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You move silently across the landscape, just one of the many daily patrols of the Basin proud and pure, untainted by the filth of horses and pegasi, the ones that make you retch and pin your ears to varnished face, make your mouth sour and dry, and make your heart eternally colder. Every glimpse of those without a horn on their brows send you just one message; grow stronger, so you may kill them. Destroy them, render them bit by bit, and keep those who surrender as slaves. Just the thought of the glorious rise of the Plague makes your cold, impassive face lift into a smile far from sweet, a smile so sinister and frozen one might think you are the devil's young daughter.
But blaspheme it may be, yet by no means does the devil share your lush curvature or elegant face, nor the light feathering upon your feet. You are Snö, imperial ice princess, destinied to glory. One day, you know, you will rise above even Psyche and Mauja; you and your greed for power, an insatiable hunger for more. For every step you take is towards the goal of rising. Every step will take you higher. It will not be easy, not in the beginning, even with your path gilded with the eloquent lineage of Psyche the Dark Empress and Mauja the Frost Heart. You may care little for either, and have just the smallest amount of respect, but you cannot say they are too kind. They are harsh and racist, just as they should be.
But you- oh you!- you will be more than harsh. You will be the terrible beauty, the murderer and the slaughterer, revered and respected by anyone who followed. Blood will be spilled, but you were ready for it.
Your head lifts in quiet surprise, ears flicking, at the quavering notes of a wolf's howl. You recall the white wolf, quite unlike Tarak, at the meeting of the Plague, and so you launch yourself, happy to begin a training spar. As you swiften to a gallop, hooves light and easy over the frost, your heart remains steady, your head cool. Soon, you find yourself with the wolf, white, smaller- and do not waste time speaking, instead launching straight into the fight. Why waste words? You charge towards your right, the wolf's left, keeping in mind you must not kick too high, over his back (was it a he?), and snap out your back legs, towards his rough-furred shoulder. Even if the blow were to land, it would be but lightly, for there was no need to truly attack those of your herd, unless challenging; but no, that mattered not.
You then halt, turning to face the wolf, dropping your frosted horn threateningly, but remaining careful to keep your eyes on the wolf and for his next moves.
[1/3 + 0/1 Closing]
But blaspheme it may be, yet by no means does the devil share your lush curvature or elegant face, nor the light feathering upon your feet. You are Snö, imperial ice princess, destinied to glory. One day, you know, you will rise above even Psyche and Mauja; you and your greed for power, an insatiable hunger for more. For every step you take is towards the goal of rising. Every step will take you higher. It will not be easy, not in the beginning, even with your path gilded with the eloquent lineage of Psyche the Dark Empress and Mauja the Frost Heart. You may care little for either, and have just the smallest amount of respect, but you cannot say they are too kind. They are harsh and racist, just as they should be.
But you- oh you!- you will be more than harsh. You will be the terrible beauty, the murderer and the slaughterer, revered and respected by anyone who followed. Blood will be spilled, but you were ready for it.
Your head lifts in quiet surprise, ears flicking, at the quavering notes of a wolf's howl. You recall the white wolf, quite unlike Tarak, at the meeting of the Plague, and so you launch yourself, happy to begin a training spar. As you swiften to a gallop, hooves light and easy over the frost, your heart remains steady, your head cool. Soon, you find yourself with the wolf, white, smaller- and do not waste time speaking, instead launching straight into the fight. Why waste words? You charge towards your right, the wolf's left, keeping in mind you must not kick too high, over his back (was it a he?), and snap out your back legs, towards his rough-furred shoulder. Even if the blow were to land, it would be but lightly, for there was no need to truly attack those of your herd, unless challenging; but no, that mattered not.
You then halt, turning to face the wolf, dropping your frosted horn threateningly, but remaining careful to keep your eyes on the wolf and for his next moves.
[1/3 + 0/1 Closing]
