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Perhaps if this weren’t a new trick, a new thing unlocked by the powers of love or sex or Beqanna, something he’s never encountered before — if Targaryen had been born a shifter, he would’ve been able to melt his wolf-body into something that looks more like himself, with his spring-green color and white patches and shimmering wings. As it turns out, this is the very first time he’s become anything other than himself.
The part of him that could have controlled the beast if he were more practiced is sleeping deep within his mind, tucked into a corner it will not leave until his body grows weary or gives up in favor of his natural state. Targaryen doesn’t dream in this place of his mind, merely falling into an endless dark abyss of nothing — no thoughts, no emotions, no memories.
The wolf is only thirsty, not hungry, but it watches the gray mare with a predator’s gaze nonetheless. It’s a look passed down from mothers and fathers for generations, from ancestors who have dedicated themselves to become the soil from which the woods grow. The wolf doesn’t have a very good memory of its childhood or pack, and this makes it nervous. Every wolf has a family unless they are reckless or useless or caught in-between. He doesn’t think he’s any of those things, only because there is a strange feeling of comfort, of being wanted, of newfound confidence.
There are no memories, but he knows he must have a pack somewhere. Even if it is only one other wolf.
Although he isn’t hungry, the wolf feels energetic. The panicked look in the horse’s eyes is enough to spark his desire for practice. Even if he doesn’t catch the mare, even if he isn’t even close to tasting her, she would make good practice for his hunting skills. So he carefully continues scanning the landscape, almost as if he hasn’t seen her, all while scouting out a way to cross the river.
There. Smooth, raised rocks peek out of the river’s water, suggesting a shallow path. His gaze (soft, cinnamon-brown, just like the true owner’s) cuts sharply back to the gray mare. Light on his feet, the wolf leaps into motion to cross the river. His heart leaps in his chest at the thought of the horse spinning to run, whether she does it or not, and his muscles bunch to spring across the last segment of the riverbank. Just as he lands on the opposite shore, his body gives up.
It’s his first shift, after all, and he can’t hold it for very long. The wolf crumples on the mud and patchy grass, limbs and tail and mouth limp. His body shudders, tightens, twists, melts, and in a matter of heartbeats, there’s a winged green tobiano lying with his hind legs in the snowmelt river.
The part of him that could have controlled the beast if he were more practiced is sleeping deep within his mind, tucked into a corner it will not leave until his body grows weary or gives up in favor of his natural state. Targaryen doesn’t dream in this place of his mind, merely falling into an endless dark abyss of nothing — no thoughts, no emotions, no memories.
The wolf is only thirsty, not hungry, but it watches the gray mare with a predator’s gaze nonetheless. It’s a look passed down from mothers and fathers for generations, from ancestors who have dedicated themselves to become the soil from which the woods grow. The wolf doesn’t have a very good memory of its childhood or pack, and this makes it nervous. Every wolf has a family unless they are reckless or useless or caught in-between. He doesn’t think he’s any of those things, only because there is a strange feeling of comfort, of being wanted, of newfound confidence.
There are no memories, but he knows he must have a pack somewhere. Even if it is only one other wolf.
Although he isn’t hungry, the wolf feels energetic. The panicked look in the horse’s eyes is enough to spark his desire for practice. Even if he doesn’t catch the mare, even if he isn’t even close to tasting her, she would make good practice for his hunting skills. So he carefully continues scanning the landscape, almost as if he hasn’t seen her, all while scouting out a way to cross the river.
There. Smooth, raised rocks peek out of the river’s water, suggesting a shallow path. His gaze (soft, cinnamon-brown, just like the true owner’s) cuts sharply back to the gray mare. Light on his feet, the wolf leaps into motion to cross the river. His heart leaps in his chest at the thought of the horse spinning to run, whether she does it or not, and his muscles bunch to spring across the last segment of the riverbank. Just as he lands on the opposite shore, his body gives up.
It’s his first shift, after all, and he can’t hold it for very long. The wolf crumples on the mud and patchy grass, limbs and tail and mouth limp. His body shudders, tightens, twists, melts, and in a matter of heartbeats, there’s a winged green tobiano lying with his hind legs in the snowmelt river.
@Minah