(o) in praise of the sacred

The skies are black with lead-filled rain
a morbid painting on display

As he steps closer she narrows her eyes, lightning returning to her masterful call as it dances up her fingers and coils around her wrist like a particularly venomous snake. Just enough for him to see in the snow, to hear it crackle in warning. If he has no magic, no first aid, then his approach is only a further weight on her mind. A danger to both herself and - more importantly - to Atlas, whose warm nose huffs at her hip with a labor that pulls at her heart. At least she can tell through their fledgling bond that the change in temperature and environment is having a positive effect on him. Perhaps the rest can be cured with a strong dose of sleep and some tender care.

This, combined with how the man bares his unarmed bodice, has the lightning crackling away into nothing. Leaving only their breathing and the nearly inaudible sound of falling snow. At least until the man spoke up once more. "My shop is in the Settlement, but I don't think he can walk that far. He needs sleep more than anything." And loathe as she is to ask for help, this part of the Grounds is unfamiliar to her, and maybe his wings will be of help. "Is there somewhere you know of near here to take shelter?" The cut of her voice is imperious, regal, every bit the queen she has been most of her life. Hoping it will reinforce that she is not to be messed with, that she will tear him to shreds if he leads them wrong.

This is the night that young love died
Buried at each others sides