the Wind Dancer

Had the cloud been painted with the golden strokes of sunrise or sunset this day, it might have appeared that she was peering into a mirrored surface, one that reflected back those deep, startlingly blue eyes, that held within their depths myriads of secrets untold. There was a darkness to the gaze she locked onto, a wealth of knowledge and life, but also a sorrow. Had the cloud been more observant, perhaps she would have realised the sorrow that drove his actions, the similarities between them, the way they both sought an escape from a world they had both constructed around them. They were the creators of their destinies, but they had created too much, and now their fates were sealed in a Pandora's box of heartache and misery. But Cirrus was only observant of the facts on the surface of the situation; she saw eyes a similar hue to her own and held them keenly with hers for as long as he did. She watched the familiar expression of decision cross his mask - that unsure one that defined whether one was to behave as a warrior or as a diplomat. As his frame seemed to loosen its grip upon his stone-like musculature, she pricked her ears to hear his words as his maw motioned to speak.

The girl did not like what she heard though. Was he admonishing her, like a father would a child, a General his army? Ears flicked back as she sharply retorted his comment on her eyes not being upon her target.

"There are other ways to see without looking. I hit my desired target." Indeed, she had meant to strike the tree, not the beast who stood beneath it - whilst the girl enjoyed the rush of a spar, she also had seen enough death in her life to never want to be responsible for it occurring in another. But then he was apologising, and the girl had to wonder - for what? He had reacted defensively to an offensive situation; surely that was a desired reaction to have, a reaction that would allow him to survive should circumstances every become violent for him in the future? A quizzical expression passed over the girl's features, as she puzzled at his apology still, but the steed kept speaking - and made another apology in the meantime.

"You apologise too much." Simple words sprung from her mouth before he declared his name and title. It was presented as more an observation than a criticism, one that she almost found fascinating if other information wasn't then thrust upon her. As she slipped past his retreating bulk to retrieve her beloved spear, his name and rank were presented to her. Cirrus used the cover of the willow to hide her gaping mouth as she hesitated to pull her spear free in her surprise. King? She had almost speared the King of the Edge?

I definitely need to start looking before I throw, she silently agreed with him, though the stubborn, proud nature of the girl would never hear the words spoken to him.

Having recovered her spear and stored it safely back within the folds of her feathers, the girl poked only her tiara out through the strands of the tree's hair-like vines, parting them like a curtain to gaze at him with electric pools, listening with a much more polite expression upon her façade as he asked his awkwardly worded query. She would have laughed gently at his use of the word fizzy, but instead she found herself frowning, as the girl made a rare observation of the sorrow that his eyes hinted to before (which she had missed). His entire façade seemed to transform, to crumple beneath the weight of whatever pain he was carrying, and she was forced to recognise the feelings that had run rampart within herself too. Had he been through a similar experience? Or maybe something different, but no less devastating?

In a rare show of tact, the girl decided not to point out the beast's pain, but in doing so, she would have to expose some of her own.

"It helps to distract from.. from the grief. And it keeps me fit."

sxc.hu | larfsalot