06-28-2021, 06:57 PM
The blood draws her, that rich, crimson, scent that turns the air copper and the anguished cries that lead her to the creature flailing, broken, on the ground. There is nothing hurried about Manikin's approach, no reason to run when your quarry has already been split and splayed and made ready for sacrifice. Her steps are slow, savoring the music of the mare's wailing and retching, and when she breaks through the stand of cottonwoods that have hidden her, it is with a knife-sharp grin and a whisper-soft purr rolling in her chest.
The scene is disappointing, not so much blood as she had expected, no artist's stroke splashed across the meadowgrass, but two broken legs is encouraging. Sweat and panic fill her nostrils, and Manikin draws close with a cloak of the peaceful magic that lulls her prey when she grows weary of the hunt.
Calm.
"Tsk," the hippogryph circles the downed mare once, then lies down beside her, amber eyes glittering, "you need help, Love."
There is only one kind of help that Manikin can give her, but she delays. Even injured, it's risky in a world full of magicians, so she watches hungrily, waiting to see the effect of her own power, and while she waits, she reaches out to touch the twisted pathways of the mare's memories, tentative at first, but with ever-increasing audacity. It is not like Avo, whose memories she is so familiar with, twisted and altered to suit her. Her head tilts, birdlike, as she wanders these other halls and thinks how she might change them, and when she speaks again her voice rough but sympathetic. A lie.
"I can heal you." She pauses, as if hesitating, as if waiting for permission, "It's a new thing, though, I-- I'm not very quick with it. Please, hold still. And, I'm sorry, it might hurt at first."
A white-toed paw reaches out for the mare's left leg, careful of any tricks, but it is her memory she is after instead, hooking unrelated alleys to one another. It's a tricky business.
"My name is Popinjay, what's yours?" Concern shadows accross her face, "Oh, it's worse than I thought. How did you do this to yourself?"
The scene is disappointing, not so much blood as she had expected, no artist's stroke splashed across the meadowgrass, but two broken legs is encouraging. Sweat and panic fill her nostrils, and Manikin draws close with a cloak of the peaceful magic that lulls her prey when she grows weary of the hunt.
Calm.
"Tsk," the hippogryph circles the downed mare once, then lies down beside her, amber eyes glittering, "you need help, Love."
There is only one kind of help that Manikin can give her, but she delays. Even injured, it's risky in a world full of magicians, so she watches hungrily, waiting to see the effect of her own power, and while she waits, she reaches out to touch the twisted pathways of the mare's memories, tentative at first, but with ever-increasing audacity. It is not like Avo, whose memories she is so familiar with, twisted and altered to suit her. Her head tilts, birdlike, as she wanders these other halls and thinks how she might change them, and when she speaks again her voice rough but sympathetic. A lie.
"I can heal you." She pauses, as if hesitating, as if waiting for permission, "It's a new thing, though, I-- I'm not very quick with it. Please, hold still. And, I'm sorry, it might hurt at first."
A white-toed paw reaches out for the mare's left leg, careful of any tricks, but it is her memory she is after instead, hooking unrelated alleys to one another. It's a tricky business.
"My name is Popinjay, what's yours?" Concern shadows accross her face, "Oh, it's worse than I thought. How did you do this to yourself?"
@Ciri I'm sorry, don't have a wheelchair