Valley of Horses, Wrath and Isolde pt.1

Isᴏʟᴅᴇ▪Fᴀʟʟᴏɴ : ["Go on, darling. Take it. Take it and go into your room and spread it all over your skin. Don't miss anything within your reach and I'll handle the rest once you're finished!" The flamboyant hand-lad...hand..maiden? Hand-man? "--Stylist, dearie!" he corrected with the flit of his wrist, swaying his hips fluidly as he spoke as if reading her mind. Yes. Stylist. Personal Stylist. Isolde had never heard of such a title, let alone conceiving of the creams, tinctures and masques he'd hurled at her over the previous few hours. But here he was in all of his fabulous glory: Ambrose Qinnan. Standing at a waspish 6 feet precisely, the willowy elf was pristine. Manicured hair, nails, skin and teeth paled in comparison to his uniquely tailored clothing. With monotone filigree, the brocade fabrics of his vest and pants were at -c

Isᴏʟᴅᴇ▪Fᴀʟʟᴏɴ : both times tacky and elegant. Ambrose's style was intentionally loud, likely meant to speak to his outlandish preferences and natural talents. He was self-aware enough to know that uncommon trends could be fashion forward if worn properly-- often pulling off what others would have been laughed out of court in. It was awareness of his own frame, the tone of his ochre skin, eyes and dark hair that aided in his combination of patterns and palettes when dressing and applying makeup. Shapes, heft of fabric, the weight of shadow in the right places-- all intentional choices meant to emphasize or detract. He was this way with each of his clients, as well. It was one of his many talents, not to forget his hand in wards and hex magicks. Isolde held an amber glass jar of some opalescent salve between two thin hands, fingertips tapping its outer bezel. "What is it?" she asked warily before Ambrose grasped her by the shoulders to turn her around and usher her toward the doorway to privacy. -c

Isᴏʟᴅᴇ▪Fᴀʟʟᴏɴ : "Shush shush shush, I'm working here and you're making it difficult. Shoo." Isolde frowned as she was turned on a heel and tutted into a separate room of the chambers. "Staaaaa-rip, sister! Remember, don't miss a spot!" Ambrose called as the door slid and latched closed. Holding the jar up, the fair florist watched it glimmer in the fading daylight. Lovat hues studied the semi-precious goo, full lips pursed before she set it on a side table and began to slip out of her clothing. Standing nude in the dimming light while fat flakes of niveous white fell at the sill, the withy florist lifted her fingertips to inspect the radiant cream on them. Rubbing it between her fingertips, she watched as it glimmered in a filmy, oily sheen of violet and pale blue in the white wintry light. Shifting toward the warm glow of the fire in her hearth, she watched as the lotion changed colors, warming under the hazy orange light to her opposite side. -c

Isᴏʟᴅᴇ▪Fᴀʟʟᴏɴ : The length of her pale figure was cast into opposing light where she stood. Ivory flesh washed with complimentary shades of tangerine and indigo at the edges. As she began to rub the cream over her skin, it briefly flickered where applied, giving indication of its boundaries. Helpful: she would be able to see where she missed a spot, if only briefly. When the girl had near finished the task of applying the warded concoction, she called out "And now?", listening to the rustling on the other side of the door. "And now?" Ambrose echoed, "You. Better. Work it!" he concluded. Isolde smiled briefly, nodding. She'd enjoy his company, she decided. An excellent stylist made her feel regal without making her feel unapproachable or intimidating. ]

Ɯɍλτн·Ɗϵɑτђsταᴌᴋϵᴙ : :: Wrath had placed renewed emphasis on Isolde’s protection in the aftermath of the battle. Constantly checking on his beloved, he was never far from her side. Recalling Isolde’s distress the Imperial Prince had rightly speculated that the man he’d beheaded was Linden. >>

Ɯɍλτн·Ɗϵɑτђsταᴌᴋϵᴙ : >> Understanding the distress and subsequent trauma the man had put her through, the second-generation Nephilim had been quick to console her. Even offered some genuine empathy for her loss, despite being the one to lay the killing strike on what was presumably an unrequited love interest from her youth. >>

Ɯɍλτн·Ɗϵɑτђsταᴌᴋϵᴙ : >> Although Linden hadn’t physically snatched her, the man had pulled the strings and orchestrated Isolde’s capture from afar. Not knowledgeable of all the details, Wrath had listened patiently while the florist had explained her shared history with the callous rogue. A man who’d spent his life being used to getting his own way, usually at other people’s expense. >>

