[open] green light in my eyes

"MY OLD MAN IS A BAD MAN BUT
I CAN'T DENY THE WAY HE HOLDS MY HAND
AND HE GRABS ME, HE HAS ME BY MY HEART"

She has been watching him for a while, with a strange and disinterested intensity - the faded blue of her eyes is stark against the smooth gray of the mountain and the rare tufts of grass buried in the rock, and Sam is crouched low, is coiled like a predator. Two russet wings filled with silky feathers are laid flat against her back, and her petite form is almost completely hidden by the sharp slant of the mountain, and the huge, uneven rocks that litter its surface. She chooses her steps carefully, her eyes flitting back and forth with every stride, every hoof placed with a definitive and maybe overconfident purpose. It is desolate up here, but Samaire does not particularly mind it, feeling a tiny connection to the emptiness of everything in the space where her heart should have been.

She can feel it bragging: through layers of china-white bone, knotted muscle, porcelain-flecked skin, her heart is pounding louder than it should be. It is almost a comfort to feel the muscle thumping away, tireless in its one and only career, heavy and genuine in the cavity of her chest. She is leaning against the edge of a boulder and feeling the smooth surface leak its chill into her form, ignoring the coldness that is climbing through her narrow form. It is a refreshing change from the rest of the are and the homeland she has just recently left, a place where the sun was always shining, where there was nothing to lessen the atrocity of the weather. Here, it is strangely gray and the clouds are rolling with rain that they haven't yet released, and Sam feels elated to see that there is a storm on the way.

The man starts moving again, and the red princess does not pause to think before she slinks out from her shelter. Her steps are quick and her limbs sturdy as they dance over the uneven slope of the rock, and her wings lift ever so slightly, twisting to aid her balance. Mountains of unkempt sanguine curls slip and shift over the muscles in her arched neck, bounce across her washed-out blue gaze as she saunters carelessly up to her company's front; what are you doing here?



OOC: hope you don't mind me jumping in!
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"MY OLD MAN IS A BAD MAN BUT
I CAN'T DENY THE WAY HE HOLDS MY HAND
AND HE GRABS ME, HE HAS ME BY MY HEART"

Sam observes the man coolly, and the iciness of her gaze - the smooth, undisturbed chill that is flitting over those worn blue eyes - displays none of the distaste she already feels for her company. Conflicting emotions worm their way through her, though none are strong enough to reflect back to this thing she has so rudely interrupted. On the nape of her neck and the soft curve of her back, a few stray hairs bristle, and her porcelain teeth are hard with agitation. Talk, damnit! she mutters inside her head, raising an elegantly curled brow in impatience. (Waiting has never been her strong suit.)

He looks almost formidable - or at least he should, and he would have if Sam weren't so damn cocky. As it is, she regards him the way she would a piece of meat, or a king that she has not heard of, or a particularly impressive species of ant. As it is, she takes him in without judgement, at least for the first couple seconds: she pays no mind to the many inches he holds over her, or the threatening luminescent stripes that race over his skin, or the disgust in his eyes as she registers in his vision. He is just a boy, and he is puny underneath the weight of Samaire's cold and pale gaze. Big, bright-eyed, kind of impressive, but not that much to look at.

(Even Sam can have that kind of influence: the endless red-and-white curls, the vast expanse of wings sunk into her spine, the curvy slopes-and-ridges that her muscles make, these are not for nothing. They serve a purpose, and she is duly proud of each and every marking that litters her skin, more so than this man treasures his stripes.)

When he speaks, she is a little startled, but snaps out of her thought with no more than a flutter of russet lashes and an impervious toss of the hair that frames her cheeks, the slope of bone and sinew curving under her skin. Sam does not flinch at the lowering of that stupid horn, at the thought that it could slice right through her. She refuses to bend to the threat of it and even leans forward a degree, dangerous, daring, her firefly darting lazily across her gaze to match the curl of her lips in a sneer, then a remark: perhaps you should, but are you going to? Her head jerks upward, tilts slightly in mocking. And what makes you think you can make me leave, anyway? Behind her, the vast expanse of her feathery wings unfurls, huge and strong against her petite form and beating forward the lightest of breezes.

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Solanine lmao she's a jerk sorry

"MY OLD MAN IS A BAD MAN BUT
I CAN'T DENY THE WAY HE HOLDS MY HAND
AND HE GRABS ME, HE HAS ME BY MY HEART"

He seems a little pissy, sure, but Sam wasn't expecting to face such a venom as she sees in his eyes. Caught off guard, her muscles coil, and she stiffens the four slender limbs that are rooting her to the center of the earth. In half a second, she recognizes the annoyance in his eyes turning to something far more dangerous, something that darkens his gaze by a few startling shades, and she swallows a lump that blooms in her throat within seconds. Her faded blue eyes narrow sharply, suspiciously, but she does not step  back.

He cannot know about the fear in her chest. He cannot know how hard her heart pounds. Is she weak?

Sam is so busy thinking and so pumped with anxiety that there is little time to avoid the attack, but she manages something, throws her head away from his horn without a second to spare. There is a sharp stinging pain that races through her jawline and blood beading on the edge of the gash and a sound that begs to be cut from her throat, but she does not let it. She disguises the stumble she takes backward with a few huge, powerful swoops of her wings, lifting her petite form off the ground and moving a couple feet from the enemy. Her nostrils flare in anger and her chest heaves in indignation, and her voice is sharp as she snarl-spits, what's your deal, big boy?


Solanine

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