What would she think, he wonders, if she knew of all the things he could turn into? Would she laugh as sweetly as she does now if he were to turn into a predator - a dragon, a lion? Would the sound of her voice still be that of awe if he became the angry seas that froth and groan at the cliffs of Nerine, or if his body fell apart to give way to molten lava, slow-moving and dripping across the forest floor as it crawls towards her? The thought elicits a smile on his violet mouth though it is an expression he knows she will read as enthrallment - and that is fine by him.
Sometimes, the anger that fuels his power does not rear its ugly head - not like it so often does. Perhaps it is her little lights, the gentleness of her eyes, her sweet voice (that reminds him so much of his sister) that quells that brooding spitfire, soothing it for the time being. Skandar rather enjoys the feeling of calm this dark filly with the brilliant green gaze brings him. It is something that happens so few and far between, he holds onto it delicately and will attempt to stretch out the feeling for as long as he can.
It makes him wonder briefly if he had been born under different circumstances if this would be how he felt all the time. It’s a bitter thought and the fire flares inside him, but only showing itself physically by the flickering glow that he recreates of the dancing fireflies.
The skin-changer does not hesitate to show his surprise when in a literal blink, the girl blips herself into one of those very insects. He chuckles fondly, admiring her (one shifter to another, maybe, though he knows his power far outweighs her beautiful dance) as she dances around his head, lifting his now-dark muzzle to her glowing abdomen and wrinkling his nose when her wings tickle his skin.
His bright orange eyes watch her as she appears before him again, curiously watching as the fireflies alight in the dark tangles of her mane as if they belong to her. A beautiful crown to adorn her, he thinks.
“Anything the eye can see,” Skandar admits mischievously, wondering what kind of images she is now thinking up. Nothing like Aela, he muses, but perhaps violent things aren’t always what he needs to become. Here, in the quiet stillness of the forest and the fireflies’ glow, his once black exoskeleton begins to bubble and peel, flickering in layers and almost disturbingly clicking as the pieces move against each other. He fashions himself like the forest around him - pine bark for skin, deep evergreen needles falling off his mane and tail. Even thin and slender pinecones sprout to rest just behind his ears and at the dock of his tail in a cluster.
He could become a tree itself but settles for only mimicking the part for now.
“Anything,” he repeats with a sly grin.
skandar
@[Avelina]