[open] not by fire, yet forged in flame;

[Viszla]

Myrna suffocate the fire  i started-------------------- right when it kindles Myrna is accustomed to being watched, and she doesn’t shy away from the four golden eyes. Most of her attention she keeps on the larger stallion, the more physically intimidating threat. She does not miss the surprise in his expression, and her coolly interested gaze remains on his handsome face, on the naked surprise and the way he answers as if he’d been bewitched. Flattery is familiar, but the way he answers without hesitation, as if she’s drawn veracity from him by doing nothing at all does stroke her pride. She will not come nearer yet, but she does tilt her head and regard him with curious intensity. His coloring is identical to that of the buzzard, and while he is easy on the eyes, it would be easier to appreciate him without the dirt and debris. He seems dirtier than she is when she comes out from exploring a cave, she thinks, and wonders how long he might have been in there. It seems the same thing is on his mind. The voice in which he speaks is like a cave too, deep and rumbling, and he’s more polite than she’d expected and at that her smile warms another fraction more. He might be very dusty, she decides, but he doesn't seem inclined to be dangerous. Perhaps he's not the victim of a magician after all, but rather some sort of enchanted sleep. Born into this shifting arcane world, Myrna knows better than to doubt the capabilities of magic. “My name is Myrna,” she tells him, using the name given to keep her identity hidden from her father. It is the only name she has ever known, and what her sire had called her - Viszla - makes her skin crawl. She is Myrna, and has always been. The black curse that tainted her father’s blood came from the same god the stranger fears, the same monster that had killed her grandmother. Her connection to Carnage is less direct, but caution born of his black magic is what keeps her out of striking range of the seemingly harmless stranger. “This is an old world,” She agrees, settling into a more comfortable stance. “My mother said hundreds of years. I live in a place called the Gates. I hear it is like Heaven’s Gates, but those lands were swallowed long before I was born and rose again.” Myrna falls quiet, still watching his face, wondering if he will remain such an open book, and if perhaps she should excuse herself so that he can grapple with whatever existentialism comes with waking after such a long sleep. @Judas