Arya

I've bloodied the Devil with steel from on high

Thunk. Thump, thunk, clunk. Crack. Creak. A discordant harmony taps against her ears, all brittle rattles and tat-tat-tats that makes the young spider shiver, quiver, curl her lips in a display of distaste. It's a deliciously cute and unconscious mirroring of her mother's so delicately crafted expressions of contempt and derision directed towards her foes. How strange, the way the young pick up on the ways of their elders; how the cycle ever continues, the snake swallowing it's tail, the wolf chasing the deer through the never-ending forest.

What could it be? She listens, all dark symmetry poised between shadowed trees, light-footed with her caution and with the fear that murmurs in the back of her head; flee, it croons to her. Run so whatever goes crashing through the forest cannot catch you. And yet she stands, primed and trimmed into a silhouette of youthful complacency, swathed in shadow and garbed in a light coat of silvered frost; all corpulent flesh, tantalizing to whatever beastie may desire a taste of equine blood.

Although the likelihood of something holding mischievous intent towards the humble daughter of a war queen seemed unlikely at best, to her blind and naive ways.

Tulip ears flicker in uncertainty, delicate nostrils cusping wide as she drinks in the spring air. There's no reek of monster, of the wolf and coyote her mother had taught her to avoid (at least until she was older); there was only sap and pine and larch, all melted together into one waxy smear of bitter scents. And maybe, just maybe, beneath that there was the musk of horse skin and sweat. Back and forth she rocks on delicate toes, a bird poised for flight, teeth sucking together and lips frothing ever-so-slightly as she champs.

Finally, shoulders slump and the sharp arc of her neck softens, and the little filly prances forwards, nimble as a bunny hopping through the grass, almost wagging her tufty tail in childish excitement.

Forth! She wends through the trees, daft pillars obscure among the many, a sly little creature with scarlet eyes and a promising smile. Occasionally, she slows to a halting walk, peering around a trunk with an air of definite sleuthiness, trying out the garb of a spy; but then she returns to her foolish gambolling, strutting through the trees with a decided swagger to her step. Not only does this childish playing allow for her muscles to warm, softening beneath silver skin, but it sharpens a witty mind left dulled by boredom.

So when she chances across the unicorn mare, she is clever enough (sly little vixen!) to not immediately leap out from behind the trees. Even if the pretty, pretty unicorn didn't hate foals and fillies, Nymeria knew in what seemed to be imminent rage she was perhaps better off giving her warning.

This is, of course, prior to the absolute bellows of fury.

At those horrendous shrieks, grating on her eardrums with all the kindliness of a rocky avalanche, the waif's ears drift back, snapping firmly to her skull. Ruby eyes squint, eyelashes sweeping down close over scarlet and crimson; her breath snags, catches, and her legs tremble. As pleased as she is to find out the ruckus is caused only by a perky-looking mare, she is no fool: a mare so damnably angry could pose a massive threat to a clumsy child as she.

So she watches, with only part of her dark face exposed from behind a particularly massive tree she had chosen to sneakily hide behind.

Nymeria & Lilómiel

In the darkness I will meet my creators
And they will all agree, that I’m a suffocator

The tiny wolf had thought herself clever, a mighty spy in her own right. She had been exceedingly, wonderfully careful, each step done with exorbitant care, putting in full effort to remaining undetected as she wove her way between thick, dark trunks and slicks of ice and brittle bracken and newly-blooming, beautifully red blossoms. Mother would not be let down by a clumsy daughter, even if she had an awkward son! And thus even her scent, all roses and iron and the faintest hint of decay, had been pushed away by the breeze, sent tumbling downwind to wherever the wind went; her face, turned downwards, lest the bleached-bone white betray her.

Elusive, nimble, Nymeria, a fleeting puzzle through the trees, a will-o'-the-wisp in the swamp, or mayhaps a feather drifting down to earth—brought low, with her cloak of purgatory subtleness neatly shredded by the all-seeing eye of the unicorn. Lips curl downwards into a distinctly sullen scowl, brows pressing downwards haughtily over her wine-red eyes. Unfair. Fear is pushed away, crushed beneath the weight of disappointment and reluctant admiration, bones fracturing, crumbling, and eventually dissipating into the merest hint of scattered dust.

