cold light of the stars the same; any

[Scorch]

WATCH THE FLAMES CLIMB HIGH INTO THE NIGHT

Life, after six decades of it, becomes repetitive. In recent years the mare found herself comfortable in stagnancy, reclining in a seat made of yesterdays that blended into her tomorrows seamlessly; in her mind, absolutely nothing could happen that would ever compare to the dramas of her youth. She'd witnessed the brutal death of her mother at age four, had fought a dragon and been consumed by flames, fought herself in the plains of the questlands; she'd loved, ruled, battled, waged war, birthed children; she'd died, come back to life. But since that time of return, things had genuinely settled into complacency; wars, though threatened, never came; and though the crown shifted tectonically, she'd been ever stable as Nerine's second in command.

A chance encounter - embedded with enormous amounts of unstable magics - changed that irreparably. In the depths of her would-be barren womb, the stirring of life had began: and she knew it wasn't her husband's. Because she hadn't slept with her husband.

They'd stopped trying once they realized their infertility.

She'd never considered that Brennen's magic could change that - like a damned fool.

The winter burrowed bone deep this year, turning her charred skin first blue and then red as frost bite sunk its teeth into her. The grotesque appearance of her reopened wounds - even fifty years later - helped to disguise the tiny bulge of her barrel, though that would change soon; no amount of flaying skin and mottling flesh could hide a pregnancy where there oughtn't be one. She considered cloaking herself in twilight, giving her body a chance to recover from winter's cruelty - but of course, as all who have done wrong will, she thought she deserved to suffer. She'd been unfaithful. The least she deserved was the discomfort of frost bite.

Her breath span in tufts before her molten eyes as they pierced through the dimness of an over-cast winter day. The flat expanse of the field held dozens of memories for the legend, ones that brought back painful memories as well as joyous ones; it didn't matter which at the moment, just that it distracted her at all. A month ago, she would have been suave and confident in her step, mysteriousness in her grotesque image, a blunt representation of the Leviathans that any could recognize with a single glance. Today, however, her aura told a different tale, one of brooding and distrust and malicious insecurity. The usual red-yellow of her eyes glowed only faintly now, the burnt burgundy of a fire nearly out.

In the depths of said dragon-eyes, she spotted a creature worth noting. He stood with a sullen interest, one the perhaps mirrored hers. It is interesting to note that the man was technically - and legitimately - family; the son of her cousin, Tarnished, but also the son of her son's wife - lawfully, her grandchild, even if he was a bastard. Still, the exact weavings of her family line remained mostly shrouded in mystery, for she'd had many children and many of them had more still; the chance of her ever finding out their relations was small, but that tiny pull in her gut towards this mulberry creature grew and grew until she could no longer deny its forces.

A woman - gorgeous in her physique, stunning in her countenance, a seductress in the drawl of her voice - reached the man in question just before Scorch. The stark opposition of their appearances did not need pointing out, for it remained there glaringly for inspection and interpretation. Where the minx's gleaming tobiano coat sat, decades of scarring and even freshly peeling wounds decorated Scorch; where Electra's voice came smoothly and enticingly, Scorch's came like rock against rock, grating and harsh.

"I too would be interested in your answer.."

Scorch

Once Khaleesi of the Amazon Jungle

Why do I sit down to write easy posts and suddenly they're novels. So sorry.