06-25-2021, 04:20 PM
it's a mystery to me
we have a greed with which we have agreed. you think you have to want more than you need; until you have it all you won't be free. and when you think more than you want, your thoughts begin to bleed.
Instead of leaving Tephra as she’d hoped, Gale’s colors fall away to reveal a pattern that is much more familiar to her. She’s seen the blue and gold in this jungle, on the black-sand shores, in the warm ocean. She’s seen those green eyes brightened by a hundred glowworms in a cave deep inside Nerine’s cliffs. It chills Wishbone to see him now, even when she knows it is a trick. Even when she knows it’s the Curse intimidating her. Her stomach twists at the recurring theme of her flames from the past coming back to haunt her — first the monster playing the part of Ivar and now the Curse coloring itself like Wolfbane.
The warmth in her face shifts into burning resentment just as quickly as the Curse. Wishbone feels no fear for herself or of the creature moving closer; her eyes only reveal her shameless hostility. “No, they weren’t,” she says sharply, purple-tipped ears pressing into her mane’s tangled locks. Wishbone doesn’t move away as he moves closer, stubbornly keeping her ground and even raising her chin as he taunts her further.
“I’ve seen your ugly face too many times to want children from you.” The hardness in her voice suggests she’s not talking about Gale or Wolfbane. Her glowing amber eyes look further into the blue and gold of his face, and she imagines she can almost see the writhing, dark thing that controls Gale’s mind and body. Wishbone wonders if Gale is even there or if he’s lost to unconsciousness while the Curse does whatever it wants.
Her anger doesn’t allow the Curse’s touch to feel pleasant, even if it’s Wolfbane’s mouth on her purple skin. It makes her burn hotly, reinforcing the building rage that she remembers from her time in the Afterlife and during Svedka’s disappearance. An unfulfilling rage, deep-seated anger, a heat that mimics the lava from the volcano.
She lets him press close and finish his sentence. And once he’s finished taunting her about the twins (her fury building when she hears him say their names, hating that he knows even that much about them), Wishbone blinks once. Between her eyes opening and closing, she slides her magic along his jawbone and pulls hard. It’s more than just a snap and clean break; her ears catch the sound of ripping ligaments and tendon and flesh. When her eyes open, she pulls even harder with her magic. She intends to rip his mandible right off his face, separating his mouth from where it touches the bend of her shoulder.
As blood sprays across her purple skin, she says, “Don’t fucking touch me.”
The warmth in her face shifts into burning resentment just as quickly as the Curse. Wishbone feels no fear for herself or of the creature moving closer; her eyes only reveal her shameless hostility. “No, they weren’t,” she says sharply, purple-tipped ears pressing into her mane’s tangled locks. Wishbone doesn’t move away as he moves closer, stubbornly keeping her ground and even raising her chin as he taunts her further.
“I’ve seen your ugly face too many times to want children from you.” The hardness in her voice suggests she’s not talking about Gale or Wolfbane. Her glowing amber eyes look further into the blue and gold of his face, and she imagines she can almost see the writhing, dark thing that controls Gale’s mind and body. Wishbone wonders if Gale is even there or if he’s lost to unconsciousness while the Curse does whatever it wants.
Her anger doesn’t allow the Curse’s touch to feel pleasant, even if it’s Wolfbane’s mouth on her purple skin. It makes her burn hotly, reinforcing the building rage that she remembers from her time in the Afterlife and during Svedka’s disappearance. An unfulfilling rage, deep-seated anger, a heat that mimics the lava from the volcano.
She lets him press close and finish his sentence. And once he’s finished taunting her about the twins (her fury building when she hears him say their names, hating that he knows even that much about them), Wishbone blinks once. Between her eyes opening and closing, she slides her magic along his jawbone and pulls hard. It’s more than just a snap and clean break; her ears catch the sound of ripping ligaments and tendon and flesh. When her eyes open, she pulls even harder with her magic. She intends to rip his mandible right off his face, separating his mouth from where it touches the bend of her shoulder.
As blood sprays across her purple skin, she says, “Don’t fucking touch me.”
@Gale