Ɯɍλτн·Ɗϵɑτђsταᴌᴋϵᴙ : >> Least until he’d met a proverbial brick wall in Wrath. The Emperor’s eldest born had been the anti-thesis to everything Linden had represented and in these murky waters, Wrath was simply the bigger shark. There could’ve only been one outcome. Thus the grim saga had ended the only way it could, as Widow Maker’s prodigious blade drove through his neck. >>

Ɯɍλτн·Ɗϵɑτђsταᴌᴋϵᴙ : >> Hours later and soon to be reunited with the florist, the General of the North reflected on all that had come before as he strode forward towards their pre-arranged meeting point. The moody heavens above approaching nightfall on a grassy hill in the Valley of Horses. Spotting Isolde and outstretching his hand when he saw her, the Prince was struck by her beauty. >>

Ɯɍλτн·Ɗϵɑτђsταᴌᴋϵᴙ : >> His mammoth grip enclosing around her much smaller fingers, pulling her towards him. Together they walked. The wind was strong, though it had less to do with the chill of the season and more to do with the approaching beast. The distant sound of draconian wings beating against the horizon. Wrath’s long blonde hair blowing in front of his rugged features when he spoke. >>

Ɯɍλτн·Ɗϵɑτђsταᴌᴋϵᴙ : >> “I want to give you a new memory. Something to make you forget about everything else.” Then venturing a few feet ahead of her. “You’re a part of a legacy now, Isolde. I share it with you willingly and no creature better epitomises the power of my family.” >>

Ɯɍλτн·Ɗϵɑτђsταᴌᴋϵᴙ : >> A dramatic sight, gliding over their heads. An immense, elemental force of nature. A dragon! ::

Isᴏʟᴅᴇ▪Fᴀʟʟᴏɴ : [After hours of careful preparation with Ambrose under Wrath's direction, Isolde was fully armed against whatever troubles might come her way. In a figurative bubble, she'd at least be warded from the skin out. Defensive measures were uncommon territory for the girl, but both Ambrose and Wrath seemed thoroughly familiar with them. Necessary in his world, Wrath had been quick to give her several gifts of protection. Unassuming and docile, the Fallon girl had come to learn their necessity the hard way-- by being vulnerable. Their recent endeavors were no exception. Linden's successful trap had been laid for her, preying on the advantages presented by her vulnerable and trusting nature. Unfortunate results belonged to all involved, though Linden had arguably gotten the sharpest end of the stick in the end. Isolde rode in the cold night air, features kept clear of her long, dark hair by the southerly winds. After being bathed in warded lotion from head to toe, she'd been dressed in -c

Isᴏʟᴅᴇ▪Fᴀʟʟᴏɴ : additional armors to repel a variance of harm. The result was mystifying. Isolde had no understanding of the magic at use under the careful hands of her stylist, though she quickly grasped at why he'd been chosen. Both enigmatic and wildly talented, the willowy elf had managed to craft protective armor that began at the base level of her flesh and extended to her clothing. It was stylish, despite being a bit too exposing for the girl's taste. And it was strong. She could feel the power of its protection in her bones. Like a good, strong pair of boots, she felt as if she could hurl her body into any challenge and come out unharmed on the other side. She was still unaware of what Wrath could have possibly planned that would require such preparations-- but thus far the experience had been so overwhelmingly pleasant (dare she say...fun?!) that she felt his over-protective measures were surely a reactionary move given the previous weeks. Surely, nothing too dangerous for the evening? -c

Isᴏʟᴅᴇ▪Fᴀʟʟᴏɴ : Wrong. Thin, white leather leggings were near-painted on over the outskirts of her roving frame. Laid over the calves were tall boots which began at the toe and tapered off at the knee in expertly crafted dragon-scale. It was replicated in design to the side of either of her thighs, climbing up over her hips and molding comfortably up her waistline. A tailored white quilted Gambeson styled in a peplum over the leather base layers, which provided her with some modesty beneath its umbrella whilst leaving a revealing keyhole at her cleavage. She felt that while flattering, the close cut of the leggings beneath were far too revealing of her backside. Of course, she'd only ever worn pants once, so her preference for the modest cut of dresses and skirts had some distinct sway on her opinion. A golden breastplate, fashioned with the Deathstalker crest amdist flourishes of flora and fauna seemed to reflect both her personal style and the pattern of dragonscale on the rest of her -c

