02-04-2020, 12:30 PM
We got older and I should have known
that I’d feel colder when I walk alone
that I’d feel colder when I walk alone
Jesper - the only one besides perhaps Brennen, that he knew he could safely ask about shifting. At least, maybe he could ask Ruinam, he might not hold it against him, but their relationship just wasn’t as old and strong as Leilan was with his brother-in-name or his adopted-great-uncle-grandfather-like-what’sitcalled-family.
The choice is as easy as it is simple and limited, and so, the scaled roan swims north. He notices the changes immediately; his icy scales no longer seem to protect him against any ice that is colder; but as soon as he thinks about needing his old scales back, they’re there, underneath the ice. Happy with this solution, he loses concentration and therefore the scales mid-swim; and so, if one looked really closely, he supposes he looks quite ridiculous.
At the very least no-one greets him from above or behind, and as he shakes most of the icy water from his body, the frosted hybrid concludes that at least the water still has little effect on him.
Planting his hooves in the snow and ice of the likewise-named Isle with years of expertise, he makes a short, but quick round, hoping to catch the fox-shifter halfway through his own Isle-guarding service. He doesn’t; another figure shows up before him - she has something about her - ah, dragon wings. Lovely.
His shifting needs improvement and it doesn’t; he knows the eyes by now. He’s used to them seeing more, used to the color changes - and with a blink they’re different; a greyish blue where his normal brown competes with the icy blue he had not long ago, although he cannot see that for himself.
Now, when he approaches the girl, he is intrigued by the blues. She reminds him of the daughter he so thoughtlessly created with the blue mare; Friesian from his side, but slimmer through the anglo-arabian hybrid mother. But the visitor is older, and he doesn’t remember doing it twice.
”You’re not mine.” he says by ways of greeting her, coming to a standstill only after making a full circle, inspecting her. But she could have been. What else than Castile’s lineage though, could create more dragonlings? He settles with a knowing grin before the mare; his icy scales and lighter, but changing eye color the only thing currently marking his own draconic lineage, he wonders what she makes of him.
She probably didn’t even know he was here first - wasn’t she in for a surprise, then.
The choice is as easy as it is simple and limited, and so, the scaled roan swims north. He notices the changes immediately; his icy scales no longer seem to protect him against any ice that is colder; but as soon as he thinks about needing his old scales back, they’re there, underneath the ice. Happy with this solution, he loses concentration and therefore the scales mid-swim; and so, if one looked really closely, he supposes he looks quite ridiculous.
At the very least no-one greets him from above or behind, and as he shakes most of the icy water from his body, the frosted hybrid concludes that at least the water still has little effect on him.
Planting his hooves in the snow and ice of the likewise-named Isle with years of expertise, he makes a short, but quick round, hoping to catch the fox-shifter halfway through his own Isle-guarding service. He doesn’t; another figure shows up before him - she has something about her - ah, dragon wings. Lovely.
His shifting needs improvement and it doesn’t; he knows the eyes by now. He’s used to them seeing more, used to the color changes - and with a blink they’re different; a greyish blue where his normal brown competes with the icy blue he had not long ago, although he cannot see that for himself.
Now, when he approaches the girl, he is intrigued by the blues. She reminds him of the daughter he so thoughtlessly created with the blue mare; Friesian from his side, but slimmer through the anglo-arabian hybrid mother. But the visitor is older, and he doesn’t remember doing it twice.
”You’re not mine.” he says by ways of greeting her, coming to a standstill only after making a full circle, inspecting her. But she could have been. What else than Castile’s lineage though, could create more dragonlings? He settles with a knowing grin before the mare; his icy scales and lighter, but changing eye color the only thing currently marking his own draconic lineage, he wonders what she makes of him.
She probably didn’t even know he was here first - wasn’t she in for a surprise, then.
Leilan
no. 7 | ice forged in fire
@[Dracarys]
Two things I know I can make: pretty kids, and people mad.
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