06-24-2017, 05:25 AM
i'm not going to change, so stay out of my way.
i don't need you to understand that i'm already saved.
The volcanic mountain rumbles and stirs in the distance beneath a blanket of fallen ash, its weaving and winding streams of oozing lava exuding a scalding heat as it slowly travels along. Long, wavering stalks of grain burst through the fertile soil many months ago, once vibrant in color, now dry and painted as gold as the sun itself as autumn descends. It gently caresses the length of her legs, brushing against her skin the way a wanton lover might do, but she does not pay it any mind.
She, too, only knew war – but not a war waged from within. Born beneath the setting sun, she had been birthed into a world still reeking of the stench of death, and curdling blood – a world where as many were being born, many had just died. The war had been brutal, she had been told; she did not need to be told. Even in her youth, she had seen the carcasses strewn about, bloated and picked apart by scavengers, and even now she should see the faint outline of where their skeletons remain.
She does not look particularly dangerous (not without her bones reforming; restructuring her into a larger, bulkier version of herself, nor without her sharped spines protruding from her skin), nor particularly battle worn – there are a few scars that can be seen beneath the pale sunlight against her blinding, golden skin, and her wings are vibrant, bright – finely preened. Perhaps it is in the illusion of perfection that she hides her own skeletons.
She pauses, then, a scent drifting to her above the sulfur and above the salty brine of the sea – and carefully, her hazel eyes seek out the source: a vibrant amber, marred with scarred flesh - but her eyes do not linger on the uneven tissue; staring instead into the startling orange of her eye.
”Thorunn,” she says softly, in consideration, before giving a heavy nod. ”welcome, then. Strengths? Weaknesses? What experience do you have?”
She, too, only knew war – but not a war waged from within. Born beneath the setting sun, she had been birthed into a world still reeking of the stench of death, and curdling blood – a world where as many were being born, many had just died. The war had been brutal, she had been told; she did not need to be told. Even in her youth, she had seen the carcasses strewn about, bloated and picked apart by scavengers, and even now she should see the faint outline of where their skeletons remain.
She does not look particularly dangerous (not without her bones reforming; restructuring her into a larger, bulkier version of herself, nor without her sharped spines protruding from her skin), nor particularly battle worn – there are a few scars that can be seen beneath the pale sunlight against her blinding, golden skin, and her wings are vibrant, bright – finely preened. Perhaps it is in the illusion of perfection that she hides her own skeletons.
She pauses, then, a scent drifting to her above the sulfur and above the salty brine of the sea – and carefully, her hazel eyes seek out the source: a vibrant amber, marred with scarred flesh - but her eyes do not linger on the uneven tissue; staring instead into the startling orange of her eye.
”Thorunn,” she says softly, in consideration, before giving a heavy nod. ”welcome, then. Strengths? Weaknesses? What experience do you have?”
Ellyse