let's hear the sound of madness

and the crown it weighs heavy

The rousing, scramble of foreign epithets, faraway words on an unfamiliar tongue, she sails into an uncharted sea of relations with little more than fool’s longing, there is anticipation drenched in her skin and her gaze comes to settle tempestuous on Dallilja. There is an enigma here, a riddle, for as many eons she has wearied at the tales of her mother and their bitterly highborn descent no mention of Alistorie had clung to her memories. 

But she presses on in a terrible hope, she must find mother and tell her what happened and perhaps then they will understand this gnarled yarn of alignments, yes, mother would know, and she’d be able to explain the occurrence of the feathers too. Something listless and imperative stirs at the hind of her harrowed thoughts at the boy, something with wings and heliotrope coat and a voice like a bonfire—and then the reflection speeds away and she is left in obscurity.
“Perhaps,” she says, bewildered, “But I have never heard of your Alistorie, and would be a dreadful liar to say otherwise.” She feels vile, querying the name of her mother after the tale she has been made privy to, and her common etiquette shies away as though scorned. "What… what was your mother’s name?" And then, as if a balm, a salve to soothe any barbian ideas she may now have of her, “My mother is Delinne the Lightningborne. I am the third-born of her children, Azarel—” her voice falters, “the Silverflame and Destry…” her gaze veers towards the colt again, a frown heaving the rim of her maw downwards. She’s trailed away, striving, grappling at the elusive idea, slithering about beyond her reach, something about the boy...

@Dallilja @Shahrokh

'till it's banging on my eyelids