i can feel the flames on my lips; crimson blood on my skin
Barely audible over the creak of frozen branches and the whisper of the wind against the frozen earth are the low notes of a breathy song. She sings it mostly to herself, to herself and to the snow that falls around her. The words themselves are indiscernible, though she laughs now and then as though they amuse her.
Or perhaps she is simply mad.
The snow has grown deeper as she journeys north, settling on her ashen hide only to melt away. A trail of blood marks her path – not her blood, not the blood of anyone, just: blood. A drop here, a splatter there, enough to taint the air around her with the coppery smell as much as the disharmonious sound of her song.
When she falls quiet it is at the top of a hill. Even the wind grows still around her, until the drip drip drip is the only sound. Then there is no sound at all, and even the echoes of her voice fade to silence as the sun reaches noon and stretches feebly toward the earth below. Too bright. Wings that had not existed snap open, curl overhead and block the weak sunlight from where it crept across her crimson shoulders and smoke-grey mane. The feathers are white as the snow, as white as the pair of curling rams horns (which become elk antlers, then markhor spirals) that rise from her brow. Scales grows across her chest and knees as she giggles to herself, then fade as swiftly as the wings and horns.
Starlace is just a small gray mare on a hill now, and the scent of blood drifts away in the wind as the soft snow begins to fall.
It is time to begin.
Starlace