There is just something about the world of snow that seemed to suit the intruder in a most striking way. The shaded light of the snow clouds broke up a spider’s web of brindling across his back. The silver coloring is soft and tender, contrasting the striking eyes of violet and feral gold. Stark black ears twist and project his confusion as he lowers himself all but immediately after she makes eye contact. The way he gawks is familiar, but the intensity of the stare is altogether different. She was made to be especially beautiful by fate herself, a Belle to Ravan’s own Beast. He sulks in the castle that the red Brute of her adopted father and blood nephew gave to him and she appears to stir up the bland palette of his life. They are a fit fated pair.

               She is all dreams and fanciful thinking, no matter the morbid turn it often takes, and she fits into this story quite aptly. All she needs is a Gaston to turn her gaze from the man who would otherwise live and die to make her happy and their story would be fit for a book… and yet, wasn’t it a part of the story that Beast would see her – would desire her – and would steal her away for ransom of another’s life or freedom? Perhaps that page is yet to turn. Perhaps here, with her dancing in the snow, shifting and twisting, is when she will bewitch the beast and begin the, as it is said, “tale as old as time”. She looks at the silver male as he creeps forward, as he ducks down to seem smaller than he truly is… she feels a connection here and it is frightening. Frightening because she knows what happened to her mother, knows what happened to her brother, knows what happens when a man is devoted to a woman the way this burly male is to her – she can see this devotion in his eyes mingling with the confusion.

               His voice makes her start like a deer who is alert and hears the crackle of a twig from a predator. His voice is deeper than she expected and it makes her feet fumble between fleeing and staying quite still. Her elbows and hocks bend, coiling muscles as she readies herself to spring. She does not know his purpose but she knows that the build of his body puts him at an extreme advantage if he were to be up to no good. It is about that time that she truly hears what he has asked and she pauses – a fatal mistake had he intended harm – and answers. “Watching the snow fall.” Her voice is a rich alto, made breezy by the breathless anxiety fueling her deerlike quivering. She knows tales of what is overcoming this gray stranger and yet it does not seem real or warranted – as though fate needed to be reasonable in whom it chose to tie together.

               She relaxes herself slightly, “Trying to catch them….” She says, speaking just a little less tightly and with a little more lightness in tone. Perhaps it is alright that she pretends she believes this male has somehow been bewitched – silly, but she is prone to silly things, afterall.


The Obsidian Beauty of Glorall
[ female - two - no mate - ravan’s dancer - islander ]