Brinly
She is less than thrilled about being stolen away to Pangea. Brinly was not good at making homes, and she still is not sure if she would consider Nerine to be such a thing, but, it was the closest she had ever had. She has never been the type to take kindly to being told what to do, regardless. She has spent too many years in the wild of the mountains and forests to fold so willingly to another’s demands, and this was no different.
She has never been trapped by a border before, and for someone that already felt too easily suffocated, she was certain this would tip her over the edge.
The draconic creature finds her, and she is elated.
Because if anyone deserved the brunt of her fury, it was him.
“You,” she spits the word as he approaches, trying to not let her attention stray to the peculiar horns that twist where his eyes should have been. He was an oddly fascinating creature, but she had no interest in that just now. He is drawing closer, and where usually she would shrink away, or warn someone to not touch her, she does no such thing.
He could burn for all she cared.
When he slowly presses into her she waits for the cry of pain and alarm – for him to recoil back at the ruthless heat of her skin, to smell the singe of burning flesh.
But nothing happens.
He curls into her, and she feels his scales and she is reminded of that moment with Isilya in the meadow – when she discovered that she cannot burn scales.
She wrenches herself away from him abruptly, her ears flattened into the tangled black tendrils of her hair. He likely cannot see the anger that etches so firmly into every line of her face, but she is certain that he can feel it. Can feel the way the words that hiss from her lips crackle like flames, can taste the ash in them when she sneers, “The term guest implies that I can leave, on my own free will.”
He asks if he can touch her face, and she widens the gap between them with a curt and flat, “Absolutely not.”
— burn until our lives become the embers —