Wrena
she sucks the blood of the slain,
& the wolf tears men; would you know yet more?
Her reptilian wings gleam between the wet and the lick of the orange flames, her eyes smolder while she watches the fire dance and curl. She draws dreams and memories across the blackness of her stirring mind while the sun tries to climb above the clouds, above the shroud of cinereal mists to touch the land below. His voice breaks the peace and startles the young woman alone in the woods, her wings bend and flatten against her rusty red ribs. She faces him with only quick, deer-like scrutiny, as if ready to flee. She does not flee, however, and flicks both of her ears up to listen without making a move.
Nerine. She squints suspiciously when the name of her home slips off of his tongue. He is bigger, probably much older, she concludes. Politics and geography is all that is, she tells herself. She is between fear, curiosity and something she cannot name… “Yeah…” Through a few strands of obsidian forelock she stares on, her voice shy but clear, tempting boldness you might say.
The world around them drips and crinkles. A cold autumn rain, turning on and off as the clouds flow overhead, leaves everything shiny and wet. Sunlight is trying to peer through, but to hardly any avail. A wind tumbles in from the west and collides with turbulence from the eastern sea-side. The clash makes for rampant gusts at random times, pushing the fog-like rain around like smoke.