My name is Itzal the White Tiger, and this is my story.
I was kidnapped by wolves. A unicorn of purple coloration rescued me. I promptly proceeded to enslave said purple unicorn. Her name is Yseulte, but that is entirely irrelevant, because I prefer to call her Butler. She's a fine lady, so far as I can tell, although not good for much (aside from transportation services, punching wolves in the face, and occasionally using her ridiculously long hair as a blanket). Save those few redeeming qualities, she has proven completely useless in the short time she has been employed in my service. I have come to the conclusion that she is deaf, or simply stupid.
Perhaps both.
No matter, I am a patient little tiger. I understand her more than she will ever understand me. Every stray thought that tumbles through her disappointing little mind like a forlorn, windblown leaf is mine. Completely and utterly mine. There is not an idea she forms in her daft little head that I don't know about first, nor is there a stride she takes that I am not with her. She knows it, too, and is terrified by my knowledge of her life, her mind, and more importantly, her past. I can see it in her eyes, the way she looks at me like I'm some sort of horrible monster risen from the cold dead earth.
Perhaps I am, although by a different name.
Zjarri, she often thinks when she looks at me with those cold sapphire eyes, doubting, wavering, wondering if this is what she wanted after all. Perhaps she had asked for too much. Yes, Butler, I am too much. I smirked at this, drinking her fear like a fine red wine, my black lips curling into a sneer as purrs rumbled in my chest like a brooding thunderstorm threatening to lash across the horizon. She never looks into my eyes for very long, for fear she will drown in those violet depths.
But whatever misgivings her heart held about me, it didn't deter her from returning to whatever pitiful dump she had come from. World's Edge, her mind whispered, her heart holding a strange ache for a concept I have yet to grasp--home. Yseulte moved quietly, but slowly. A tortoise I tried to drown earlier (much to my dismay, I discovered tortoises are unable to efficiently drown) could have beaten her twice over in a race. Her once smooth-as-silk gait was marred with an abrupt limp from wounds that were all too fresh--in both her mind and flesh. She could still hear them howling even now, half a year after the fight, could still see the tendrils of white foam swinging from their jowls, smell their sweltering, bloody breath sweep across her face, and feel the flesh rendered from her leg as she fought to protect a small bundle in the snow. Me. Afterwards, they had lain huddled in a cave at the top of the world, shivering, bleeding, and waiting to die.
Such a devoted Butler.
The elegant trees began to thicken, as did the sparkling flakes that floated with easy grace from the pale gray pearl clouds, settling across Yseulte's lavender withers like a magnificent cape fashioned from the finest of white silk, and glittering with the luster of a million diamonds. The shadows deepened and thickened, too, and frost crept across the forest floor to cling to frozen ferns, beading stark, naked limbs bleached a terrifying bone-white. The place was eerily still and quiet, save for the gentle hush of Yseulte's passing grace with me in tow and the incessant buzz of her thoughts humming in my mind. Would they still welcome her? Would the even remember her?
She grew restless and uneasy in the gloom of dusk, and her paced quickened. The snow sighed and murmured as her hooves shattered the fragile delicacy of the unmarred surface, and I could swear the trees whispered. Iceicle wind-chimes tinkled in a frozen breeze and limbs rattled together with the frightening likeness of hollow bones knocked against one another. Light flickered and snapped up ahead and I snarled under my breath in surprise, wondering what the strange red and orange tongues were, and why they licked so fiercely at the cold night air. I reached out to Yseulte's mind, probing curiously there. What I found was more than I expected. Images, both terrifying and beautiful, flickered before me. I could sense the sadness lingering there, tasting both bitter and sweet as she gazed at the flames dancing between the trees. Again, the mysterious pale face of the man with the diamond skin and blue flames wavered before me, and then he was gone, no more than the whisper of a whisper in her mind.
The fires were a welcome sight after trekking throughout the snow for the last few weeks. It was the warm steady blaze of a substance that kept the darkness at bay. Like an old lady with arthritis, she settled down beside the outermost fire with a sigh of relief, her slender, uninjured legs curled beneath her (she held her scarred leg at a careful angle) and her flaxen hair pooled about her slim shoulders and onto the melted snow like molten gold. She glanced at me curiously, wondering if I would join her tonight or if I would attempt to brave it on my own as I often did. After deciding Butler's judgement was probably to be trusted (in regards to the mysterious substance called "fire"), I settled down beside her and found her hair to be a suitable throw-rug. I watched the flames greedily, my violet eyes wide and staring as the tongues of white-hot flame snapped and curdled. So vicious. So deadly. No wonder she associated flames with the mysterious pale man. I could feel Yseulte's gaze on me, sensing her vague amusement at my fascination with fire, but I could also taste flickers of unease dwelling in her careful heart.
Yes, Butler, you should be disturbed.
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