06-15-2016, 10:41 PM
Normally I would have no interest in returning to Silver Cove. Not that I would shy away from the site where I rained vengeance down upon the man who tortured, crippled, and nearly killed my beloved son. I have no regrets, and as an Amazon I was raised to embrace the savage warrior side of my nature that so viciously defended my blood. Still, I have never been the type to revel in reliving old conquests, or to revisit old battlegrounds where the blood has long since sunk into the ground.
However. A tickling little whisper in my ear has been nudging me in this direction all day. It only took a few decades, but I have finally learned to listen when the spirits of the earth offer guidance, especially the one who has inhabited my skin since I turned three and first pledged myself to the Jungle. My little dart frog guide, far wiser than I have ever been, has prodded me toward the sea since sometime last night. Still, I am surprised to find myself nearing the Cove. It has been many years since I was last here, and it is only sunlight glinting off a ravaged iron corpse in the distance that reminds me why the shape of the shore looks so familiar.
Khaos.
It is not fear of any danger to myself that has my shape altering subtly, the lines of my body slimming down to a mare far more dainty than I have ever been by nature, broad chest and hips contracting into the fine curves and light bones of a desert-bred mare. The yellow and white of my coat alters to an innocuous bay, my leathery dragon wings shifting mid-flight to shiny black feathered bird wings.
Eyes, whispers that quiet little voice, and mine blink in surprise. I have never changed the color of my eyes before, never bothered to mask myself that much. But for my children, and for my grandchildren, I listen. Brown washes over the mismatched blue and gold, hiding the most obvious clue to my identity while that glint of sunlight off iron is still a distant shimmer on the horizon.
A stranger touches down beside the Covelings' iron god, sleek and feminine and utterly unlike me. Ah, and I see now why the caution. There is much of the old iron beast in the boy beside him—and he is a boy, nearly grown though he may be. There is a newness to the bond between body and soul, and the scent of afterbirth lingers in the air. A child, a baby really, no matter that his body looks like a colt on the verge of becoming a stallion.
Drow. It almost itches, nudging me closer, coaxing me to step closer. I can't quite parse out the tangled thread that ties the two of them together, but there is a connection. So I listen, waiting patiently for the threads to untangle. “He can't answer you,” I reply to the boy's question, though it was not directed at me. My eyes go unfocused, my tone a bit distracted as I study the colt with shaman's eyes, looking beyond the iron body to the soul newly anchored there. “More importantly who are you, then?”
However. A tickling little whisper in my ear has been nudging me in this direction all day. It only took a few decades, but I have finally learned to listen when the spirits of the earth offer guidance, especially the one who has inhabited my skin since I turned three and first pledged myself to the Jungle. My little dart frog guide, far wiser than I have ever been, has prodded me toward the sea since sometime last night. Still, I am surprised to find myself nearing the Cove. It has been many years since I was last here, and it is only sunlight glinting off a ravaged iron corpse in the distance that reminds me why the shape of the shore looks so familiar.
Khaos.
It is not fear of any danger to myself that has my shape altering subtly, the lines of my body slimming down to a mare far more dainty than I have ever been by nature, broad chest and hips contracting into the fine curves and light bones of a desert-bred mare. The yellow and white of my coat alters to an innocuous bay, my leathery dragon wings shifting mid-flight to shiny black feathered bird wings.
Eyes, whispers that quiet little voice, and mine blink in surprise. I have never changed the color of my eyes before, never bothered to mask myself that much. But for my children, and for my grandchildren, I listen. Brown washes over the mismatched blue and gold, hiding the most obvious clue to my identity while that glint of sunlight off iron is still a distant shimmer on the horizon.
A stranger touches down beside the Covelings' iron god, sleek and feminine and utterly unlike me. Ah, and I see now why the caution. There is much of the old iron beast in the boy beside him—and he is a boy, nearly grown though he may be. There is a newness to the bond between body and soul, and the scent of afterbirth lingers in the air. A child, a baby really, no matter that his body looks like a colt on the verge of becoming a stallion.
Drow. It almost itches, nudging me closer, coaxing me to step closer. I can't quite parse out the tangled thread that ties the two of them together, but there is a connection. So I listen, waiting patiently for the threads to untangle. “He can't answer you,” I reply to the boy's question, though it was not directed at me. My eyes go unfocused, my tone a bit distracted as I study the colt with shaman's eyes, looking beyond the iron body to the soul newly anchored there. “More importantly who are you, then?”
((Per some OOC plotting, I'd like to change that "open" in the thread title to "closed." XD But if anyone absolutely must interrupt, Q will play innocent. Or at least not-herself.))