Andarin: The Mountains: lycoris ;

Accendare’s scar snaps to attention on her shoulder, sparked into life by her movement and the snap of cold as the wind cuts into her wet fur, like a knife through flesh that not even her flames can stop: Accendare has always been fascinated with the cold, with ice and snow and the blizzards that threaten and gutter even her blazing dragon-fire – lately, she had not had much by the way of solace, and the odd confusing feeling of her element’s hatred and longing for air, for water, was enough of a distraction for her not to notice.

Lycoris herself, wriggling like a landed fish and gasping for breath like one from the speed of her speech, was solemn enough amusement that Accendare could not help a smile, despite herself; and she shivered, also despite herself, and the flames that bayed off the cold. It was almost hypnotic – weight shifted back and forth like a warrior preparing to spring, her mane and tail twitching like a snake – and her response was delayed, somewhat, by that distraction.

“Me? Oh, I’m fine, Lycoris,” she says, absently; it doesn’t occur to her that she has addressed Lycoris by name upon their first meeting; Accendare is a Shadow, a good one she believes, and not much happens in Andarin that she does not know about. Nevertheless, she hides the quaver in her voice as effortlessly as it had not been there; Fenrisulfr would know, she thinks, but it does not matter.

“Yes, I was born around then. Strange, it seems so long ago…” She trails, off, thinking, and her foreleg, its weight resting on the tip of her bent hoof, swung slowly back and forth. “No, I don’t know why it was changed. Kale didn’t change it, and Stelios,” her voice catches here, just ever so slightly, “didn’t change it either. It just… happened,” she says, her shoulders creasing in a shrug – wincing as she does so, as it pulls on that vivid pink and silver scar.