Yseulte didn't expect company.

Then again, she never expects company. She has yet to become accustomed to the positive attention she has received here in Helovia. Liridon was a different tale—a sad, lonely story. And so it makes sense that she is surprised and pleased by the possibility of company.

The hoofsteps are soft and tentative, a mere whisper in the grass, so subtle and fleeting she cannot even be sure someone is even here at all. A tickle dances on the ridge of her spine, cool and chill. For a moment, she assumes it is the cool thunder-weather, but then she identifies the unmistakable feeling. She is begin watched. Even then, she can't be sure. She continues grazing in the wane afternoon sunlight, though her lips are merely brushing the spring growth. To all appearances her lean form appears languid and loose with supple relaxation, when in reality, she is coiled like a snake, ready to strike at any given moment. But she can't bring herself to be worried, really, for she finds unexpected danger thrilling and intoxicating. Her expression is as peaceful as the mist-wreathed meadow—still, serene, and touched with vague strands of light that have strayed through the shrouds of mist.

She tastes something on the air, something metallic and bitter. Blood. Whatever worry she had previously pushed away suddenly rises in her throat like bile, even though she knows her body isn't capable of such an atrocious action. And just as quickly, she falls into peace as dragon-scent is pushed her way by a cold mountain breeze. She recalls her mentor's companion, Fajira, a sprightly, clever little dragon, and Torasin's sweet Kiba who dearly loved play. In fact, she still feels the sting of snow and ice against her cheek where the little dragon and his bonded defeated her in a glorious snowball fight.

It is a peculiar thing, to have friends.

She's comforted by the dragon-scent and continues grazing, paying no more attention to the mystery hidden in the pale sheets of mist and sunlight. Until the mystery reveals himself, that is, prowling through the mist with unexpected grace for one with such a powerful figure. As if connected, their gazes lock for a fleeting moment that seems to span a lifetime. And in that delicate silence, she doesn't lift her head more than a few inches from the grass. Her body is so still and motionless she might have been carved from stone, save for the blonde hair stirred loosely across her face by a cold mountain breeze. His eyes are strange silvery gray, like polished steel they are gray as the face of the mountain, churning and ever-changing as gray seas and thunderclouds.

He is curious fellow, to be sure.

She tilts her head slightly to one side, the movement subtle as the flutter of butterfly wings. The grass tickles her throat as she observes him evenly, noting that he is of a hardy, powerful breed, obviously built for survival, but he has a young face that perhaps has yet to learn of the destruction his body can cause. His vibrant auburn color reminds her of a living, breathing flame, and the sight plucks at thread of darkness in her heart as if it were a harp string, until the ominous feeling thrums through her veins like wildfire. In her experience, she has learned fire only destroys.

But she gives him the benefit of the doubt, anyhow.

She raises her head slowly as he finally speaks a brief apology, shattering the fragile silence with a murmur so gentle it is nearly lost to the wind. She can sense his unease, and it both amuses and irritates her. She has always despised her appearance and her father for being so treacherously beautiful. Perhaps if she were ugly, or even plainly modest, he would be more comfortable in her presence. His reaction is not uncommon, but he is young and he will learn. Again, she is amused by this thought. She cannot be much older than him, if at all, and yet she feels as if she has walked the earth an entire lifetime.

She considers fleeing, just to see if he will follow and because she yearns for the thrill of the chase. But instead, she settles for playing a dangerous game.

"And if I do not forgive you, what then, little dragonboy?"

She especially loves playing with fire.

yseulte
apprentice craftsman of world's edge

Perhaps the first thing she noticed about this mysterious King of Thieves, were his movements—powerful and confident with the fluid, languid ease of a dangerous predator, and yet, not so very dangerous at the same time. He reminded her of a gangly wolf cub—perhaps grown into his body, but something about his soft lips, so vulnerable and uncertain at times and flaring bold with confidence at others, hinted that he lingered still in faintest shadow of childhood.

But who was she to judge? She was more lost and hopelessly tangled in her past than most. Whereas Jackal had managed to release his hold on the shadows of his past, Yseulte clung desperately to hers, hiding the dark deeds she'd committed in the most secret depths of her heart.

But if she is impressed by the red man with curious silver eyes, she hides it well behind an expression of vague amusement. The title makes her more wary than before, but at the same time, she is far more invested in his presence, but she doesn't show that, either. As his broad chest swells with pride and the hushed words spill from his mouth, she sweeps one foreleg beneath her and bows low with a graceful flourish, holding her breath so that she doesn't choke on laughter.

"Forgiveme, O King of Thieves, for such ignorance. I most unworthy of your presence," she says in an equally hushed whisper, barely able to conceal a smile. She slowly rises again, careful to keep her composure smooth and serious. She tilts her head slightly to one side, curiosity lingering in the hollow planes of her fair face. "And what has one so young accomplished in order to gain such a title? Surely something...magnificent she says slyly, intending to stroke his ego all the more to glean answers from this mysterious figure in the mist. Such information could prove most useful in the future.

Perhaps Yseulte is playing a more dangerous game than she initially thought.

His gaze follows the progress of gray thunderheads and the rolling clouds are reflected in the polished silver gleam of his eyes. The sweet scent of rain envelops the two figures swathed in mist, but rain has yet to fall on the mountaintop. Watching a flash of lightning in the distance, she ponders his question absentmindedly, idly wondering if he is threatening her, however silly the thought may be. "Nothing so interesting to concern one so important as yourself," she says at last, a venomous sting to her words this time. "And what business does a King of Thieves have on the highest mountain of Helovia?"

He steps boldly towards her then, and she arches one elegant brow, noting the daring expression on his auburn face. So he wished to play, did he? A wicked grin flutters delicately across her pale lips, feral and dangerous, and she steps around him lithely, circling him as a wolf stalks its prey. His dragon swoops from the angry gray sky to settle on the stallion's back in a dramatic show of vast wings and a screech that blows the fumes of his dinner to unfurl against her face in a rush of foul air. The stallion laughs at her, and she smiles with him, glad to know the serious King of Thieves possesses good-humor.

"How charming."

But then, a shadow rears its ugly head and her throat swells with sudden, devastating fury that consumes her mind and causes everything before her to blur in and out of vision. How dare he? How dare he laugh at her, the fairest and only daughter of the fire-eater? A flare of darkness consumes her, and she is sorely tempted to lash out at him. But the shadow fades from her mind almost instantly and her vision clears, and she regains her suave composure so quickly she isn't even sure it happened. A sour taste lingers on her tongue, and she stares at him unseeing, numb, horrified at the murderous intentions that she'd harbored in her heart only moments ago.

She continues their dangerous dance, circling the stallion as demurely as before, trailing her razor-sharp horn slowly, gently, ravenously, across his cheek with a fleeting touch as she passes, daring him once more to retaliate. The pressure is not enough to draw blood, but is delicately sweet and bitter, like poison.

yseulte
apprentice craftsman of world's edge