Burdensome emerald clashes with fiery Earth, warm and harsh, and the Princess tosses a thick mane of messy brunette and greenish-bronze in reaction to the stare. She did not do this, she did not overflow with emotions through the pearls of her dome, and it startles and alarms her at how well the Equines of Helovia take emotions hand in hand and dance with them on the wind. For though many the Princess may seem icy and bitter, lacking of the condemnation well-placed sentiment brings, the Princess lacks the ability to express them. They have thus come across to her as weak, mortal expressions, because words mean nothing and never have. She loved her sisters, with a closeness she held dear to her as the frame of a small babe, and in response they were taken from her, ripped from her very chest and scattered (or worse, dead) across the entire globe.

The disbelieving grunt that made it's way to the Princesses harks was not lost on her, and it is so brusque her hardened tone rifles as gunfire into the air that smelt of blood and sweat. "You aren't dead, kid." It's a firm reminder, however rough the tones may come across as. The wings will heal. It's bitter, the Princesses thoughts. At least you still have them. The victim of the charcoal woman's bite should be exalted with the idea that he isn't alive, that he can continue on, as opposed to lay broken on the Earth, with little hope ahead of him to survive. Was that not the proper mortal response to these type of things? Was this not the way he was supposed to react? It only served to confuse the Princess further on the matters of the heart.

Grateful, the voice of the victim flows out from his bloodied frame, red stained legs rising from beneath the brute as they tremor in the strain of holding his weight upward. A instantaneous response is given to the man, a lifted wing and steady frame hinted that the Princess would allow him to lean on her if he so desired. A nod of approval is given towards his words, however, for the Princess does not harbor affection in any form for those who would wallow in grief and weakness, and instead gifts those who have proven themselves strong companions in the journeys in which all mortal's must travel forth. As dead sinew the brute's wings hang limp against his sides, stained with red wine that would crust and blacken as time drew onward, and a heavy frown graces her maw. Did the Foothills even have a medic?

Introductions and titles are cast unto her as flags raised high into the morning skies, painted banners of knowledge and power, and the Princess gives but a short twitch of her harks in acknowledgement of his words. The colossus begins a loping pace towards the river, wing's still raised in case the General decided he should need aid in crossing the waters, the direction in which the Princess headed the northeast. Vigilance upon the two's surroundings was sharpened by mistrust and disapproval of the darkness (for a Hunter would love nothing more then to pounce forth unto the bloodied man, his injured scent a delicatessen for those who ate meat), yet the hawk-eyed woman of the Amazon gave no second-glances towards that which she escorted even now. She trusted he would squawk and screech if a Jaguar leapt forth to gnaw on his bones far before the woman herself would react (as if escorting one with luminescent paintings upon their frame was not a blaring red sign already).

His voice interrupts her thoughts once more, and do all equines talk this much? The Princess has never noticed it before. Regardless, insecurities and uncertainties are measured with a dose of witticism (or so she thinks), as laughter bumbles forth from the man's throat to change with abruptness into that of a heavy fit of coughing. ragged and hard. The man is sprinkled with sheer luck from the God's that the woman came as soon as she did, for with quizzical thoughts she wonders if he truly would have survived much longer against the thin, spindly Lady. "Flying is a convenience." The tone is bland and deep. "Nothing more."
If the General did not yet realize the woman was few of words and even less at conversation, he would soon learn. With a splash, the woman has set foot in the river, inky droplets of water turning into constellations on her mahogany frame.
"The divines blessed you. My meeting was of chance." Melted cores riddled with darkness turn to gaze upon the lad.
"I have not been in Helovia long. I wandered here from our herdland for respite."

And then the woman is moving forwards once more, sudden as the flight of birds, the inky liquid beneath her hooves forming bubbles and swirling around her pillars as she makes her way across to dry land, awaiting yet more queries to tire her mind, yet the Princess is well-prepared.
After all, the civilizations of Helovia seem to dolt over conversations. Brighid, can do nothing more then go with the flow.

She's becoming well accustomed to dealing with idiots.
"Stay close."






Brighid</style>
PUT ON YOUR WAR PAINT</style>