Poet of the call-girl storm - Kingslay.

[Aurane]

There is a wild lick of lightening, splitting in two the dark, slate sky.
There follows a mighty crack. A whip across the hips of those pregnant and labouring clouds. And then they loose their lovingly incubated burdens — hard, vicious hailstones. Somewhere in the cycle of their maturation, they had solidified. Cold and heavy, they fling themselves from impressive height, gathering dangerous speed. They pelt the canopy above her, testing the safety net, and finding it wanting. Great knots of ice fall around her with soft thumps as they hit moss, and harder whacks on bare stone.

Leaves and thinner tree limbs bow and snap under the hail's weight and velocity. The more hardy oaks and beeches protect themselves with their own wooden exoskeletons, unable (or unwilling) to offer much else. She blinks her wide, black-brown eyes, (the ancient trees withstand the barrage without wound, but around them, lower to the forest floor, younger trees ooze thick, amber blood. The forest swells with fear and pain. Mother Nature is reckless with power.)

She smiles, untroubled by the ever-growing volley, pressing around the trees with a foolhardy caper. Carelessness bordering on stupidity — she is young, her illusion of invulnerability are in tact and blinding. Another snap of lightening arouses shivers down her spine. She recognizes near unparalleled power in it all. It is, if anything, exciting. Her ears tuck back and she kicks out aimlessly behind her. Wild violence.
Every loud boom sounds more and more like godly peels of laughter. She howls out with them.

Her heart pounds. (You can't outrun everything...) The mare nearly stumbles. Flinging, more than running, through the barely beaten paths. (...Everything catches up.) She snorts, contempt in her black-brown eyes. (But we could try... for a little longer. If you'd like?) “Yes,” She whispers, a sweetness to nothing.

And then it begins to rain.

Heavy, hot rain. In its grip, the icestorm slows, choked out by the wetness. It is over. Bled dry of their ire, the clouds have only the rain. And its purpose is less venomous. Aurane stops. Her muscles shuddering with overwork, she cannot express her lungs as fast as she yearns to fill them. Heaving, the red woman follows a dirt path to a wide clearing. A hall of lichen and sickly sweet wildflowers where she finds some relief. Torrents of rain fall down her back and belly, “I deserve this,” She mumbles, whether it is a punishment she finds delights in, or a reward she soaks up greedily

Shiny blackness. So totally naked she was. Totally un-hung-up.
We looked around lights now on to see our fellow travellers.