The man that came to your door was clad in black; his lean figure complimented by a sleek suit and leather gloves. He’s over six feet, maybe six foot four. His eyes and hair stood out against his caliginous body—his hair like the night and eyes too green for human comprehension. Under the bright light of the café, his skin looks like honey mixed with milk. But he isn’t sweet like honey. Very far from it. But the way he walks toward you emits a certain grace. Something as silky as milk can be.
A cigarette hung from his lips (he had nice lips—plump with the color of frozen strawberries) with the end glowing from fresh embers. He wasn’t a customer; you can tell from the shoulder holster under his fleece jacket. He wasn’t an ordinary person—not with those people in black surrounding the shop. He leans in closer. He’s in proximity, close enough you inhale every puff of smoke he exhales. Then you see a pearly scar laced across the right side of his lips like a half smile. It only makes him look more attractive in a perverse, diabolical way.
The White Queen’s fur sparkled under the mosaic of crystallized moonlight, as if snowflakes were trapped in every divot of her pelt. Her eyes shimmered like polished stones and glistening sand tossed together in blue orbs. When she tilted her head toward your direction, she seemed to glow even more.
“Don’t fret,” Fáfnir sighed, her breath forming clouds of ice, “Tonight, I’ll treat you like a queen.” It was a declaration, a promise. Her voice travelled through your body and coursed through your veins like music. Or perhaps poison. Her voice lulled you toward her, made you feel safe under her cloudy gaze, but you knew otherwise. The White Queen was fierce and quick, and this encounter would be the same. Despite the cold in the air, your heart seemed like a furnace, warming your body, and warming The White Queen’s.
The White Queen smiled subtly, looking more like an angel than a lioness. She brushed the side of her body against yours, summoning invisible sparks to fly from the connection. You relaxed, but only a bit, for this white beauty was cunning. However, at this point, you were captivated, and you told yourself:
A white lioness emerges from the thick greenery that shrouds the surrounding acreage. A crown made of glowing pixies floats lazily around her head. Her fur is the color of conflicting thunderstorms and glistening snow. She was in close resemblance to the crystals you would find in the deep caverns near the ocean. She’s gorgeous with those cloudy-blue eyes, blushed features scattering the vast white, and damn-near white incisors. Under the moonlight, you could have easily mistaken her for a Nepheline.
The pixies alter their course of movement when she tilts her head at you. It’s a gracious, royal movement. “My, my, my,” she whispers, “I wasn’t expecting you until sunrise, dear Traveler.” She sneers, suddenly her beautiful features more cunning rather than docile.
The fur on your neck bristles when she steps forward and begins scrutinizing every inch on your body. You feel the need to straighten your neck, fluff out what mane you have, and appear bigger to impress this mystery lioness. But, even with the confidence you could muster tenfold, under the gaze of this lion, you feel naked. “How did you know I would be here?”
“The sky told me.” She looks up, and you can’t help but look too: up in the sky, beyond the canopy but below the clouds, you watch a feathered beast fly in loops above your head. You cower, and look toward the stranger to see her reaction, but she stands there. Just stands there and admires the fiend during its silent gallivants in the sky. You can’t be for sure, but from the size of the creature, no doubt it’s a dragon.
A dragon.
Now, the white lioness is staring at you—observing you and all your flaws. Her eyes move swiftly over your frame in calculating movements. She’s smiling, as if already reading your scattered, afraid thoughts.
“That’s only Orientis,” she says with a lilt, “The Eastern Dragon of Ice.” She drawls out ‘ice’ making it sound like eye-ssssssssss.
Wait… The Eastern Dragon? Which means—
“Yes,” the white lioness purrs, already a step ahead of you. “The Eastern Dragon is my companion. And you must know what that entail, Traveler.” She pauses. “I… am The White Queen, Fáfnir.”
You don’t know what comes over you, but you sink into a deep bow. You feel her cold breath on your ears as she inspects you. The White Queen is known for her cold-hearted, steel rule on her pride. She respects beauty and brawn and kills those lacking those features. The White Queen… The Ice Queen. She has many names, so many nicknames, perhaps Fáfnir isn’t her true name. Perhaps she’s forgotten her true name among the names she’s acquired as a young queen.
“Allow me to escort you to the pride, Traveler,” she murmurs coyly. “I’m sure my lions will be thrilled to meet you, for I am thrilled myself.”
As she turns to lead you through the foliage, her tail glides across your chin, and butterflies make their way into your stomach. It isn’t safe. You know it. But something about The White Queen makes you want to bow for her forever. The Eastern Dragon flying above your head nosedives into the forest, somewhere, without a sound. If you run now, perhaps the dragon will get to you.
You gulp down a sigh and follow the angel through the forest. Perhaps your demise or rise waits within the green and white. The forest and sky. The Queen and Dragon.
I was wondering if your writing comms were still open and if you'd take heart shells? I'm really looking for some new pride lore, but I haven't seen some replies in a while.
Soul's shop is back in business after 1 year! I'm so so so sorry for not being active, I forgot my password and life kicked me in the butt. But I'm so happy to come back to such an incredible community! <3 My writing has increased significantly, but the only examples I've edited is the short story.
0 players like this post! Like? 
Report