Isᴏʟᴅᴇ▪Fᴀʟʟᴏɴ : clothing. On her shoulders were epaulets of matching gold dragonscale-- a foreshadowing of the night's events to come. Attached beneath them was the fine silvery cloak of invisibility that Wrath had gifted her. Its ghostly presence at her back drifted lightly on the wind-- seemingly defenseless by looks, deceptive. Perhaps it was intentionally so, but Isolde wouldn't have known. The crown of her head was decorated with a gold and silver filigree circlet, enchanted to guard a halo of space around her head without the burden of a helmet. The horse beneath her, an Imperial mount that she'd never ridden before, galloped toward the valley. Isolde rode with expertise learned over years of farm life, lithe frame comfortable over the creature's back. She leaned in, gloved hands grasping the reigns, knees tense whilst her backside lifted a bit off of the saddle. The clean brumal coat in the valley sprawled ahead of her, and for once in her life the Fallon girl took advantage of something.-c

Isᴏʟᴅᴇ▪Fᴀʟʟᴏɴ : The feeling of absolute freedom, no longer bridled by Linden's presence or her parents' expectations. Now free to explore all that she pleased, all afforded by the love and notoriety of her beloved. As the horse kicked up powdery bursts of snow behind her, Isolde felt no chill. It was mystifying. Her toggery felt light, but it was resistant to drastic temperatures. Ambrose had shown her by shoving one of her gloved hands into the fire. He'd promptly been stricken, much to Isolde's horror-- she'd reacted violently to the fire when unprepared for the abrupt, exuberant gesture. Ambrose responded kindly, of course, point taken. Isolde did not like fire. However, his emphatic display had worked. Now in the cold, the girl understood that incredible ethereal feats went into the man's work in clothing. Neither fire, nor the frigid winter air cut to her skin, even where it was exposed. Briefly she wondered at how such a thing could exist and the whole world not have access to it-- so much-c

Isᴏʟᴅᴇ▪Fᴀʟʟᴏɴ : good could be done! (And so much bad, but she couldn't have conceived how.) In the light of a full moon on a white valley scape, the girl arrived. Spying the Leviathan in their agreed meeting place, a radiant smile played at her wind-swept features. "Wrath!" she ejected with vim as she swiftly dismounted to meet him. Her hand slipped easily into his, its small form melting into the spaces of his vast palm as she joined his side, oil-sheen cloak billowing in the wind behind her in the bright moonlight. She gazed up at him as he spoke, internally remarking on the effect his voice had on her-- it was incredible how such subtle things evoked deep desire within her. With wide, curious eyes, she followed his lead. As they fell into step aside one another, she nodded. He stepped ahead of her, guiding her to draw to a pause while he turned around to face the girl. He monologued for a moment and she grinned. She would not forget, but certainly new memories would help dull the old ones. -c

Isᴏʟᴅᴇ▪Fᴀʟʟᴏɴ : His looming frame was vast in comparison to her own, and as she admired the strength of it against the hibernal backdrop of the valley and horizon, her thoughts were interrupted by the appearance of a winged beast. "My stars..." Isolde breathed, an evanescent puff of air escaping her lips as she tilted her head to turn and watch the Dragon as it flew overhead. "Wrath!" she exclaimed, turning away from him to watch where it flew behind her. "They're real!" she added with renewed vim. She'd never seen one, but gods was it beautiful! Majestic and powerful-- dangerous, she was sure. And suddenly, she understood the need for all of the layers of protection she'd been given. She turned back to her beloved, lovat hues alight with curiosity. "You've brought me to watch them?" she asked with certainty, so very excited at the prospect of seeing such lovely, terrifying creatures from afar.]

Ɯɍλτн·Ɗϵɑτђsταᴌᴋϵᴙ : :: Hearing a rumble in the heavens that resembled thunder, the Prince-Regent knew inherently what approached. “As real as it gets,” smiled the broad-shouldered warrior. The sky occupied by a dark grey abomination which circulated the distant hills before swooping low. To which a wingspan which defied description, enveloped them in shadow as the moonlight shimmered across overlapping metallic scales that were coarse and heavy. Exhibiting a dull sheen as powerful muscles flexed beneath. A ring of spikes crowning its monstrous head. An Iron Dragon! “This is Apophis. It belongs to my father – but he isn’t here. That makes him mine.” Shouted Wrath. “Ours.” Turning to her with a wolfish grin. >>

