Яikyn

The red forest still beckons to me, a dark place where each memory is marked with violence, malcontent, or a combination of both. The thoughts are dark, and make Duir uncomfortable, as if the approach of the warrior princess hadn’t already done its part. For some reason, my brain has travelled away from the battle of the bear to find a tall, ebony and ivory stallion, tall and strong. Nearby are his dragons, two; a vile pair, which I’ve faced once, but it was the lavender witch who’d felt their strike that day. She’d turned to me, hoping I’d leap in front of the fight she’d started. I still want to snort at the insanity that has to rest behind that sort of logic. I’d hate to be where she’s from, having to constantly catch shit for a woman’s sour temper and loose tongue. I’d conquer that kingdom and put all the women in cages.

“What skill?” she taunts, my head rising upwards at the challenge, ears pinned back; her words flow into a rather strange one. Toki?

Her elaboration makes me scoff, looking away from her in utter insult. Dumb? She obviously doesn’t know me very well. Duir, on the other hand, has felt some of the fear let loose in his chest, admiration of the insightful female creeping in on him. That my companion agrees with her is infuriating, and draws my eyes back to her with malevolence.

I may also ponder giving Duir a good kick.

Instead, I just look at her, feeling my Spark roll around in my head, manipulated by a brain that is just so dumb it can’t do a single thing but debate the moral (and possibly physical) consequences of letting her have a taste of my displeasure. The rigid whip of my tail slowly arcs behind me, dark tresses trailing in the red sand. The buck slowly turns his sunlit forest eyes towards me, curious as to what will happen next.

And then the gibberish happens.

At first, I’m flabbergasted, as is the buck alongside me, both of us looking at her like she’s just yelled gypsy curses at us. Where Duir’s youthful soul quickly diverts to curiosity, mine nags me back to the Bear’s wood, the lavender witch.

I remember, this time, the horrible little child, shouting some insanity at the buckskin mare, a little winged creature with a foul temper, and no sense of modesty. A filly I’d wanted to smash, but was pretty sure was attached to Abraham, who I’d admired for his toughness. Damsel in distress, she mocks in time with this thought, the only discernable bit of what she says. Despite wanting to sound cool back at her (though I don’t know what she’s said, and am left with only assumptions), I can’t help but snort with laughter. Her French accent is crude, the delicate lilt butchered, especially following her guttural language as it did.

"I don’t speak bird," I frown at her once I’ve managed to restrain the smirk of laughter her elusion sparks. "The lavender one very well might have been an idiot, but at least she had better sense than to jabber at people in languages they can’t understand."

A dark smirk takes my face. It may not be the best idea, but…

"Not clever enough to win in common tongue?" I taunt, deciding to keep playing the melt-my-insides-with-acid game, even though Duir literally groans in protest. Literally laughing, my last words are offered with a flourish of my right fore-hoof, and a dramatic bob of my head. "Or do you just count me as that difficult a verbal opponent? I’m quite honored."

there's no place to hide down here