08-13-2020, 10:14 PM
Stop.
But he can't.
Something white and hot burns in his chest. There is nothing else except that burning, nothing except the way the panic squeezes his throat like a lion, nothing but the rushing of his own blood in his ears, racing fast and wild. Adrenaline make the feathers of his wings stand on end as if to make him even larger, but the small, steady pressure on his wing does not go away.
He has forgotten that it is simply a small girl struggling to hold him as he bucks and jerks like a crazed thing.
He does not notice the difference when his hooves find their purchase on her body and when they strike the rocky soil churned up by their young feet in the struggle. She shows him his own awful face - full of fear and fury with blind rolling eyes made of storm-ravaged seas - he flinches backward when those gleaming teeth lined with foaming spittle snap at his face. Wherewolf sweeps his head away from the phantom floating across his vision, and then he lurches sideways heavily. His body hits something - what? - and he falls sideways again as if to trample whatever so firmly and unforgivingly grips his wing. Overwhelm it. Crush it. Destroy it. Though he doesn't know it, his heavier body plays to his advantage in these close quarters.
The colt pulls his wing back to his side with a grunt, hauls her - if she refuses to let go - close to him, and then he rears up above the flaxen filly and throws himself broadside at the ground like the rocklslide Eurwen can cause when his mother makes her angry, like a tidal wave reaching above the mighty cliffs and sweeping everything in its path out to drown in the cold northern sea. The entirety of his weight crashes forcefully from above. He falls in a wild, flailing, tangle of scrabbling limbs, without any thought for his own well-being, and certainly none for hers. There is a heavy impact that knocks the breath from his lungs - her? The ground? - and it adds a choking gasp to his writing, but does not slow the fast, shallow way he breathes through those strained nostrils. Sweat and saliva turn the dirt to mud on his coat and befoul the brilliant gold of his dapples, the whites of his eyes bloodshot, pink and speckled with bright blood.
He is a cornered bull, fighting for its life against lions. From the ground he seeks his feet clumsily and tries to sling himself at her again.
He can't stop.
But he can't.
Something white and hot burns in his chest. There is nothing else except that burning, nothing except the way the panic squeezes his throat like a lion, nothing but the rushing of his own blood in his ears, racing fast and wild. Adrenaline make the feathers of his wings stand on end as if to make him even larger, but the small, steady pressure on his wing does not go away.
He has forgotten that it is simply a small girl struggling to hold him as he bucks and jerks like a crazed thing.
He does not notice the difference when his hooves find their purchase on her body and when they strike the rocky soil churned up by their young feet in the struggle. She shows him his own awful face - full of fear and fury with blind rolling eyes made of storm-ravaged seas - he flinches backward when those gleaming teeth lined with foaming spittle snap at his face. Wherewolf sweeps his head away from the phantom floating across his vision, and then he lurches sideways heavily. His body hits something - what? - and he falls sideways again as if to trample whatever so firmly and unforgivingly grips his wing. Overwhelm it. Crush it. Destroy it. Though he doesn't know it, his heavier body plays to his advantage in these close quarters.
The colt pulls his wing back to his side with a grunt, hauls her - if she refuses to let go - close to him, and then he rears up above the flaxen filly and throws himself broadside at the ground like the rocklslide Eurwen can cause when his mother makes her angry, like a tidal wave reaching above the mighty cliffs and sweeping everything in its path out to drown in the cold northern sea. The entirety of his weight crashes forcefully from above. He falls in a wild, flailing, tangle of scrabbling limbs, without any thought for his own well-being, and certainly none for hers. There is a heavy impact that knocks the breath from his lungs - her? The ground? - and it adds a choking gasp to his writing, but does not slow the fast, shallow way he breathes through those strained nostrils. Sweat and saliva turn the dirt to mud on his coat and befoul the brilliant gold of his dapples, the whites of his eyes bloodshot, pink and speckled with bright blood.
He is a cornered bull, fighting for its life against lions. From the ground he seeks his feet clumsily and tries to sling himself at her again.
He can't stop.
@[Aela]