Ɯɍλτн·Ɗϵɑτђsταᴌᴋϵᴙ : >> The Valley so named because of its freely roaming wild horses were instilled with instinctual fear and thus whinnied in distraught terror, galloping down the sloping landscape as fast as their hooves would carry them. If Isolde looked closely, she might have even caught some brief trepidation in her betrothed’s expression. On account that he hadn’t actually been granted permission to summon the Iron Dragon. Yet come it had! A groan felt on the air, as if gravity protested from the weight and force of the creature. Its utter heaviness. A beast of such might and power which demanded their recognition and respect. The Emperor’s son outstretching his hand, producing an artifact. A crystalized relic known as the Shard of Tiamat. One of five, it allowed Wrath to commune with the monstrous serpent, summarily calling it towards them. >>

Ɯɍλτн·Ɗϵɑτђsταᴌᴋϵᴙ : >> A vibration felt in the earth when it stomped into its aggressive landing. Immense wings folding on its sheer physical bulk behind it while a magnetic glare reflected the Nephilim and florist. “I don’t share the same affinity with Apophis that my father does. Which is why I need this.” Showing her the crystal in his large hand. “Do not be afraid. It will not harm us.” Cautiously reaching out until he made physical contact with the dragon. Flesh against scale. Perhaps using the magic of the shard to express his intentions. A transference of will, energy and emotion. Terrifying clawed talons finding purchase on the grassy hill, covered in snow. >>

Ɯɍλτн·Ɗϵɑτђsταᴌᴋϵᴙ : >> “Would you like to ride him with me?” Unsure of her response but knowing her well enough that she would surely not refuse him, irrespective of her natural fear which was to be expected. The primal urge to flee even existed in Wrath, even with the benefit of the crystal and years of experience. Though what he offered Isolde was unbelievable and she might never get the chance again. ::

Isᴏʟᴅᴇ▪Fᴀʟʟᴏɴ : [With her breath hanging in the air overhead, Isolde stared in pure shock after Wrath's proud response. He seemed just as thrilled and apprehensive as she did-- his energy was tangible. Her small frame wavered as gusts of air from beneath its leathery wings swirled around them, knees a bit weak as she considered the Dragon's sheer mass and strength. The shadow it's wings had cast was terrifyingly big, magnified and cast by the moonlight in the valley where they stood. The violent animal of lore had a name, she learned as she watched horses scatter across the distant hills. 'Ours', Wrath had corrected, though Isolde knew  without needing to be prompted that Dragons belonged to nobody. Nothing so powerful could be contained or bound for long. The wind whipped her hair over her forehead as she turned to Wrath, spying the trepidation in the corners of his wolfish grin. Stormy hues softened, inspecting the artifact where it lie in his massive palm. She stepped up to view it from a -c

Isᴏʟᴅᴇ▪Fᴀʟʟᴏɴ : vantage, inspecting its sharpened edges and glossy sheen. What about it held the power to confer with a great beast? Isolde's pondering was cut short by the sudden trembling of earth beneath her feet. Apophis had landed, great taloned feet bearing into the land with gravid purpose just beyond the pair. Frozen in her place, Isolde couldn't consider the brevity of her thoughts before she felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end-- she had dreamt this. As it stomped toward them, she could feel its prying gaze on she and the Prince-Regent. Knowing that what came next was a crucial moment, Isolde hesitated to turn around. Her feet felt cemented in place, lithe frame resistant to expose her front to the serpentine beast. Moonlight reflected from its scales and scattered across the landscape beyond Wrath. Isolde knew that she needed to turn around, and so slowly she did. As Wrath explained their need for the shard, Isolde felt her stomach churn. Their safety relied on a small -c

Isᴏʟᴅᴇ▪Fᴀʟʟᴏɴ : shard of colored glass. Perhaps that explained Wrath's apprehension? He was reassuring at the same time. She'd turned to face the Iron Dragon as it approached, crawling across the landscape with ravenous curiosity. It was drawn by the shard in Wrath's hand, she could feel it radiating like a  magnetic beacon from his palm. In the safety of his frame, the prim florist leaned her back to Wrath's chest. She watched as Apophis approached. Her eyes were outlined heavily in a khol liner, lashes thick and dark against the smoked-out haze of eyeshadow. Pupils were just as dark inside of the glaucous irises, which reflected the approaching Dragon. Her lips parted to allow a shallow gasp, heart hammering in her chest beneath a golden filigreed breastplate. "You've got to be joking." she whispered, eyes scanning the length of the massive beast. She wondered at how one could even find purchase on such an animal. Where would they ride? Its scales were harder than any substance she'd ever -c

