09-25-2021, 12:52 PM
A powder keg in a prison cell
He is not unaware of magic (how could he be when fire had enveloped his horns only days after his birth—green fire, no less, and fire that never burned him, not even when he pressed his nose hard against his shoulder and waited for it to singe), but he has no way of knowing the width and the depth of the magic that pulses beneath her skin.
This limitless magic had not existed in the home he’d fled in favor of friendlier shores.
(Is this shore friendly? She does not seem particularly cold or callous, so he supposes it must be. At least friendlier than the shore that had set him swimming in the first place.)
Her response elicits another wry, lopsided grin.
Of course, he thinks, of course her insight will depend on the things he asks her. She meets his eye evenly and he feels no overwhelming impulse to avert his own. Can she sense the wars under his skin or are they as invisible to her as his magic is to him?
He draws in a breath and finally, grudgingly, shifts his focus to the meadow stretching out around them, yawning toward the horizon. He rolls his shoulders and exhales, contemplative. It is no great question he wants to ask, but he supposes the answer could be something he doesn’t want to hear.
“I’ve come here in search of a new home,” he prefaces, steadily meeting her eye again, “will I find that here?” he asks, head tilted ever so slightly. (He had been inquisitive once, curious, and it shows in this small gesture.)
“There is magic here,” he says without allowing her any space for an answer, “you’re unlike anything I’ve ever seen.” And then he is quiet.
This limitless magic had not existed in the home he’d fled in favor of friendlier shores.
(Is this shore friendly? She does not seem particularly cold or callous, so he supposes it must be. At least friendlier than the shore that had set him swimming in the first place.)
Her response elicits another wry, lopsided grin.
Of course, he thinks, of course her insight will depend on the things he asks her. She meets his eye evenly and he feels no overwhelming impulse to avert his own. Can she sense the wars under his skin or are they as invisible to her as his magic is to him?
He draws in a breath and finally, grudgingly, shifts his focus to the meadow stretching out around them, yawning toward the horizon. He rolls his shoulders and exhales, contemplative. It is no great question he wants to ask, but he supposes the answer could be something he doesn’t want to hear.
“I’ve come here in search of a new home,” he prefaces, steadily meeting her eye again, “will I find that here?” he asks, head tilted ever so slightly. (He had been inquisitive once, curious, and it shows in this small gesture.)
“There is magic here,” he says without allowing her any space for an answer, “you’re unlike anything I’ve ever seen.” And then he is quiet.
@Cheri