A Storm Upon The Waters

The rain was cold, steady as they stood exposed upon the windblown cliff top, cleansing Valkyrie’s glamorous creamy-white coat of stubbornly matted winter hair, mud and thistle matter which had snagged during the course of their aimless journeying. The downpour had fallen without hint of ceasing, for nearly a month (maybe longer), and though the Shieldmaiden very much favoured the cooler climate (for she hailed from the frozen peaks of northern Loorien), the feeling of constant saturation and the weight of her water-logged hair was niggling away both her already flimsy patience. Nevertheless, her spirits had been comparatively high, for K’yarie was a fount of perfectly wonderful information, and an ever inspirational companion to flank. As the wind roared against her backwards nestled ears, and rain channelled along the chiselled lines of her face, Valkyrie examined the unfamiliar brute with a harsh, frosty eye. Like most of the others (save for the  stupid, muddy-pelted colt), this one had the traditionally deformed face, so prevalent to this world; horns, the pointless identity of which she’d not so long ago been informed, stuck out of his face like curved  wooden spears - and they were about the same colour of rotten timber too. His eyes appeared like dark amber in the murky, dreary light, and soggy black tresses clung to his long face and neck like a disease. His stance was tall, probably elegant and strong, under pleasanter circumstances (she doubted it); yet he was still an man, an abomination in this life, who deserved less air in lungs, than commune with a goddess. Then suddenly he began to scream, to shout, like a rabid animal unhinged. K’yarie stepped forth, unrivalled strength and resilience, given the strangely escalating scene, and the younger devotee skidded a few short strides back, obeying perhaps the unspoken warning that her body language divulged. They were each ready (it seemed), for the lunatic’s attack, but much to the surprise of the stunned Shieldmaiden, the antagonist simply fell - dropped, near lifeless to the cold face of stone beneath him. The only explanation was witchcraft, and eyes filled with wonder regarded her superior’s about-faced frown. The celestial mare spoke softly, her tone ripe with a delicious vibe of loathing. Valkyrie certainly wasn’t opposed to the stallion’s timely death. In fact, she shrugged casually to reference her impartiality about the event. She began to step forward, to assess the fallen beast’s carcass for bounty (a trophy perhaps?) but hesitated at the mention of the bouquet. A shy smile flicked briefly through her expression and her dimpled pink chin dipped graciously in response. “It is for you,” a tender version of her voice confirmed and diverting the course of her attention, Valkyrie moved the collection of blooms nearer to the dark, washed hooves of her friend. Unfortunately, as the leaf unrolled to reveal the withered contents, it became apparent that they (the last blue-green sleeping beauties of the prior season, and the glow cherries dotted throughout), had not weathered the ride as well as anticipated. There was no masking the veiling disappointment - the young winged horse's shoulders slumped, and her eyes swam unhappily through the wilted, worthless remains.