Isᴏʟᴅᴇ▪Fᴀʟʟᴏɴ : known or seen-- surely not a compromising place to sit. As she watched the three-lidded eyes blink whilst it's winged carpus knuckles prowled the ground toward them. The narrow, slitted pupils were unforgiving and sharp. She felt as if it could read her mind-- sense her fear. She watched as her beloved reached out and settled his free hand on the scales of it's snout. Trying to ignore its ferocious maw beneath, she compelled herself to do the same-- but it took a moment. She waited, drawing a shaky breath as Wrath's arm around her coaxed the familiar toward trust. Slowly, the florist would reach out to do the same. Pausing for a moment, she'd reach up to pull the fingertips of her glove-- not wanting to lose the moment to a barrier between her skin and the very real, corporeal being before her. In dreams, she'd touched it, but in real life-- everything was far more visceral. Clutching her glove in one hand whilst the other lifted bare to Apophis' scaled flesh, she let her -c

Isᴏʟᴅᴇ▪Fᴀʟʟᴏɴ : fingertips rest gently. A rush of ethereal conductivity sprawled through her palms as she made contact and Isolde resisted the jolt that came after. A timorous smile crossed her features as she let the rest of her hand press gingerly to the beast's cheek, one brave step bringing her closer still to it's face. "Ohh..." she breathed reflexively, enamored with the texture of its scales beneath her palm. "How do we..." she began to wonder aloud, eyes not leaving the large, glassy ones of their new companion as she spoke to Wrath, "I'd like to, very much." she concluded, though she was having a difficult time grasping the concept.]

Ɯɍλτн·Ɗϵɑτђsταᴌᴋϵᴙ : :: The volatile predator observed them. Its nostrils flaring while plumes of smoke billowed from its giant reptilian head. Creating a mist that merged with clouds that obscured the silver moonlight. Apophis was a colossal being. Yet such ferocious majesty was tempered by the dragon’s deep intelligence. Wrath and Isolde gaining the lingering sense that the Shard of Tiamat couldn’t force it to do anything but instead provided a channel. Meaning they were capable of prompting it. Nevertheless there was always that niggling sense of autonomy and independent thought. For dragons were chaotic and wild spirits. >>

Ɯɍλτн·Ɗϵɑτђsταᴌᴋϵᴙ : >> Meanwhile to Isolde’s quiet sentiment, they lived freely. The broad-shouldered swordsman breaking into a wide grin. “I wouldn’t joke about something like this.” Trusting in the Iron Dragon’s affinity with his father, Wrath chose to put his faith in it. Gesturing to depressions in the overlapping scales. Wrath’s mammoth palm found purchase in the gaps. Equally his booted feet pressed against muscular protrusions, beginning a cautious climb up the creature’s bulk, offering a hand back to Isolde. “This way.” The lovers ascending ever higher as if they surmounted one of the mountains cradling the horizon. >>

Ɯɍλτн·Ɗϵɑτђsταᴌᴋϵᴙ : >> The pair pulling themselves up towards its powerful neck, where safety harnesses and thick ropes were fastened against its horns. Two leather saddles aligning near its head. Pointing to one of them, Wrath sat beside Isolde and fastened himself in position. Helping her to adjust until she was secure, Wrath gave the commandment. “Fly!” Came the bold instruction. The Prince-Regent pulling on great chains attached to its horns, conducive to the dragon’s control, steering its massive head. Its prodigious wings beating against the dark sky. >>

Ɯɍλτн·Ɗϵɑτђsταᴌᴋϵᴙ : >> Assured movement akin to muscle reflex, that was almost instinctual as Wrath piloted the great aerial mount. He’d been flying a long time, exhibited by his surety and confidence as the metallic beast bounded high in the air. Huge sheets of iron thrusting as Apophis flew with purpose. Wrath’s hair blowing in the wind, not bothering with his helmet. The Iron Dragon now ascending through the moody clouds. The ground below growing more distant, thatched rooftops and rolling hills far beneath them. >>

Ɯɍλτн·Ɗϵɑτђsταᴌᴋϵᴙ : >> “I would give you the world Isolde,” he told her. “This is only the start!” the steel-clad warrior shouting. Apophis flying at intense velocity. Gliding through a narrow band of air current which encircled the hemisphere. A powerful roar from the creature that reverberated through the land. The couple travelling atop the volatile dragon as its thick tail twisted through the night. Caught somewhere between a dream and the cusp of adventure. ::