 ’Hurt me, Celina’ he taunts, and oh how Celina wants to take him at his word. Only self-control keeps her still, well practiced self-control and the memory of her father’s consistent refusal to allow her to. But Wolfbane doesn’t seem to be refusing now, Celina realizes. Permanently silence, he says. That sounds like a fight.
One iridescent ear turns to catch her father’s praise, but the rest of Celina’s attention remains centered on her fire-haired brother. Even when she hears the creak and snap of Wolfbane’s shifting and smells the odd blend of magic and flesh that accompanies it, she does not look away. She has replayed their last encounter in the Taigan redwoods a hundred times, imagining the way that it should have ended. Celina had wanted a fight – either with Elio, or the sorrel who’d touched her Nashua, or the grey with a twig up her rump that wanted to lecture them all. She hadn’t gotten it, though.
Perhaps now is her chance?
The idea arrives with a rush of adrenaline, and the pupils of her green eyes widen in anticipation. Elio’s denial of their sire’s request only serves to add to the pace of her heartbeat. Celina’s eyes dart back and forth from Wolfbane to Elio as the latter glares at him defiantly. She wants to lunge, to rip away the tongue Elio speaks of herself. It is a struggle to reign in the instinct, that primitive desire to hunt that she assumes has come from her father. He’s certainly taught her how to control it, and later perhaps she will regret forgetting some of those lessons.
For now though, she acts in a way that feels most right.
When Elio disappears, the fight is officially on. She lunges forward, her near-white wings flaring wide. Her teeth slash the air where his face had been moments ago, and her raised front legs kick out. If he does not react quickly, Celina won’t need to be able to see him to find him. She can just follow the blood trail.
@[Wolfbane]
@[elio]
celina
i'm that bad type, make-your-mama-sad type
make-your-girlfriend-mad type, might-seduce-your-dad type
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