12-21-2015, 03:47 PM
yael
Her home is always neat and tidy; every grain of sand in its place and a place for every grain of sand. Yael feels an odd sense of pride in this - the most habitable areas as free of all of the smallest sandstorms, a few more smaller oases make the trek from the red rock and saguaro borderlands to the full blown duned interior easier. The Desert is her haven, and for the longest time, no one has dared to interrupt her peace and quiet. Hasn’t she earned that much? After all her grief and wailing and gnashing of teeth, after her limbs stop trembling and her useless lungs start to pump again, before the nightmares begin - hasn’t she earned that.
He came once, and she turned him away. The Desert rose up at her beckoning and came to life, fighting fire with earth until the land was no longer shifting, but lay as still and shiny as the dead sea. Dead water for a man who reeks of decay. He could not pass. Yael stood in his way - and besides, Etro was not there.
Since then, she has come to accept her daughter’s dismaying love. It is fitting, in way, for she quells the boiling and stifles the flames of anyone who dares to harbor power in their veins. She brings the world around them to a standstill, creating peace in those who cannot do it themselves. This, Yael understands, and for her daughter’s sake, she will tolerate. To an extent. This, however; this adolescent rage that rips the ground apart and sends her perfectly styled dunes tumbling to their base is unacceptable. Etro herself could cause such a thing, and Yael would be there with a sharp reprimand - relationship be damned. There is smoke and fire, even though the Desert cannot burn the way the Valley burned. It is infuriating.
It is enough to wake the dragon in her; that fierce monstrosity that could easily tear a horse limb from limb, that thing that makes her want to taste blood on her tongue. Kingslay and his reckless disregard for not one, but two of her children is enough for her to take it as a personal attack. She launches herself into the sky, unleashing her wrath in a resounding roar that echoes across the kingdom. Let them all look to the sky and quake from the tips of their ears to the base of their hooves, let that goddamn bird show Straia just what happens when you poke the peaceful magician one too many times. Dragonfire spews ahead of her as she chases Munroe’s blood, urgency driven by his fear. While fate seems to delight in plucking him out of her grasp and putting him directly in harm’s way, this is one occasion where she can retaliate with full force.
She sees him stalk forward, arrogance in every swaggering step. And now she is placed in a delicate sort of situation; she could kill him with a single thought, but Etro would know, and she would never come back. It isn’t worth it. He isn’t worth it. Yael swoops down on leathery wings (so like Vanquish’s, so unlike her own plush feathers) and on a whim, turns him into the most powerless creature she can imagine: a dainty little butterfly. And then her jaws are around him, teeth closing around his fluttering wings with plenty of room to spare - but does not swallow. Let him wallow for a minute in insectual terror, let him beat his wings to no avail against her teeth, let him fall limply to land on her tongue - and then she will let him escape.
With a wink to Munroe (will he know it is his Ima?) she waits for the butterfly to simmer down, deliberately sending her armored tail into the sheets of glass, shattering them with angry lashes. Finally, she opens her mouth and spits the butterfly back out, allowing him to slowly (bone by bone) return to his horse form. It must be achingly slow. she thinks, as she too, returns to the delicate mare who couldn’t ever seem possible of such ire. As Yael turns to her wild child, she waits for Kingslay to say something. Because she will have him explain himself, even if she has to force it, fist over fist, from his very throat.
She is made for that.
He came once, and she turned him away. The Desert rose up at her beckoning and came to life, fighting fire with earth until the land was no longer shifting, but lay as still and shiny as the dead sea. Dead water for a man who reeks of decay. He could not pass. Yael stood in his way - and besides, Etro was not there.
Since then, she has come to accept her daughter’s dismaying love. It is fitting, in way, for she quells the boiling and stifles the flames of anyone who dares to harbor power in their veins. She brings the world around them to a standstill, creating peace in those who cannot do it themselves. This, Yael understands, and for her daughter’s sake, she will tolerate. To an extent. This, however; this adolescent rage that rips the ground apart and sends her perfectly styled dunes tumbling to their base is unacceptable. Etro herself could cause such a thing, and Yael would be there with a sharp reprimand - relationship be damned. There is smoke and fire, even though the Desert cannot burn the way the Valley burned. It is infuriating.
It is enough to wake the dragon in her; that fierce monstrosity that could easily tear a horse limb from limb, that thing that makes her want to taste blood on her tongue. Kingslay and his reckless disregard for not one, but two of her children is enough for her to take it as a personal attack. She launches herself into the sky, unleashing her wrath in a resounding roar that echoes across the kingdom. Let them all look to the sky and quake from the tips of their ears to the base of their hooves, let that goddamn bird show Straia just what happens when you poke the peaceful magician one too many times. Dragonfire spews ahead of her as she chases Munroe’s blood, urgency driven by his fear. While fate seems to delight in plucking him out of her grasp and putting him directly in harm’s way, this is one occasion where she can retaliate with full force.
She sees him stalk forward, arrogance in every swaggering step. And now she is placed in a delicate sort of situation; she could kill him with a single thought, but Etro would know, and she would never come back. It isn’t worth it. He isn’t worth it. Yael swoops down on leathery wings (so like Vanquish’s, so unlike her own plush feathers) and on a whim, turns him into the most powerless creature she can imagine: a dainty little butterfly. And then her jaws are around him, teeth closing around his fluttering wings with plenty of room to spare - but does not swallow. Let him wallow for a minute in insectual terror, let him beat his wings to no avail against her teeth, let him fall limply to land on her tongue - and then she will let him escape.
With a wink to Munroe (will he know it is his Ima?) she waits for the butterfly to simmer down, deliberately sending her armored tail into the sheets of glass, shattering them with angry lashes. Finally, she opens her mouth and spits the butterfly back out, allowing him to slowly (bone by bone) return to his horse form. It must be achingly slow. she thinks, as she too, returns to the delicate mare who couldn’t ever seem possible of such ire. As Yael turns to her wild child, she waits for Kingslay to say something. Because she will have him explain himself, even if she has to force it, fist over fist, from his very throat.
She is made for that.
... angry Yael is ANGRY