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 morning had been calm, quiet - but not even the sun glowing gently upon the horizon, nor the resplendence of color cascading across a barren, empty sky could lull her into a false sense of ease. As the midnight blanket pulled back to give way to a bright gradient of auburn and periwinkle, her dark, gold-flecked hazel eyes observed the hardened line where the rich, fertile soil met the sea, uncertainty effervescing within the rounded pit of her belly. Deep inside, beneath delicately woven layers of muscle, there is a stirring – life, growing and changing with each passing day.
Though the sensation of her unborn child stretching against the hollow of her ribcage pulls an unwitting smile to the hardened line of her mouth, she cannot shake the uneasiness that has begun to settle on her nerves, and so she takes to the sky, the broad expanse of her wings stretched out to touch the edges of the sky, blinding white in contrast to the pale powder blue that extends from end to end. With graceful, sweeping motions, her feathered appendages carry her across the dry plain, her gaze sharpened on the gently swaying grasses and the warm, bubbling springs speckled across the land.
Movement catches her eye, and the ridge of her brow line draws together in disdain. Quietly, she descends from her roost in the sky, with her limbs outstretched to embrace the fertile soil below. Her legs, elongated and nimble, catch her against the supple ground, and with a few loping steps to slow her down, she is once again bound to the earth. Her teeth, pallid and blunt, tug and pull lightly at a few misplaced feathers, tucking them back into place before drawing them to a close at the rounded swell of her belly.
A vile stench soon envelopes her; strangers have come, coated in sweat, filth and dust. It is both an intoxicating and nauseating scent; nothing of the sulphur and ash she has become acclimated to, and a quiet voice in her mind reminds her that such an adjustment on her own part may be the precise reason for why the repulsive barrenness of their scent repels her so. A daunting figure, gilded, with pale wings tucked along the broad border of his muscled physique, and an expectant two-toned mare meekly lurking in his shadow – neither appearing as a threat, but there is something uncertain about the endless darkness in his eye that stirs her proverbial hackles to rise.
Gently, the flattened line of her nose presses against the rounded edge of Magnus’ hip as the bristling white feathers of her wings caress his side – soon, she is shoulder to shoulder with him, with a solemn nod and glance given to Lucrezia who stands beside him. Her gaze does not wander for long, though, instead peering warily upon the two that have said nary a word yet.
Diplomacy is far from her craft – Lucrezia (brilliant, bright and warm) is much more suited, and the neutral, gentle words of Magnus are much more of an embrace than any words she herself could speak. She is fierce – made of brimstone and a fire that burns within; her wit harsh, her mind calculating, and her words sharp. Built for war, for discontent, and not for peacekeeping.
”Ellyse,” she offers, and nothing more.
