know that she will strike as soon as the girl does. She doesn't care that the painted man is trying to reason with the explosive firecracker down below, and she certainly doesn't care whether he will find her act treasonous or not. The bird yearns only for an excuse to tear a pretty white strip off the shrieking lass, and an assault on the child is just what she's looking for. Make a move, ichpochtlaheliloc. I dare you.

In all of the peahen's intensity she seems to have forgotten all about the boy who sits between her churning wings. His fluffy white face twists from one side to the other, focusing his stare on one screaming female to the next. He doesn't know what to make of the white one; the one who burns like the sun. All that he knows is that she is dangerous, and he is uncomfortable with the fact that his mother wishes to touch her. Kill her, more like. Yet even in the chick’s uncertainty of the Aztec’s intentions he knows that he will be safe. Perhaps he is being too assuming of her character. He doesn’t know the pretty lady very well, after all. His flightless body shivers at the thought.


words. "more words."

{tzitzimitl -- demon
ichpochtlaheliloc -- young evil woman}

alan l @ flickr | subtlepatterns.com | larfsalot @ deviantart