scylla -----
by anawar out of daenerys
The sandstorm that had scattered sands across Salem has left Scylla disconcerted. She’d thought at first that life in the Desert wouldn’t be much different climate-wise than the Ledge had been, though of course she’d been prepared for the extra heat while the sun was up. She’d been surprised at the sharp temperature drops at night; her winter coat had grown in (marginally), something she hadn’t been anticipating.
She hasn’t seen her mother in a while, although she assumes that Dany has been getting reacquainted with El Aran, who Scylla finds strange, and Encantador, who is still somewhat of an enigma. She’s been in and out of the Desert, but only to head off to the other islands. She’d spent some time on the Crossing – she’d actually run into her sister in the meadow, not that she’d told her mother that – and had skulked around on Atlantis without being seen, just to check if there was any sign of her father. She hadn’t found anything, so she’d retreated to the Desert.
She’d only just realized that she’d never explored the rest of Salem, perhaps because she hadn’t been planning on staying in the Desert for long enough to bother. She’d only come to Salem after Cimarron’s sinking, but when she’d been reunited with her dam, thoughts of disappearing into the wilderness had vanished from her mind. She couldn’t bear the thought of leaving Dany now and never meeting her youngest sibling.
So when the sand had finished its maniacal swirling, Scylla had decided that it was now or never to see the rest of the island that she currently calls home. And, of course, the Dunes just happens to be her first stop.
She hadn’t been foolish enough to leave the Desert without almost gorging herself on water; she doesn’t know how long it’ll be before she happens across another pool like the little springs that are scattered throughout her temporary home. It turns out to have been a good decision because by the time she catches the fresh, clean scent of a nearby oasis, her mouth feels like cotton and her throat feels coated with little grainy particles.
The sandy mounds are obviously good at muffling footsteps – she’s not expecting to see the stallion approaching the coveted water source. There hadn’t been any trace of him on her sojourn over so he must have approached from the opposite direction. She doesn’t know any of the other rulers on Salem; Encantador is the only one with whom she’s familiar.
Scylla’s nostrils flare and she bobs her head unconsciously, satisfied that he supposed to be here and that (she thinks) he’s alone. One stallion doesn’t bother her too much, although she doesn’t include Dorian in that. As much as she hates the champagne tyrant, she also fears him because she knows what he’s capable of. She’ll always be hopeful that he’ll never make a reappearance on the islands.
She clears her parched throat as she gets closer to grey man ahead of her, but she’d be surprised if he isn’t on alert for intruders. While her intentions aren’t hostile, it’s possible that he won’t be welcoming anyway. ”So is this your place, then?” she asks him, her voice cracking slightly. She meanders over to the pool, desperate for the wet stuff if she intends on holding a proper conversation.
four - black tobiano - mixed - 15hh |