10-24-2020, 12:23 PM
She was not quite what you would call refined
The lightning burns away as fast as it appears, and on the beach it leaves little trace except for the point of its strike where a scorch mark hides treasure beneath the sand, branched and burning hot, turning to glass in the darkness. Above, in the gleaming light of day, where sunlight dances and makes the ocean ripples gleam, Popinjay pauses, her head tilted to one side in a bird-like manner as the sea-scrolled young mare startles back until hungry waves lap at her heels, as she lunges forward again and catches those dancing dark eyes in a challenge. Nothing about the little bay's grin changes, her left ear flickers back and forth, brushing the question away as insignificant.
"There's nothing behind my teeth but my tongue, Lizard-Breath, but I can smell perfectly well what you've got behind yours." Her expression turns puckish as she goads the other mare, neck arching beneath the thick fall of curling mane, shading the broad star that shines bright as laughter across her brow. She can smell the smoke-smell of dragon's breath, a hot smell like red rock baked hard and brittle under the Pangean sun, a smell like lava running red as blood under its own black skin, and the faded scars across her flank burn in response to the thought. They remind her that she is no more fire-proof than, she suspects, the antlered girl is lightning-proof, so approaching is a reckless thing to do, but Popinjay has always been cavalier.
The little bay sidles up close - and if it weren't for her antlers, the sulfur stranger would not tower over her at all, they are very close in height, which is to say, neither is very tall at all. As the fire-breather cannot mask smoke, Poppy does not hide her lightning but lets it hum and snap as it pleases across her skin. If the two mares are close enough, small strings of electricity might find their way loose of her, arcing across the space between them. There is, in Asphyxea, enough of a mirror to her brashness that Poppy does not trouble herself with remembering to tame the sparks. The idea of trapping them behind white teeth is surprisingly unsavory - lightning is a swift, feral, thing that wants to taste the sky, and she prefers to let it run wild.
"I could vomit lightning - if I wanted - but I'm not a cat with a hairball." the ebony strands of her tail flick as though to emphasize her point, "Besides, it's rarely necessary; lightning seeds are everywhere."
Poppy doesn't understand the science of what her magic does, she only knows that when she applies her will to it, it creates what she wants - usually. She only knows that when she brushes the earth or the clouds with her magic just so there's a sudden smell of chlorine gas that flavors the air and (although it isn't strictly necessary, she enjoys the theatrics of it,) when she strikes her stone-grey forehoof into the dirt or, as now, boldly reaches up to touch her nose to the tines of the Pangean's antlers, bolts or balls of electricity spark suddenly to life. The blinding ball hovers for a moment above the palomino's head, desperate to ground, but Poppy grins and calls it away, dancing erratically through the air until it presses against her flesh and branches out like bright veins to be swallowed again by the sandy soil.
"Is your fire everywhere, too, or is it only in your belly?"
"There's nothing behind my teeth but my tongue, Lizard-Breath, but I can smell perfectly well what you've got behind yours." Her expression turns puckish as she goads the other mare, neck arching beneath the thick fall of curling mane, shading the broad star that shines bright as laughter across her brow. She can smell the smoke-smell of dragon's breath, a hot smell like red rock baked hard and brittle under the Pangean sun, a smell like lava running red as blood under its own black skin, and the faded scars across her flank burn in response to the thought. They remind her that she is no more fire-proof than, she suspects, the antlered girl is lightning-proof, so approaching is a reckless thing to do, but Popinjay has always been cavalier.
The little bay sidles up close - and if it weren't for her antlers, the sulfur stranger would not tower over her at all, they are very close in height, which is to say, neither is very tall at all. As the fire-breather cannot mask smoke, Poppy does not hide her lightning but lets it hum and snap as it pleases across her skin. If the two mares are close enough, small strings of electricity might find their way loose of her, arcing across the space between them. There is, in Asphyxea, enough of a mirror to her brashness that Poppy does not trouble herself with remembering to tame the sparks. The idea of trapping them behind white teeth is surprisingly unsavory - lightning is a swift, feral, thing that wants to taste the sky, and she prefers to let it run wild.
"I could vomit lightning - if I wanted - but I'm not a cat with a hairball." the ebony strands of her tail flick as though to emphasize her point, "Besides, it's rarely necessary; lightning seeds are everywhere."
Poppy doesn't understand the science of what her magic does, she only knows that when she applies her will to it, it creates what she wants - usually. She only knows that when she brushes the earth or the clouds with her magic just so there's a sudden smell of chlorine gas that flavors the air and (although it isn't strictly necessary, she enjoys the theatrics of it,) when she strikes her stone-grey forehoof into the dirt or, as now, boldly reaches up to touch her nose to the tines of the Pangean's antlers, bolts or balls of electricity spark suddenly to life. The blinding ball hovers for a moment above the palomino's head, desperate to ground, but Poppy grins and calls it away, dancing erratically through the air until it presses against her flesh and branches out like bright veins to be swallowed again by the sandy soil.
"Is your fire everywhere, too, or is it only in your belly?"
@[asphyxea] I'M SO SORRY. I've been waiting for the chance to call a dragon lizard breath for a real life year lmfao
