Aria

Aria dislikes the petty arguments of royal court dragons, and fails to see why most matters cannot be settled with a good old fashioned coup. Of course, the suggestion of such is what tends to get her frequently exiled to begin with - if she can't manage to be at the head of the ensuing bloodbath, that is.

Blood. Dripping down her hand. Splattered over the floor. Stuck underneath her claws.

It is not angry, or sorrowful. It is respected, the thing passing through all of us. And, it is not what she searches, it is what spills from her attempts.

She cleans herself of it, although it has tainted her, permanently by now.

Her grin is prominent, smug and satisfied. She carries her arrogance everywhere. It is as much of a part of her as the sickly stench of rot enveloping her.

She knows what respect is, but does not part with such a precious gift to the living.

Aria for the Trading Ring

With a screech to your left and right,
A young lass is disemboweled,
She holds such spillings tight,
As silence sits where they once howled.

She dances between, back and forth,
Ahead of her relentless hunter,
A head rolls behind, pointing north,
Signalling where to confront her.