She is a proud thing, one of the most beautiful blood and high heads. Saint may consider those around her like a god peering down, but she finds herself no better or worse. All of flesh and bone, all made to break and bleed and rip: the opportunity to taste the torn skin of another is hard to pass by. That is precisely why she finds herself no better, such base desires drag at her soul - and she feeds them like precious pets.
The dragoness is not tart, nor sweet, but such a juicy chaotic neutral that even she is hardly aware of the dangerous spin of her earth.
Claws burst from the hooves that hold Saint, but she hardly notices the dirt tear beneath her irritation. Rebelle’s sour response births a tiny monster in her chest, one that screams and tears like a toddler throwing a temper tantrum. She snorts and tilts her head to the side, green eyes slowly mirroring the furious grab of her talons. The sensation of feeling disrespected is so new that vibrates down her spine and consumes her mind: a cold smile crosses her lips.
“Shrimpy?” she questions, tearing a ball of grass and flower from the ground. Only then does she notice her hooves have disappeared; still, she does not hesitate, having grown accustomed to such powerful and inappropriate changes.
“You don’t scare me. I’ve never met anyone that scares me, and I don’t think I’ll start with some pink fish.” She is matter-of-fact in her delivery, though there is a certain little bite that tails her last sentence. “Do you fight like you talk, fish?” Exhilaration at this new discovery colors her question.
—Saint—
into the fray
@[Rebelle] hiss