07-06-2021, 09:18 AM
She was not quite what you would call refined
Popinjay laughs when he eats the bird and drops her hold on the magic without worry for if it will harm him. If he is going to be foolish enough to eat lightning then whether or not it is safe to do so is no longer her concern. (This is also one of the things that makes her a poor mother, but the twins growing in her belly have not yet had to learn that lesson.) The thing in her chest shivers when he mentions it and she does not quiet the quaking, eager, feathers. Some shifters fear their other shape, what it makes them, but it is not in Poppy's nature to be afraid. It has made her more, after all, made her something dangerous hidden beneath curls and wild laughter.
Later, she had told it. Well, now is later.
At first, she had wondered what parts of her became which pieces of the bird because it seemed like there should be a rule, that her forelegs became wings and her hind legs, the claws - and certainly, she can shift in this way if she likes - but time has taught her to trust her original instinct; that rules are flexible things built only of others' expectations and she doesn't need to concern herself with them. Now, the shift happens quickly, with the finesse that comes from years of practice, in a shiver of skin and feathers and dust. The black Lightningbird is easily as large as a dragon, over forty feet long from beak to tail with an even wider wingspan. Her talons curl into the soil underfoot, leaving great furrows there. It is a shape made for the sky, but even burdened with being earthbound, the raptor has a threatening aura not at all like the merry girl inside it. The beak is a cruel curve of shell, the eyes bright gold with a serious, forward-slanted brow. When its feathers brush against one another, small streaks of lightning burst into life, crazing across her body the way his blue ones do on his.
Popinjay twists her great head down to his place in the water with an inquiring trill. The Bird is a poor speaker, not built to mimic as some other species are, but its interests are clear. It is something other from its Thunderbird cousins; it is not a creature that brings Life, but one that brings Destruction.
Later, she had told it. Well, now is later.
At first, she had wondered what parts of her became which pieces of the bird because it seemed like there should be a rule, that her forelegs became wings and her hind legs, the claws - and certainly, she can shift in this way if she likes - but time has taught her to trust her original instinct; that rules are flexible things built only of others' expectations and she doesn't need to concern herself with them. Now, the shift happens quickly, with the finesse that comes from years of practice, in a shiver of skin and feathers and dust. The black Lightningbird is easily as large as a dragon, over forty feet long from beak to tail with an even wider wingspan. Her talons curl into the soil underfoot, leaving great furrows there. It is a shape made for the sky, but even burdened with being earthbound, the raptor has a threatening aura not at all like the merry girl inside it. The beak is a cruel curve of shell, the eyes bright gold with a serious, forward-slanted brow. When its feathers brush against one another, small streaks of lightning burst into life, crazing across her body the way his blue ones do on his.
Popinjay twists her great head down to his place in the water with an inquiring trill. The Bird is a poor speaker, not built to mimic as some other species are, but its interests are clear. It is something other from its Thunderbird cousins; it is not a creature that brings Life, but one that brings Destruction.
@
Gale
