06-03-2015, 06:47 PM
so you wanna play with magic?
The stallion presses too close to Girr for Camrynn's comfort, and without thinking she moves herself between the two.
It is a quick movement, no more than a few steps but enough to put her body between theirs. She can feel what's in his mind (she could have pulled it out easily enough, but he's practically broadcasting it, practically screaming to sky with images that would no doubt make Pevensie and Girr turn cold. They are true lights, she thinks. And she's more along Kingslay's line, more comfortable with the dark.
She knows that they're too close for comfort when she first steps in front of him. Perhaps his momentum is carrying him too quickly, and he'll hit her. Perhaps he'll become angry, seeking her warm flesh with his lips. It won't make a difference to her: in this moment she is iron. His teeth will find no purchase, his body would hit hers as though hitting a wall. Perhaps he will try to burn her, perhaps the heat of closeness will enrage him. It doesn't matter, she will protect them – protect them all.
She stands her ground, leaving it to him to separate them or to press closer as he will. Pevensie joins them, and she sees his attention shift to her co-queen. His mind plays a nightmare, and she wonders where he'd come from. "Pevensie." she greets the mare affectionately, not an inch of concern in her voice. "This is Girr." she indicates the white mare "And George." indicating the ever present stick. "And this gentleman…" she uses the term with just the smallest hint of irony in her voice - "Is Kingslay. He's not much for words."
Not much for words, and, she wonders, how much for following orders. She could give him what he seeks, she knows – that, and so much more. But could he ever bring himself to work for someone else, to do the bidding of another even if that bidding was to sew chaos? She can't decide. And this isn't the time or the place anyway – that's a strictly extracurricular (and completely secret) activity.
She looks at the stallion for a moment and contemplates diving into his mind. He speaks so little and yet thinks so much; what makes him stay silent? What makes him wait to strike at them? What makes him hang about on the creepy fringe like that terrifying stalker, like the clown in a horror story, like the thing that goes bump in the night? Why not simply strike?
But instead she settles for something a little bit more tactful. Around them, the summer warmth starts to slowly fade. She brings an unnatural wind sweeping across the empty plains, sending their manes and tales whipping around them. It is a tempest that doesn't belong, accented by a strangely cloudless sky. Let him love the sweat, let him admire the heat – what will he do when she seeks to challenge it?
Perhaps he will seek to challenge it, to burn the air she tries to cool. Which one of them would win in a battle of the elements? Clearly she, who can call on so much more than just summer. But it would be an interesting competition.
It is a quick movement, no more than a few steps but enough to put her body between theirs. She can feel what's in his mind (she could have pulled it out easily enough, but he's practically broadcasting it, practically screaming to sky with images that would no doubt make Pevensie and Girr turn cold. They are true lights, she thinks. And she's more along Kingslay's line, more comfortable with the dark.
She knows that they're too close for comfort when she first steps in front of him. Perhaps his momentum is carrying him too quickly, and he'll hit her. Perhaps he'll become angry, seeking her warm flesh with his lips. It won't make a difference to her: in this moment she is iron. His teeth will find no purchase, his body would hit hers as though hitting a wall. Perhaps he will try to burn her, perhaps the heat of closeness will enrage him. It doesn't matter, she will protect them – protect them all.
She stands her ground, leaving it to him to separate them or to press closer as he will. Pevensie joins them, and she sees his attention shift to her co-queen. His mind plays a nightmare, and she wonders where he'd come from. "Pevensie." she greets the mare affectionately, not an inch of concern in her voice. "This is Girr." she indicates the white mare "And George." indicating the ever present stick. "And this gentleman…" she uses the term with just the smallest hint of irony in her voice - "Is Kingslay. He's not much for words."
Not much for words, and, she wonders, how much for following orders. She could give him what he seeks, she knows – that, and so much more. But could he ever bring himself to work for someone else, to do the bidding of another even if that bidding was to sew chaos? She can't decide. And this isn't the time or the place anyway – that's a strictly extracurricular (and completely secret) activity.
She looks at the stallion for a moment and contemplates diving into his mind. He speaks so little and yet thinks so much; what makes him stay silent? What makes him wait to strike at them? What makes him hang about on the creepy fringe like that terrifying stalker, like the clown in a horror story, like the thing that goes bump in the night? Why not simply strike?
But instead she settles for something a little bit more tactful. Around them, the summer warmth starts to slowly fade. She brings an unnatural wind sweeping across the empty plains, sending their manes and tales whipping around them. It is a tempest that doesn't belong, accented by a strangely cloudless sky. Let him love the sweat, let him admire the heat – what will he do when she seeks to challenge it?
Perhaps he will seek to challenge it, to burn the air she tries to cool. Which one of them would win in a battle of the elements? Clearly she, who can call on so much more than just summer. But it would be an interesting competition.
CAMRYNN
co-queen of the deserts, magical, mother of badassery