i can feel the flames on my lips; crimson blood on my skin
The last few days have been peaceful, and Starlace has begun to grow bored. There is almost enough fawning, but not nearly enough fighting.
What has happened to the bloodlust of Beqanna? Where are the bold warriors, the mares and stallions who do not feel truly alive without the adrenaline of battle in their veins? Has it been bred out, she wonders? Do mares flock to the glittering stallions, the ones with pretty horns and eye-smarting colors rather than the bloody fighters?
Weak, she scoffs internally as she walks past one such brightly colored monstrosity. Based on his reaction, perhaps the scorn is in her face even if it never leaves her mouth. The grey mare does not care.
Her head turns at a sound to the left, and at first she thinks perhaps Stave or Lugosi has followed her. They are good dogs – perhaps a bit too independent, if they follow her unbidden – and she will not scold them overmuch.
It is neither of them. A familiar green leer appears in the woods ahead of her, surrounded by a lean face and a jackal’s smile.
“It’s your fault that I was dead in the first place, ” she says, her brows raised in a look so condescending it would have been laughable on any face but her own. “I’m mostly sure those twins were yours, at least.” And that she smiles, mostly at her own half-remembered antics. Her dead veins are cold, but she takes a moment to admire the way the father of many of her children looks. Looks for now, she knows, given enough time he will become as unbearable as a weeks dead corpse. Perhaps she might see how dead she really is if her unexpected reanimation shows any indication of lasting.
“When was your last kill?” That’s always been the easiest segue.
Starlace