Deadly amber eyes gleamed out from the swarm of dark mist as Manon Blackbeak stood tall on the mountain ledge. Wind clawed at her wild, silvery white hair, screaming into her pointed ears and clawing her deep crimson cloak. The snow around her was a flurry of white, unable to settle as the unrelenting wind swept across the mountain, viciously pounding at the hard grey stone peaks. Manon inhaled sharply, as though waking from a trance. A gruesome gash covered half her face, from her jaw line stopping dangerously close to her purple, blackened eye. Her lip was split and a deep blue stream of blood had run down her flushed cheek and pooled above her lip. She opened her mouth slightly, revealing delicate white teeth. The blood fell to the ground, spreading like dark veins in the snow. Iron fangs slid out, they gleamed through the storm of snow as the wind raged on.
At this point, it was not the injuries that bothered Manon; her grandmother had given her worse before. Nor was it the fact she had been unable to kill the Crochan witch, even though it make her look utterly weak in front of the three clans. To say it didn't bother her at all would be a lie, there was a time when pride was all that mattered to Manon. But no, instead, she remembered the blazing, determined brown eyes, glaring defiantly up at her. That witch. The witch she failed to kill, for no logical reason. Just her eyes, showing a sea of emotion hidden deep down behind the rage.
That was what haunted Manon the most. The fact that she could not bring herself to do it. To kill her sworn enemy, the witches that put a curse on her home. She heard the jeers of the Yellowlegs, their heir Iskra with a satisfied sneer plastered on her face. The disappointment in the eyes of her thirteen, the sadness in Asterin's as she followed Manon into the blizzard. For some reason she could not yet understand what Asterin was feeling, it was not the disappointment that the other witches had shown and it was not mocking or anger.
Her Grandmother had of course given her more of a punishment than her iron talons. The Crochan was still alive. Sleeping in Manon's chambers. It was her punishment to retrieve the information they needed from that Crochan.
Manon did not feel pity for the witch, she was sure of that, but for some reason she did not think there was any point. She had taken one long look at that witch and realised why she had not broken, what she would do to withhold the information they wanted. It was the same proud, stubborn determination all the witches shared. In truth, the Crochan spy reminded Manon her of herself. She would not break. The look in her eyes was something that Manon was too familiar with.
The witch closed her eyes briefly before she turned, pulling up her battered scarlet hood and let her eyes set back to unreadable pools of gold once more. She lifted her hand and reached ot in the grey haze for her Wyvern.
"Come Abraxos" she whispered as he emerged from the shadows, glacial eyes intelligent and troubled.
A dark shadow crossed the sky, large wings spread out and glimmering as the icy storm raged on around it.