Desreal: nightmare; --

“Quite an experience to live in fear, isn't it? That's what it is to be a slave.”
- Blade Runner

Chaos... the winds hum, low in their throat – a throat made of vortices and updrafts. Yeah, I like the sound of that.

She thinks of Solira burning – and smiles.

Chaos. Like the sinkhole of Solira. They hate me, did you know? Marshall and Hypatia both. Ah, but I do so love chaos.

Oh, she does; she loves it in her own way – with her shadows and the way she appears when they least expect her, just at the right time, almost as if a sixth sense led her through where she was needed. Shadows, she thinks affectionately and it isn’t a lie. Her world is one of shadows: in titles, in names, in occupations, in reality. The shadows that even now creep closer to her, wherever light isn’t quite light and dark isn’t quite dark.

Death is easy, she shrugs; she would know – she has been there. Death is predictable, in a way. I like blood.

Fenrisulfr doesn’t know if different individuals see different things as they die, but she knows what she felt when the hounds slit her throat: nothing whatsoever. A consciousness that isn’t conscious, not unlike a dream without images or sound – just naked thought.

There were days when she almost wanted to be there.

With the shadows.

But she smiles then, her eyes upturned to him – she has never been very tall or very impressive, just as she is neither beautiful or particularly strong. Whatever beauty she has is less hers and more the wind’s – the violent, ruthless winds, ice-cold and unrepentant.

The winds remember the shard’s lightning.

There are days when she remembers the blood trickling down her throat, the blood of unhealed wounds and the shard’s thirst mingling together. Falling into slavery as easily as she fell into whatever else in her life.

A mistake she would never do again.

I never thought you the type for shards, her shoulder rolls and her smile grows something feral, almost careless. After all… she pauses, lips – soundless as usual – against the scales of his shoulder, where the Air thrums thicker. Not inborn as her own, or even as sinuous and complete as her water. Thicker. More primal, but also more separate. I never pegged you as one for slavery.

Oh, she does so love to play with danger.

fenrisulfr
some there be that shadows kiss,
such have but a shadow’s bliss.