THE LATE SNOW WAS SOMETHING OF A DELAYED SIGN. The smothering grip of a dry winter seems to have relented through the day, and now, snow flurries begin to float steadily to the earth in the darkening expanse of night —turning her skin bone-white, soft breaths of air puffing out before her thoughtfully drawn mouth as she walks down the wild dirt path, broad-shouldered companion at her side. Siegfried —hero, dragonslayer, living legend. Where he hailed was of little interest to a creature such as herself. She caught sight of him and his men at the village of Fair's only tavern just some nights ago. He was handsome, but that is very seldom enough to find yourself cursed by Madonna's intention. He is watching the fast-falling snow fall as they make their way by lantern-light, flanked by dense foliage and brush —black-bark trees towering high above their head, their canopies sparse for the arid winter —like great clawed hands stretching out into the darkening sky. Somewhere in the same forest, his men are likely following his trail —though, by now, she knows the trail has gone cold. They've long since passed the druid stones. No company may follow them further unless it's by Madonna's will. His men will find that they're walking in circles. Beneath the witch's slippered feet, accumulating snow on frozen, dry earth crunches, cast of chilled wind rustling the dwindling emerald cloak at her covered ankles —the great hood covering her hair, dark as a raven, and her bejeweled eyes to match. Undisturbed as she is by the sudden change in weather, one might wager that the witch was ultimately far too aware of the approaching storm when she asked for his company to attend her home. With such force, the wind blows —snow blinds her but momentarily, the embroidered hem of her hood drawing back upon her head. She doesn't seem to be bothered by it, not even as snowflakes catch at her dark hairline —even as her pale face reddens, stricken by the dank cold.
It's Siegfried who makes pause in their slow-moving trek. A strangeness, for certain —and the witch freezes mid-step. Being surprised so seldom, Madonna's emotion is evident whenever it strikes —pale, rose-tinged loveliness of her face peering back toward her companion, dark eyes raising to meet his own just in time to catch the shape of his right hand being raised, stretching, to meet her tousled hood. She holds her breath. Not out of fear, but out of a strange anticipation.
@drachnslayer sent: [ adjust ]
He draws the hood further down her hairline, shielding her from the drifts of snow that were now making their way down from the sky. Madonna peers at the prince, black eyes twinkling beneath her adjusted hood. She smiles like a girl.
❛ ...You're a kind one. Aren't you? ❛ Soft voice murmurs, a wisp of a pale, glove-less hand raising to secure her hood. Her gaze lingers for a beat. She had been studying him ever since she had first laid eyes on him. Now, she does so in plain sight —no longer under the cover of darkness. When her vision breaks, she turns her head to look north —the unmarked trail, thickening with snow, that stretched before them. A hand rests against Siegfried's wrist, cold and gripping. ❛ ...Let's hurry. We aren't far. ❛
