Nyxa
Change is terrifying.
It happens all at once, usually when the object in question least expects it. Maybe some time in the night it had come for Nyxa, maybe it had happened when she nearly drowned and (with the way she usually glossed over things foreign and uncomfortable) she’d simply ignored it. Or maybe it hadn’t happened at all, maybe she was always this way and she’d never been aware enough to understand the depths of her abilities.
Maybe, possibly … but unlikely.
Her search for Hod has lead her from the Field to the Meadow; a secure destination for her, considering the circumstances. In the Field, her lone-wolf stature had translated to: ‘Open Season’ and in a rush to escape the confusion, she’d wound up further south. Her thoughts tangle and twist together as she walks, churned by the tempest sea that was her mind. How long had she been away from the mainland? How long had it been since she’d taken a look at herself?
The first answer came as a blow: nearly two years had passed since she’d settled on the parrot-infested Island. That was some extensive time away, playing recluse (or captive, in Maugrim’s case.) Her second answer is less shocking but still, it unnerves her: it’s been about a season since she’s been able to take a good, hard look at the body housing her soul. Not her fault, entirely - despite the year-round warmth Ischia offered, Nyxa had grown a stifling winter coat that’d covered her tip to tail and left the rest up to imagination.
But that hour was reaching its final seconds. Even as she meanders, the last few tufts of caramel-colored fur drift away, patch by patch, to reveal a bone-white coat beneath. Her shape is that of a woman grown, despite her still being a year away from that milestone. Every step imbues nature’s grace; she seems willowy and ethereal the further she wanders, and her troubled eyes are a purple storm of emotion and vestal secrecy.
Even her thick, dark green mane no longer seems out of place. It compliments her pale color and accentuates the feminine curve to her neck, her back, her croup and hips. The glossy curtain of her forelock drifts across her distant gaze to block her vision for a moment and, when she looks up again, she sees that her path will intercept anothers. Two creatures running from something and smacking into each other along the way. Maybe fate. Maybe not.
“I’m lost.” Nyxa finds herself calling out to him, despite never intending to. The words themselves shock her a bit - she knows where she’s at, just not where she’s going. “Sorry,” She amends in afterthought, “that’s not really your problem, is it?”
-I'm sailing right behind, like a bridge over troubled water-
@[Castile] I couldn't help myself.