12-18-2020, 12:46 AM
Anger and embarrassment do her no favors, and she can feel the way the darkness hisses at her touch, mirroring the emotion that clouds her way forward. She should leave him here with his half-spoken insinuations and the impertinence that dances across his face. She should turn and go but hidden in her breast is a volcano of bitterness that threatens to crack her flesh like earth splitting to vent the pressure within. Her brown eyes are full of smoke and lightning.
A voice in the deep, a quiet one she can barely hear above the roar in her ears, whispers softly that this isn't her, but isn't it? Didn't she destroy hundreds of lives in Straia's dream? Doesn't Nerine's youngest sea-cove bare the scars of her hatred, and of the desperation and guilt that feed life into this fury like breath over red coals?
You're wrong, she whispers back, and even in her head, her voice is the growl of a lion.
There's a coldness in her, and when the heat of the eruption in her chest meets it, she loses herself to the skittering whine of ice and fire clashing. There's no room in her mind anymore for finding common ground, there is only anger, and hunger, and a bright flash of red that blinds her. Still the golden mare, she steps back, shaking her head so that the shadow-darkened tendrils of her white mane fly in the air like seafoam at dusk and hard grey hooves tread on the long train of her tail, grinding the ends of it into the dirt. Then the air around her shivers and the slick gold of her skin becomes sun-ripened wheatgrass instead, and it is the lion throwing itself at him. The forest disappears as walls of solid darkness spring up, blocking them from view, blocking escape. She is claws seeking the flesh of his chest and shoulder, she is wicked, curved, teeth seeking the thin skin of his muzzle, seeking to tear the grin from his lips by tearing the lips away entirely.
Was this the choice he was hoping for?
This could be who she is now. She could be someone that happens upon strangers in the forest and tears them to pieces for no reason other than they were in her path, or they were not in her path but she did not like the way they smiled. Yes, this could be who she is now.
Except... There's still her mother's voice; she recognizes it now, whispering in the dark tunnels of her memory. It's her mother that reminds her how sick she was the first time she killed a hare on the Isle, still more horse than lion, and who wipes the red haze from her eyes so that she finds the stallion's gaze as her crushing jaws find their mark. Her stomach turns at the taste of blood (she isn't even sure if it's his, or her own,) and the cat falls away from him with a sob, falls away from her in another shiver of light that leaves a golden mare crumpled on the ground.
She doesn't look up, and she doesn't speak, and she doesn't tear her walls down.
A voice in the deep, a quiet one she can barely hear above the roar in her ears, whispers softly that this isn't her, but isn't it? Didn't she destroy hundreds of lives in Straia's dream? Doesn't Nerine's youngest sea-cove bare the scars of her hatred, and of the desperation and guilt that feed life into this fury like breath over red coals?
You're wrong, she whispers back, and even in her head, her voice is the growl of a lion.
There's a coldness in her, and when the heat of the eruption in her chest meets it, she loses herself to the skittering whine of ice and fire clashing. There's no room in her mind anymore for finding common ground, there is only anger, and hunger, and a bright flash of red that blinds her. Still the golden mare, she steps back, shaking her head so that the shadow-darkened tendrils of her white mane fly in the air like seafoam at dusk and hard grey hooves tread on the long train of her tail, grinding the ends of it into the dirt. Then the air around her shivers and the slick gold of her skin becomes sun-ripened wheatgrass instead, and it is the lion throwing itself at him. The forest disappears as walls of solid darkness spring up, blocking them from view, blocking escape. She is claws seeking the flesh of his chest and shoulder, she is wicked, curved, teeth seeking the thin skin of his muzzle, seeking to tear the grin from his lips by tearing the lips away entirely.
Was this the choice he was hoping for?
This could be who she is now. She could be someone that happens upon strangers in the forest and tears them to pieces for no reason other than they were in her path, or they were not in her path but she did not like the way they smiled. Yes, this could be who she is now.
Except... There's still her mother's voice; she recognizes it now, whispering in the dark tunnels of her memory. It's her mother that reminds her how sick she was the first time she killed a hare on the Isle, still more horse than lion, and who wipes the red haze from her eyes so that she finds the stallion's gaze as her crushing jaws find their mark. Her stomach turns at the taste of blood (she isn't even sure if it's his, or her own,) and the cat falls away from him with a sob, falls away from her in another shiver of light that leaves a golden mare crumpled on the ground.
She doesn't look up, and she doesn't speak, and she doesn't tear her walls down.
@[Cassian] oops she tried to kill him lol