07-02-2021, 09:09 PM
Not much about Poppy is relegated to a mere flutter. The strange nereid disappears, and she watches him as long as she can, watches him change to the black, twisting arm, watches him disappear into the deepest place in the lake, and then she stops watching because there is more to see above than staring into depths for something dark hunting dark things in the dark. She has moved closer to shore by the time he returns, with her dark legs stirring the soft, silty lake bottom into streaming clouds that drift along the gentle current.
"It's not in my chest at all," she replies, copying the tilt of his head. For just the briefest moment, the smell of ozone fills the air between them then a bolt of lightning arcs out blinding white and curling around her like a fond pet. With a gesture of her muzzle, she spreads it flat, sparking and sizzling just above the crystalline water, creating a bridge that she leaps up onto with a wave of water that makes the electric platform whine and pop and makes the water boil. The gestures are not strictly necessary but Popinjay is a theatrical creature. She shakes the water away, shakes the great black and red wings away to the nothing they are. Threads of electricity cling to her hooves, make her feet feel heavy and her hair lift slightly away from her skin.
The lightning is not in her chest, but the bird is and the kiss of lightning on her skin makes it grapple for control. It wants to fly among the mountain tops and drop rock sheep from the sky so see their stony fleeces burst to pieces far below. It wants to lap the marrow from their bones, but she holds it tight in that vice-grip. Later, she thinks to it. They will hunt later. Now, instead, she finds dry land again, leaping down from her stage. Her feet touch the earth and the molded lighting crackles brightly as she releases it, streaking horizontally until it strikes an aspen tree at the lake's edge in an explosion of sound and splinters and light. With a laugh, she looks back at him.
"It's not in my chest at all," she replies, copying the tilt of his head. For just the briefest moment, the smell of ozone fills the air between them then a bolt of lightning arcs out blinding white and curling around her like a fond pet. With a gesture of her muzzle, she spreads it flat, sparking and sizzling just above the crystalline water, creating a bridge that she leaps up onto with a wave of water that makes the electric platform whine and pop and makes the water boil. The gestures are not strictly necessary but Popinjay is a theatrical creature. She shakes the water away, shakes the great black and red wings away to the nothing they are. Threads of electricity cling to her hooves, make her feet feel heavy and her hair lift slightly away from her skin.
The lightning is not in her chest, but the bird is and the kiss of lightning on her skin makes it grapple for control. It wants to fly among the mountain tops and drop rock sheep from the sky so see their stony fleeces burst to pieces far below. It wants to lap the marrow from their bones, but she holds it tight in that vice-grip. Later, she thinks to it. They will hunt later. Now, instead, she finds dry land again, leaping down from her stage. Her feet touch the earth and the molded lighting crackles brightly as she releases it, streaking horizontally until it strikes an aspen tree at the lake's edge in an explosion of sound and splinters and light. With a laugh, she looks back at him.
@Gale