To go or not to go? Shall she wait here, and see if Arya was only bluffing at her being here, or flee into the forest, or find some words to suit her purpose? Hesitancy softens the edges of her chagrined discontent, and the rigidness in the muscle of her jaw flexes, melts, away.

Finally, she steps out, agile ballerina on the tips of her toes, a doleful deer approaching the maid, a spider quivering, staying, waiting for whatever's pushing on it's net to escape. Chin tucks, head lifting proud, gaze upturned beneath ashen eyelashes long and wild. She strikes a feral and lovely picture, a tiny and fragile foal with all the haughtiness of her mother painted unto her frame, slender as a whip and the curl of her neck sharp as a knife's blade. After a terrible moment, she blushes warm, glancing down towards her hooves and shivering a touch down to the tips of her dark hooves, embarrassed yet pleased with her performance.

"I'm Nymeria," she mumbles, poetic in her shyness. "Sorry ta spy on you." Mother would cuff her over the head for her sloppy language; but she murmurs, slurs on, unable to overcome the crippling nature of nerves.

Nymeria & Lilómiel

In the darkness I will meet my creators
And they will all agree, that I’m a suffocator

Arya

I've bloodied the Devil with steel from on high

Maybe she hadn't said the words outloud; maybe they had stuck in her molars, smeared like old grass over pale enamel. The moments stretch and unfurl, artistic and exotic, a heavy silence which fills up her nostrils and plugs up her ears, ruptured only by the hymn of her delicate hooves shifting over frost-kissed grass. Irises upturn beneath dark brows, silvered lashes coyly fixed together, a hesitant smile scrawled across her childish lips. It's as polite an inquiry as she can muster—a query as to what she's done wrong.

It's broken by a colorful stretch of words, twisted adjectives and verbs which spill and tie out together in a hazy acceptance. Hips sheer as the slim girl props up a hoof, the movement rippling throughout her body in a domino effect. The re-arrangement is subtle, a shift of shadows, a configuration of body language bespeaking submission and thinly veiled worry. She wonders, warily, nervously, from beneath her poised countenance if Arya speaks the truth—if the freckled yearling truly doesn't mind. It's difficult to tell; with others, not those of the wolf pack, they are never quite as readable, as familiar.

Trepidation is cracked by filigree curiosity, worming inquisition which straightens her crooked spine, smooths out the awkward hang of her lowly held head. Mother was a warlord, a goddess with scarred flesh and broken teeth, poorly healed bones and a temper of a wolf—and she loved mama, every inch of her from top to toe, but sometimes she wondered how she might be different should she not be tied to Confutatis. It was rare she got the chance to speak to others, or learn from the wide, wide world sprawled around her; and when she seized the chance, took the risk, it tended to pay off in blood and scrapes.

Teeth nimbly part, lips quirking into a tentative smile: "whose your mother?"

Ears press forward, listening carefully, studiously taking in every piece of Arya's teachings. Brows knit in a show of slight vexation, mild curiosity—surely it must be bothersome to be a thief? You would always have people chasing after you, vying for your trinkets. On the other hoof... it did strike her as a marvelously appealing idea, slithering through shadows and taking her victims as a viper did, in a flash of venomous fangs and a twist of coiled scales. To be a spy—to be a wraith.

"She sounds exciting," the meek little lamb offers, a lick of hesitant eagerness painted onto her courteous words.

At the other's dark smile, a flash of glittering ivories and mischievous meanings, Nymeria flinches, a twitch of terror flashing in her crimson eyes. She cringes, quivers, gaze dropping immediately to examine the curves of her hooves, the shape of her fetlocks, breath shortening in her breast. It's only when Arya speaks of a game long-played and adored that the World Eater's daughter relaxes, cherubic grin once again coming over her discomfited features. A game! Oh, but she did love games!

Without a moment's hesitation or a second thought, the skull-faced child disappears amongst the trees, racing through the woods in the brief time it takes for Arya to count. When her companion is finished, Nymeria had fitted herself snugly in a thicket of brambles, her left flank to a tree, her right to the bushes. Knees bend and fold awkwardly, ungainly, as she lies upon the damp soil, laying her head beneath the coarse bushes.

She will never find me here!

Nymeria & Lilómiel

In the darkness I will meet my creators
And they will all agree, that I’m a suffocator