Gale
started under neon lights, then it all got dark
i only know how to go too far
The cursed creature has never dreamt before.
Is it the lack of a soul that had prevented it until now? Or some remnant of black magic, another component of the curse that afflicts the brindle stallion?
She turns from snowy white to luminous orange, and his fourth step closer is faster than the others. The strangeness of dreaming is forgotten entirely as his world narrows to the furious Mazikeen in front of him. She roars, and this too is familiar, and is reassuring even as she attacks. They had fought before, fought so often and so violently that she’d turned his navy skin to gold then back again.
They’d been well-matched, once, before he’d forsaken her in pursuit of Power.
Will that make a difference, he wonders? Will the dream?
She shifts, and he has his own dragon’s head a heartbeat before she might have bitten him, and his open jaws rebuff hers in a clatter of too-sharp teeth. Her sharp claws rend at his sides, but in the dream his dragon’s scales are no protection and he snarls in unexpected pain.
Time passes strangely in a dream, or perhaps he is simply inexperienced with the magic of it. How long do they fight? Long enough that the snow is red and wet at their feet, long enough that his breath comes heavy and sparks glitter between his sharp teeth.
There’s no rush of Magic this time. There’s no power radiating from the furious white dragon for him to drink down, no darkness in her heart to feed him. He feels nothing from her at all, and the blows he manages to land come with only the satisfaction of a well-honed offense. There is no rush of strength and might flowing into him from the pain he causes (and feels himself from her own attacks).
There are other changes though. Better changes. The joy of battle he experiences is not new, but the weakness he has always associated with fighting her is now gone. Nor is there magical impotence accompanying the pleasure he feels at the fight, and vulnerability does not accompany the desire that has always come of being near her. He grins, and it is hot and wild and feral, because he grows ever more sure that he could kill her.
Lightning has begun to flash more frequently now, so bright and often that it might be midday, the forked light landing always on the farthest peaks.
He circles her, back to the precipice, and asks between panting breaths: “Are you enjoying this as much as I am?”
@Mazikeen
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Gale
