a thousand teeth and yours among them; straia

[Straia]

i am the violence in the pouring rain

i am a hurricane

He comes back.

The ravens are quick to tell her of his arrival, and she realizes that she is, in fact, surprised. There was a part of her that hadn’t expected him to return. Yes, he had said as much, but what were words really? He is not loyal to the Chamber, or even to her really. He is loyal to himself, to chaos. And at the moment, there was no chaos. Some small rumors on the wind that Weed had planted, but no real reaction.

Beqanna was dull. They were too certain of their peace. Even the Gates, who should be worried, should be on a edge. They too seem almost complacent, building their army for retaliation as if they stand a chance against the Chamber and the Valley. But of course, with the right help, they do, and she cannot discount them as a threat. Even though she would like to think that the Gates could never overpower the Chamber. She, unlike the rest of Beqanna it seems, is not a fool.

Though as it turns out, neither were the Amazons. And there might be something there. Her conversation with their Khaleshi was still a secret, and would stay such. She could not tell even Weed of the details, but rather she must wait for Lagertha to see what her Sisters were willing to do.

But she would admit that she dreams of that alliance. The Amazons, Valley and Chamber together. She can only imagine the destruction they would be able to leave in their wake.

Straia does not run to his call. The ravens peer at him first from the trees, and she watches from their eyes as she weaves herself through the pine forests toward him. She may not run, but she does not necessarily make him wait particularly long either. She has heard of the destruction, the plant life torn up on his path, and knows his mood cannot be good. And she really does like her trees, and would prefer her take his mood out on her, not the landscape.

“Plant,” she says as she slips through the trees into his sight, that mischievous little grin curling her lips as she insists on the nickname he hates so much. She can’t give it up now, after all, even if she has a hundred better nicknames in her head. “You returned,” she says, slipping closer to him, closing the distance, nipping lightly on his back. “How do you like the bird?”

She had not forgotten her tree. She spent quite a bit of time by it, not that she would ever tell him as much. But she had wanted to return the gesture.

straia

the raven queen of the chamber