Silvertip Mountain thestral

over the edge of the stone dragomir's form went -- gone in an instant. astara need not peer over the brim to see the catastrophic scene below -- she heard it. the sickening crunch of his limbs, the whoosh of air crushed from his lungs... all of it formed a pretty picture in the wraith's mind, one which scarcely needed re-imagining.

what did she feel, following this? astara knew not the word for it, but it stuck to her heart and thrummed between her ribs all the same. a strange and darkly buzzing excitement, one that did not fade or weaken.

the forest lulled from its loathsome silence into something busy again; insects stirred, wings fluttered -- somewhere in the distance the wind picked up between a ridge of tall fir, howling to itself as it tore down a dark and unknown ravine. astara turned to merrick, her indigo no match for the fire in his gaze -- she preened his cheek in return, and then legged nimbly after him.