11-02-2018, 12:22 PM
The child that wriggles within her is the deciding factor after she hears what Breckin has to say.
Always a capricious creature, the genie has grown too still of late. Happiness alone is not enough to satisfy the rose-hued woman it seems, and so with happiness still clutched right (she carries Walter’s son within her womb, after all) she appears in an instant on the northernmost island of Beqanna.
She is not alone - a colorful woman has been accosted by a pair of strangers a few hundred meters ahead. Djinni breathes in the bitter air, and exhales a gold-tinted breath. When it fades she is far better suited for this northern world. The pony now wears a plush coat of pink and white fur, so plentiful that she might be stocky fjord under it rather than a desert horse. Warmer, she steps through the snow until she reaches the other horses.
She had decided, but the decision was simply to do as she pleased. The ties she had to the iron grey kingdom are ties to the residents only, and two in particular. Well, three, she supposed, if she is to count her son.
There are dragon prints in the snow behind the black stallion, and Djinni narrows her yellow eyes as she approaches. Not Lior, she thinks, but Castile. He had been absent for some time, and most of his memories are shuttered away with those of her eldest son. It is nice to see him back, even if he doesn’t seem aware of what is happening. Then again, there is a plague. Who could be entirely aware.
”Nerine doesn’t need a subkingom.” She says, making the assumption that the mare who has accosted the claimant must be the Heartfire that Breckin has mentioned. ”They need safety. Probably warmth, too.” At this a distant tree is suddenly aflame, spewing black smoke into the air as the branches and evergreen needles burn.
Castile asks the same questions she might have - and does so a bit more aggressively, as dragons are prone to do. Djinni does not move off to pace as he does, though. Instead she watches the green and purple mare, her yellow eyes glittering but not hard.
”Were you to uphold your claim on this land, would you welcome refugees?” Is all that she adds, teetering on the precipice of neutrality rather than diving directly into mischief. Djinni is inclined to punish Nerine for stripping her of her titles and rank, but she is not without a sense of (skewed) fairness.
Always a capricious creature, the genie has grown too still of late. Happiness alone is not enough to satisfy the rose-hued woman it seems, and so with happiness still clutched right (she carries Walter’s son within her womb, after all) she appears in an instant on the northernmost island of Beqanna.
She is not alone - a colorful woman has been accosted by a pair of strangers a few hundred meters ahead. Djinni breathes in the bitter air, and exhales a gold-tinted breath. When it fades she is far better suited for this northern world. The pony now wears a plush coat of pink and white fur, so plentiful that she might be stocky fjord under it rather than a desert horse. Warmer, she steps through the snow until she reaches the other horses.
She had decided, but the decision was simply to do as she pleased. The ties she had to the iron grey kingdom are ties to the residents only, and two in particular. Well, three, she supposed, if she is to count her son.
There are dragon prints in the snow behind the black stallion, and Djinni narrows her yellow eyes as she approaches. Not Lior, she thinks, but Castile. He had been absent for some time, and most of his memories are shuttered away with those of her eldest son. It is nice to see him back, even if he doesn’t seem aware of what is happening. Then again, there is a plague. Who could be entirely aware.
”Nerine doesn’t need a subkingom.” She says, making the assumption that the mare who has accosted the claimant must be the Heartfire that Breckin has mentioned. ”They need safety. Probably warmth, too.” At this a distant tree is suddenly aflame, spewing black smoke into the air as the branches and evergreen needles burn.
Castile asks the same questions she might have - and does so a bit more aggressively, as dragons are prone to do. Djinni does not move off to pace as he does, though. Instead she watches the green and purple mare, her yellow eyes glittering but not hard.
”Were you to uphold your claim on this land, would you welcome refugees?” Is all that she adds, teetering on the precipice of neutrality rather than diving directly into mischief. Djinni is inclined to punish Nerine for stripping her of her titles and rank, but she is not without a sense of (skewed) fairness.