02-13-2022, 10:07 PM
She sees the sudden lines of tension in the body of the other woman standing beside her. It is a callous sort of recognition that lights in her eyes, thinking that she now has the upper hand and all of the power between them. She has surprised this star-draped stranger who looks as if she might let the sea drag her out if it was so inclined. And while another might try to smooth over the fractured introduction, Arrowe thrills at the friction that sparks like static electricity in the cool air.
Conversely to here, Ischia’s hot, tropical air had raised her, but it had also seemingly been lit inside of her and grown into a wildfire. She has always felt the fire simmering through her veins just below the surface of her skin. It makes her do things, say things, which she so rarely regrets later on. It makes her reactive and restless and reckless. It makes her quick, sharp, and stronger, she thinks. She has never known a moment without it.
So it doesn’t bother her that Ciri ignores her commentary and question. The spinning of her eyes and the curling of her lip is more interesting, anyways. Yes, she has come to see the Isle for herself, to take in the stark beauty of the winter wasteland and any wonders it may be hiding. But she thinks those will have to wait, if they even do exist. The woman comments on her bloodied knees, an injury she has already forgotten about.
“Yeah, so?” Her own voice is only marginally softened by surprise. Blood is a way of life in her family. Hunting is a birthright that has been passed down from her parents to all but one of her siblings, her own weaker twin. She has danced the predator’s dance and worn the skin of ferocious beasts more times than she can count. Blood is not something to be feared where she is from, but she wonders if it is not the case for the dark stranger who brushes by her. Arrowe watches her pass with folded wings for a couple of moments before falling in line behind her.
“If I wash my offensive knees off, can you show me around this heap of rock? ” Goading still, though less enthusiastic than before. She follows just far enough behind to hopefully avoid a swift kick, should the mare be disagreeable to being her guide. In the back of her mind, she already decides what she will shift into to eat her if she does choose violence. It is colder away from the southern shoreline, and in a thought, thick polar bear fur covers her body.
Conversely to here, Ischia’s hot, tropical air had raised her, but it had also seemingly been lit inside of her and grown into a wildfire. She has always felt the fire simmering through her veins just below the surface of her skin. It makes her do things, say things, which she so rarely regrets later on. It makes her reactive and restless and reckless. It makes her quick, sharp, and stronger, she thinks. She has never known a moment without it.
So it doesn’t bother her that Ciri ignores her commentary and question. The spinning of her eyes and the curling of her lip is more interesting, anyways. Yes, she has come to see the Isle for herself, to take in the stark beauty of the winter wasteland and any wonders it may be hiding. But she thinks those will have to wait, if they even do exist. The woman comments on her bloodied knees, an injury she has already forgotten about.
“Yeah, so?” Her own voice is only marginally softened by surprise. Blood is a way of life in her family. Hunting is a birthright that has been passed down from her parents to all but one of her siblings, her own weaker twin. She has danced the predator’s dance and worn the skin of ferocious beasts more times than she can count. Blood is not something to be feared where she is from, but she wonders if it is not the case for the dark stranger who brushes by her. Arrowe watches her pass with folded wings for a couple of moments before falling in line behind her.
“If I wash my offensive knees off, can you show me around this heap of rock? ” Goading still, though less enthusiastic than before. She follows just far enough behind to hopefully avoid a swift kick, should the mare be disagreeable to being her guide. In the back of her mind, she already decides what she will shift into to eat her if she does choose violence. It is colder away from the southern shoreline, and in a thought, thick polar bear fur covers her body.
this world will eat your heart out
@Ciri