lepis, comtesse of taiga
RUN AND TELL ALL OF THE ANGELS; THIS COULD TAKE ALL NIGHT
i think i need a devil to help me get things right
The soft edges of the ferns brush her golden coat, their touch cool and damp against her still sleep-warm skin. Exposed and gnarled roots hide beneath their emerald fronds, but Lepis knows the trail between them, and her navy hooves land only on firm earth, cushioned by decades of detritus. What weak sun manages to reach through the evergreen boughs provides little warmth. It is hours past dawn and the fog has not burnt off, and though Lepis’ blue-grey gaze not turn toward the swirling mist, the Comtesse knows it for the indicator of nights that grow longer and winter drawing ever nearer.
Time passes, and she is not certain if she wants it to slow or race ahead.
Lepis sighs, just as a shadow crosses what little sunlight there is.
She looks up to find a glimpse of rust-colored wings and a golden beak, and wonders what Turul might be doing out so early. If the bird is here, surely Aten is not far, but the fog is too thick to hear or smell much beyond her line of sight. She stops – it had not been as if she was headed anywhere in particular – and waits for the Champion to find her. Instead, it is the bird itself that descends. She has never paid much attention to the difference between one eagle and the next, yet as the raptor hops nearer, Lepis realizes that the bird is not Aten’s companion. Nor is it a natural creature – the aerial hunters keep to themselves as much as any of the other wild animals – and Lepis feels her breath catch in her throat.
The Comtesse had last seen her spouse as something like a bird, could this be…It even changes in that same bone-cracking sort of way, and for a moment there is almost – almost – an emotion in her chest. But the stallion that the bird becomes is a stranger, and the surprise that might have been in her eyes fades to what might be disappointment, if only she could feel it. In truth, her face is serene and without motion save the flicking her eyes across his antlers, his wings, the pattern of white markings that reminds her of something. The first word from his mouth is an apology, acceptable for a stranger in her heart of her woods, and both his words and his posture save him a firmer response for his unexpected presence.
“I was born with them,” she answers, “From my mother, and those from her mother, passed down through our family since Ziyadah and Tabari first gave them to Lone Star.” It is a tale she has told each of her children as she preened their wings, smoothing feathers and recounting the tale of their countless great-grandfather and his quest to rescue his love. It is as informal a first greeting she has ever given a stranger, and so she follows with a tone no less measured but infinitesimally more formal: “I am Lepis, Comtesse and ruler of these woods.”
@[Nodens]
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