Wrena
she sucks the blood of the slain,
& the wolf tears men; would you know yet more?
In years to come Wrena will be able to say, at least, that she’s known what it feels like to be prey. To feel the aching scrutiny of someone’s primal, vicious desire even when it is hidden beneath a few layers of scaly charm. For now though, she’s unaware of why his brown eyes twinkle just so or why her skin prickles beneath her rusty red coat. She doesn’t acknowledge his first jab, responding only in silence and the erect attention of both ears.
She involuntarily tilts her head to the side with a skeptical squint in her ember colored eyes. This does nothing to coax even a shadow of a grin to play on her charcoal lips, in fact, they tighten. Wrena’s thoughtful eyes soften to look toward where she’d first descended, then to the sporadic flecks of lit ash that rise with the last dying hisses of her fire and they sharpen again when they come to rest on the piebald stallion. She’s oblivious to his status, his capability, his intentions… Something in her screams to leave, to take wing and find her mother, but another part of her growls, snaps and slithers at the chance to go somewhere, to keep herself in the company of this stranger.
She nods finally. “How far, then?” She says this slow and with a creamy smoothness, the broken glass rigidity almost gone.