Lion Head Mesa Trod on my abbot, Father Habit

she is stiff and cold and readying herself for war. she has fashioned her rage and grief into sharp edges, using each surge of emotion to fuel her on. she has pulled from all the savagery of her bloodline, the best of it, and now is prepared to turn it on the Saints.

Avicus makes her way down the slope, considering a spar, when she sees the white-gold man ahead.

her lips peel back, and she muscles quickly toward him, though it is soon clear to her nose that he's one of them (though she hadn't seen much of him in the previous days). still, she very well could have missed him in the fray.

her indigo eyes sweep over him, calculated, appraising. yes? she asks silently, though her lips don't utter the phrase.

she hasn't spoken a word since they laid her mother to rest.