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02-22-2017, 12:27 PM
Яikyn I’m not really surprised to hear sarcasm dripping from each syllable; she is, after all, undergoing a seemingly painful something or another, which gives anyone the right to be a bit bitchy, even without someone like me showing up. That she doesn’t just stalk off or retort with violence is a good sign that, on any other day, she might just be naturally wry, anyway. Translation: my sort of girl. Of course, as Duir says in immediately reply: they’re all your sort of girl. "There is beauty in the sword," I say, for there is; when I was very young, my mother had hosted the very first festival in honor of the Auroras, and the unicorn bloodline which, then, had been the only allowed in the shadow of the mountain; we had opened the event together, dancing, as she told me, in the ancient ways of people, utilizing fluid battle movements to create a graceful visual of physical prowess in which no blood was spilt. For that reason alone I know that the act of violence can be elegant, certainly not because I have ever witnessed a brawl and thought it to be anything less than what it was: carnal, savage, and stained with the stench of blood and sweat. But if you removed that fervent violence, and the entangling of the warrior’s bodies, so that each fluid motion might be viewed from a distance? There were no finer dancers in all the world, than those who knew how to draw blood with the weapons given to them by fate, and figure. "Rikyn, the Puppeteer," I tell her, choosing not to lie, because she walks beneath the shadow of my home; I have taken to the surname most recently, especially now that true ambition has begun to fill the void that mourning has left behind, and my studies of magic at the behest of the Time God had filled me with a resolute pride in the terrifying power I had been blessed to wield. Besides, I am son to no one now, and thereby cannot tell her of my heritage, as I had to those I’d met here, the last time I’d come home. My kin are all dead, or gone; I am left with only myself, Erebos, and Duir (who still looks at the strange mare with great wariness, despite her tolerant disposition). "Who are you?" in every heart a hole |
@Wessex
