the thick clouds chase pirouette 'round the sun, drifting over the golden disk obscuring it from view. the morning air is warm, thick with a syrupy dampness that clings to the emerald blades of grass, twisted in spiderwebs spun betwixt the trees in droplets of dew. praimfaya tries to stay in territories close to the keep and aware from the bleeding forest; though her aversion is only because she is in no state to fight. revenge is temptation incarnate within her; jus drein, jus daun awoken with all the ferocity within her.
she tells herself that she should not listen to her pride. it wasn't worth another fight. it wasn't worth the feel of another's teeth at her throat. though not the first time she's had it. it reminded her too much of sadgeda; the atrocities committed by her and the other commander potentials. a shaky breath is taken as she shrugs through a silky cobweb; a small, delicate shake of her coat given as if it could dispel the stubborn strands that cling to her scarred left shoulder and billow in the soft breeze — too warm to be considered cooling — and lets the seabreeze entice her to the sea lion shores.
frostbound gaze surveys the sand dunes and pools of stagnant seawater trapped by the recede of the tide. she takes note of the sealions sunbathing on the dunes to her right, plenty far down the beach that she doesn't think she will be much of a thought to them. mindful ever the same she makes her ways towards the frothing and foaming waves and lets out a sigh of relief as the cold seawater crashes against her paws and legs, splashing up against her belly.
unlike the island's empress, astaroth had never once felt a drive to rid others from the nearby land. being overly territorial led to as many issues as not being territorial enough, and so unless another famine were to strike and they be left battling to the death for food, he saw no reason to chase loners or otherwise from the shore.
with that being said, he did find himself curious as to who came to visit the pools and sunbathing sea lions. and so with a spring in his step, the inky ghoul set off to close the distance between himself and the silhouette of smoke and fog.
upon being a bit closer, he was hit with the familiarity of her appearance, but could not place where he'd seen her before. the memory was blurred and distorted, and he found himself only able recall the name she had bestowed upon him - ripa. "hello again...i think?", he half-asked with a tilt of his head as he stood just shy of where the waves crashed.
a shadow approaches her though the sound of his footfalls are swallowed by the shifting sands and drown in the crash of the frothy waves, drudging up all manners of jetsam and flotsam from the depths of the sea. a wrinkle of praimfaya's nose, a small hiss of pain as the action pulls at the shallow wounds left there as she studies the man with a sweep of frostbound gaze. she does not recognize him as immediately as he does her — for she was most assuredly high for most of that meeting. until he speaks. ripa!
she greets him with gusto, as if she were greeting a life-long friend instead of a stranger she came across effervescent mushrooms with.
only to let out a low whine of pain lacing with unbridled regret. the motion of speech in her throat, the vowels and constants tearing from her throat with the ease that she was accustomed pulled at the tended and healing but still fresh wounds.
ears flutter back and then flick as if she were swatting away a bothersome fly; she tries. to swat away the pain as if it were that simple. what doesn't kill you makes you stronger and all.
to be honest, i thought i'd made you up.
praimfaya admits with a sheepish roll of left, scarred shoulder and a cloying grin.
she greets him like he is a long lost friend or old companion, and he finds himself even more confused now then he was just moments before. had they known each other for long? was she a childhood friend he'd accidentally forgotten? a memory hits him like a brick in the head, and he is suddenly reminded of the name she had shared with him - "you're wanheda, right?"
there is more there but his mind goes blank again, and he is left staring in the rippled waters as the memory fades of their last encounter.
perhaps it was for the better, as her whine steals away his attention from anything other than her. he catches a glance of her healing wounds, though it is the scars upon her shoulder that hold his focus. he'd definitely seen them before. "well, i certainly hope the real me doesn't disappoint in comparison to the version of me in your head", he tosses back with a playful grin, still curious as to how they'd come to know one another.
right,
praimfaya affirms with a delicate nod of her head; mindful of her wounds. wanheda is my title. my name is praimfaya.
but being unintentionally high off the spores of the luminous mushrooms hadn't left much room for proper introductions. pri for short.
because she knew that sometimes 'praimfaya' could be quite a mouthful for non-native trigedasleng speakers. in my defense i was high off those weird glowing mushrooms,
a flash of linkoln's face blindsides her for a moment before the mental image of what she thought the first wanheda looked like fades; like smoke betwixt her teeth.
i was suffering from hallucinations.
she says this with a cheeky grin. glad to see that i didn't imagine you though.
if she's shared anything else with him in the dark woods she doesn't remember. so, d'you have a name? or do you want me to run around calling you ripa?
she asks with a teasing lilt to her tone.
praimfaya - there is no recollection of her name stored anywhere is his memory and so he can only assume that this is the first he's heard it. she speaks again though, and it is with these words that some shard of recognition returns to him. oh right, they'd been on a hill that day...or was it a mountain? either way they'd lost their minds together - a poetic start to a quite the interesting friendship it would seem.
she asks for his name and he tilts his chin upwards with a thoughtful smirk. "i don't know, ripa sounds kinda cool if you ask me." the nickname certainly fit his appearance, though not quite his personality. "i'm astaroth", he officially introduces with a toothy grin and easygoing sway of his inky tail.
on that i can't argue,
praimfaya acquiesces with a low hum in her throat, wincing minutely as the vibrations along the column of her throat tug at the mending flesh wounds. ripa definitely sounds cool.
in her totally biased opinion trigedasleng had a lot of cool sounding words. she wished more wolves in the wilds spoke it and tried to imagine the time of her mother when many did. this thought brings with it a blossoming of loneliness that praimfaya does her best to stifle. it would not be this way, forever, she tells herself. someday she would have children and she would teach the trigedasleng and their culture and her children would teach their children —
it would continue.
she would make sure of it.
astaroth.
she tests his name, feeling how it rolls off of her tongue. smoother than any trig name she'd ever uttered, smoother even than ripa. where are you from, if you don't mind me asking?
she inquires conversationally, figuring out now that they were both of a right mind it wouldn't hurt to actually get to know one another.