i'd apologise for bleeding on your shirt; {Lights}

[Scorch]

WATCH THE FLAMES CLIMB HIGH INTO THE NIGHT

She left the Jungle under a clear, happy blue sky, completely unaware of the lashing she would receive only minutes in the future. The Field, well, it is quite a walk from her kingdom, yet it is a very fast gallop. It is in this way that she exits her humid confinement, the breeze caressing her bald skin and teasing the tiny scraggles of mane and tail which still belong to her. A funny sight she would be, all hairless, pink, scarred, and rat-like, if not for the tattoos. Ah, yes, the tattoos! As the grasses whip around her pumping legs, flame streaks across her entire body (ink-flames, mind you). Upon her breast, a sharp red flower, glittering in magnificent detail as a heavily thorned vine twirls down her right from leg. Just beneath the blossom, two bones cross, bones which were once very real, and are now very tattooed.

Drop.
Oh fuck no.
Drip-drop.
I swear to the Gods.
Drip, plip, DROP.

The beginning of the rain nearly sends Scorch right back to her rain forest before she realizes that the massive thunderheads are aimed directly for it. Go figure. Snorting heavily, the sixteen hand tall warrioress stalks through the throne of miserable horses, going their number seamlessly. Her large, ugly ears flatten to her skull; her dragon-eyes flash to a dangerous shade of burgundy; her bladed teeth dig trenches in the mud; and her bladed teeth grind together in utter frustration.

The moment she sees the giantess, Scorch stalks towards her. She’s red, and roan, and right soaked, down to her feathers. She notices a stallion attached to her side, but that’s about all the attention she gives the man; a glance, and then nothing. To tell the truth, it has not been so many years since the Jungle considered men slaves. This is, by far, an improvement. Speaking with a Scorch who does not wish to be spoken to should not be on your bucket list, unless of course it’s the last item.

“I would offer you shelter, but it’s an hour’s gallop southward.” Scorch eyes the woman’s thick forelock, slightly uneasy speaking to a red mop instead of eyes. “I’m Scorch, Queen of the Jungle.” She tosses in. “Are you new to the land? Beqanna, that is.” She casts a sidelong glance at the black stallion who had forced himself upon her. She has half a mind to say that there will be no unwanted attention from their type in the Jungle, but she’s on her best behaviour, you see. Queens can’t act like colts, no matter how much the rain makes their tempers flare.

Scorch

Khaleesi of the Amazon Jungle