WATCH THE FLAMES CLIMB HIGH INTO THE NIGHT

Thirty years of being smashed between a mallet and an iron stand have left Scorch the ideal Amazon. No, scratch that. Thirty years has left her the best Amazon she could be; we all know that she still could use a hell of a lot of work. But I mean, really! Remember the days when diplomacy meant kicking the one who talked most in the teeth? Remember how words had been useless, and brawn brilliant? Ah, those were the days. The childish, fortuneless, and tireless days. Now, Scorch could be trusted to play the perfect diplomat on the better days; but ask her if she’d rather go talk jackshit with the king of whogivesafuckland or go and bite some random challenger, you’d better be damn sure that she would pick the battlefield.

With this in mind, Scorch does not envy Lyris in the slightest; in fact, she is grateful for the sister’s efforts. Diplomacy may be utterly unappealing to women like themselves, but Scorch appreciates that they both understand why they have to put up with the politician’s shit. Because if they didn’t, well, that would make them the bad guys, wouldn’t it?

The mare moves to answer the call immediately after its sounding. She eats up the league which stands between the sisters with a brisk canter, leaping over fallen trees and barreling through the foliage which dares defy her. Despite this, minutes have passed since Lyris’s call, and she arrives with a half apologetic, half amused expression, small beads of sweat decorating her spine.

”This Jungle is too damn big.” She comments with a lean to her right, the straggles of her forelock detaching themselves from her sweaty, hairless forehead. “You hollered?”

Scorch

Khaleesi of the Amazon Jungle