Maeve is queen-no, was queen-of the viper shifters.
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Twenty-three year old Maeve Silverbone is the next royal in line for the serpent throne. She's relentless, a perfect tracker, and one of the top warriors in her division; essential qualities to...
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❛ I long to be like the fire, a bringer of golden light. A dancer in the rain, burning with sweet delight. ❜
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She smelled them before they had come in. Knew what they were going to do before the girl roughly grabbed her shackles and dragged her to the metallic interrogation room. It wasn't her first time here anyway. The process never changed; oh no, prisoner isn't talking. Let's make prisoner talk. It was almost always that the prisoner they were referring to, was her. More like scream, Maeve mentally scoffed when she was seated in the rusty, old creaky metal chair.
The girl...she was new. Her hair as black as night rivaled her own while Maeve silently admired those two dutch braids caressing over the top of her head. They put a finishing look on her warrior persona. As they arranged the daggers and other tools, Maeve took her time to drag her eyes over her figure. The girl displayed the scar on her face with pride—a deep, dark jagged cut running from the side of her temple all the way to the bottom where her jawline stopped. Of course, she carried a distinct mark of honor on her collarbone, a small star shaped tattoo that was perhaps not any bigger than the nail on her thumb. However, Maeve didn't remember her being around.
The boy however...Maeve should have recognized him at the dance when she decided to step on him. Vafril didn't look much different when she last saw him. Older and leaner, but not that much. He still had that quiet glint in his eye like a child about to steal from a jar of Bloodberry Candy. Maeve, from the sheer look of it, knew she wouldn't be able to keep the memories at bay so simply.
She shifted around, getting a feel of her ropes with her bound hand. The two didn't bother tying up her broken shoulder arm—she couldn't move it anyway and it was still very tender, flaring up whenever it was put in an uncomfortable position. Today, it wouldn't be of much use.
Maeve glanced down, ignoring the prospect of the coming onslaught of pain she was about to face. Her black eyes dared to trail down her arm, towards the snake inked onto her skin, so tightly wrapped around her wrist. She and Visha had gotten them after their first year of meeting each other. They were kids who knew they would never be separated, even over the course of time. Maeve felt a kindling in her heart, a quiet prayer of hope, pleading that her friend was still alive. Despite the radio saying it, she needed physical confirmation...people could be made using illusions in her clan.
