[ Post a Response | Desreal ]
Posted by MAB; in silver on November 4, 2008, 11:49 am, in reply to "snow falling on spider's threads;"
205.188.116.195
Against Desreal’s winter sky, Mab is the deep foreboding summer storm. Cloaked in eerie darkness of smoke, blue, and silver with perhaps small hints of gold and melodramatic honey all wrapped into one sky that promises hell will be spawned from within its rotating masses of flame kissed and charred lines and magnificent mottling that appears as if the sun was being suffocated by the very cloak and bounds it’s heat had created. Dancing against the snow, the black limbs of the grulla horse are hard to mistake. She sports no scars, for her inner heat had properly knit and healed her wounds. She sports no open wounds, for they have all been cauterized and properly healed. She’s far from sweaty, far from rank… She only moves with the ease of fire roaring across a drought stricken field. It is the way of the rust-red eyed mare as she continues to keep Ahriman company, to ruffle his feathers if only a bit longer regardless of how she’d been freed from the chains binding her to Andarin. It was a dance against time as they moved in almost perfect synchronization, and their beauty spoke volumes as they breathed but a fine mist, and kicked up snow as they floated along so superior to the elements blindly knitting all around them a perfect backdrop.
She is content despite the hold Andarin had kept upon her. Content even though in her heart she dreads the trip she must make back to the ailing Ni’Srilan. But for now she allows Ahriman to test her patients with his bold study of her and the words he offers are of small consequence.. “You who know nothing of the Desert fought to bring me home to it. Why?” the stygian fiend banters back with a gentle toss of her magnificent head as she, herself, skitters to one side to avoid a fallen branch that had long since become victim to the heavy layer of ice and snow that coated every twig and every bough. To her, this was the way the world should remain… Snowfields blanketed in nothing but the honesty winter has to offer. There is no sneaking around in a world covered with something as delicate and beautiful and telling as snow is.
But as Ahriman may shiver with no protection, no honest inner warmth and a sparse winter coat, Mab fails to. Protected from the cold by the fire she burns she dare not become victim to hypothermia. But such is of little consequence. Live or die, Ahriman was an infant in the eyes of the cruel mare in such ways that he held no place in Ni’Srilan or any other home. He wore no titles, but the news of his first win had carried far and wide to grace her ears. He’d vanquished Aquila. It didn’t matter his answer for the while as they strode through the beauty of Desreal in winter. “You are but a breath away from Bronze, if only you can find someone to fight you willing to take on a challenge… I suggest calling out the feeble Bronzes and Silvers, see what you can take by making a name for yourself. Fighting and winning against… Undesirables… Only makes you appear like a cheap shot. Ahriman.” Oh Mab… Opinionated as ever, but warranted in your words as you walk cloaked in Silver and bathed in muted fires poised to become a Gold in your very next breath.
FIRE III+ - Viper - Silver Warrior
Cante Peta
2
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