kids sure like the devil these days [warrick/longclaw/any]

[wound]

I n the moments between threats and explosions, Wound recognizes the suggestions of control. She’s never been under the powerful hand of another, not in the way Ajatar seems to be, but she’s been under the command of her own selfish desires and it nearly looks the same. Control always looks the same, no matter who is doing it or for what reason — the strain in the jaw, the flare of emotion in the paleness of the eyes, the strangled sound of breaths. Whether it is volunteered or forced, some level of energy must go into pushing a mind in a desired direction and Wound catches the loss of that energy that flares in the palomino’s eyes. Her mouth opens to say something (she isn’t quite sure what it would’ve been) but suddenly everything is spiraling away. Time doesn’t survive when the world spins precariously out of reach and things move too quickly for Wound to have a solid understanding. The disease boils beneath Ajatar’s feet like a living threat, unspoken words of death and destruction bubbling on a pair of invisible lips. “Oh, m” — The silver bay’s words are loosened from her mouth with the force of Warrick’s shove. The mare stumbles, caught off guard by the pressure and unbalanced with the deformity of her foreleg, but she isn’t right alongside Longclaw when he bursts into unhindered flame. A cry pulls from Wound’s mouth at the sensation of his fire singing her left side, leaving behind second- and third-degree burns in patchy layers across her skin. It’s not as bad as it could have been; it’s not as bad as it is for the palomino Longclaw launches himself at. Wound manages to scramble away despite the pain on her flesh, immediately wheeling back around to face the scene with her long silvery locks draping against her petite facial features. There are no words on her lips and only an endless stream of prayers in her mind as her stomach tightens at what is left behind in Longclaw’s fiery wake. Terror chokes her at the sight of Warrick landing passionate, countless blows upon the burnt shape of the mare. Before Wound can say anything, the palomino disappears with a loud scream. In her wake, there is only sobbing and the thick scent of death. “Oh, shit.” The burnt, inflamed nerves of her skin protest as Wound struggles to reach whatever is left of Longclaw’s body and the disease-wielder bent over him. She would tear the mare off her friend’s body if it weren’t for the subtlety of control she’d noticed before. Tears are rolling down Wound’s ashen face and she feels stricken and unhinged for too long. Eventually her coffee-brown gaze turns toward Warrick, though she doesn’t reach out to him. She can’t think of a single thing to say in the silence of what’s just happened, but her eyes communicate the ocean of emotions that race through her heart — confusion, grief, anxiety, shock.

credit to nat of adoxography.

@[Longclaw] / @[Warrick] / @[Harmonia] / i'm a poot and this is way overdue and also sucks but here *runs away*