between the shadows and the soul - any

[Aurane]

The spotted mare's own eyes reflect the lick of flame, and Aurane finds the drone of her voice hard to focus on once she notices this. She is, in many ways, still a constantly restless child — a magpie driven to the shiny marbles of flame in her skull. “Mhmm,” The sound rumbles low from her chest and she tilts her head, (those glassy eyes acquiesce to the heat within, and drip onto the lovely edge of her cheekbone... like jelly, perhaps), “Ew.” She pulls her head back and snorts. “Well, that's very interesting.” ***But not terribly, not for her. She surrenders to nearsightedness, symptomatic of her immaturity. They may have good reason to spill blood for their future, because it may not just be their own. The red woman operates on the simple assumption that she has one. Foolhardy arrogance in itself. It works for her. She smiles at the vastness of her own precious ignorance. She does not know of the kingdoms' little toys, or much of anything. Of course, it is rather unbecoming. Not cute at all. Though whip smart in a savage sort of way, Aurane has much preferred to simply sate the wont of flesh and her appetite for disarray. She grows soft and mindless; a numb deliverance of her potential to nothing. Now chaotic energy is funneling into something useful. Slowly. ***She is here. Aurane lets out a single note of a laugh, ha. It is humoured and surprised. She turns her black-brown eyes to Straia. (Curiouser still... How very interesting.) “Aurane. Freshly delivered to your feet by a faithful little servant of yours,” Eyes had not made an effort to disguise his devotion. Poor Eyes. “Just lovely to meet you both,” She means it, in a way. But there is an undertone of mechanical note taking. Like a predatory creature learning her stalk, except not nearly so dramatic as all that. She knows her limits, and her strengths. But still she keeps her database, as everyone does. Her dark eyes carefully filing away details — ravens like watchful cohorts, (Eyes is not the only underling that wants to reach down and kiss the dirt around her hooves). ***She looks back at the tree, to the infernal sentry flicking it's beady little eyes around. She waits for Shaytan's answer. The red mare may not see the fuss in glimpsing her own future, she cannot deny the tug of curiosity — what must it feel like to be ripped out of time and given a window there? Aurane. ****Death makes angels of us all, and gives us wings where we had shoulders smooth as raven's claw.