cold in the violence after the war
hope is a fire to keep us warm
One would assume, as a horse, she might be justifiably afraid of fire. Of course, one would assume wrong. Fire is not something she had ever learned to fear. And so, her response to seeing great plumes of flame rain down on the trees to the south of Nerine is instant fury rather than any sort of alarm.
Bursting into a ground eating gallop, she crosses the flat, rocky clifftops, feet sure and nimble across the familiarly uneven terrain. Eyes flashing blue fury, she follows the progress of the winged perpetrator across the sky as he deliberately lights Nerine’s sparse forests, building them into a small inferno. Fresh blood trickles from wounds where bone rips through skin, but pain is an old companion, easily ignored. As she nears however, her skin stiffens, hardening. Stone wars with bone, an aching press that ends in a draw and stems the bleeding.
She does not make a sound as she races into the pits of the fire, following where she had watched Ghaul disappear to. Head ducking, gaze determined, uncompromising, she barrels forward. She does not slow when she comes upon Ghaul, as one might expect. Instead, her hooves dig harder into ashen earth, increasing her momentum as she plows headlong towards the horn-eyed Pangean.
She is a battering ram. One with horns, as it now happens. Horns that she knows, without doubt, could do serious damage. Of course, her intent here is not murderous, though only by a narrow margin. Rather, it is to express her intense displeasure and demonstrate just how badly he had miscalculated their strength and determination. She doesn’t yell or shout. She doesn’t say anything at all. No doubt Ghaul could figure out on his own just what had infuriated her after he picked himself out of the embers of the burning trees.
Brazen