03-31-2020, 11:37 AM
The water sings to Mako like the fire sings to most of her family. The frost she wears upon her hide is prideful and glittering, the mark of the enemy amongst a dragon’s den. Mako would be lying to herself if she thought she didn’t grow up incredibly proud of her supposed infiltration (and she would be lying to herself if she thought her affinities didn’t alienate her).
Like a queen to a people that didn’t accept her, Mako spent her life peering down disdainfully at fire and brimstone.
So when the rain calls, wistful in song but vengeful in grip, Mako turns an open face to the tears she knows the sky sheds just for her. The sound of her frost hissing beneath a pelting thunderstorm makes her heart race. Sometimes, when her mind has gone just quiet enough, she can convince herself it hurts to lose her frost—as if it is as much a part of her as her skin and bone.
Perhaps this is why Mako is not particularly disgruntled when Garett disturbs her meditated waiting. He is green and brown, like an elegant and smooth sapling—so vastly other to the chaotic heat in Loess.
“I love any kind of rain but, yes, I especially love storms.” Mako’s voice does not express the pleasant surprise she feels at being asked such a question, nor does it reveal how much she admires his shadowy brown and foliage green. Those glances to study his colors, fleeting and near-nervous, are quietly hidden by the unphased way Mako carries herself. She is almost robotic, the melodies of her voice covered by a practiced rise and fall.
Fat, heavy droplets begin to plop here and there, occasionally slapping hard against Mako’s scales.
“Do you?” she asks Garett, then flicks her eyes to the gray sky. “I think it’s a little too late, if you don’t.” A tease, but one that falls short on its delivery.
Like a queen to a people that didn’t accept her, Mako spent her life peering down disdainfully at fire and brimstone.
So when the rain calls, wistful in song but vengeful in grip, Mako turns an open face to the tears she knows the sky sheds just for her. The sound of her frost hissing beneath a pelting thunderstorm makes her heart race. Sometimes, when her mind has gone just quiet enough, she can convince herself it hurts to lose her frost—as if it is as much a part of her as her skin and bone.
Perhaps this is why Mako is not particularly disgruntled when Garett disturbs her meditated waiting. He is green and brown, like an elegant and smooth sapling—so vastly other to the chaotic heat in Loess.
“I love any kind of rain but, yes, I especially love storms.” Mako’s voice does not express the pleasant surprise she feels at being asked such a question, nor does it reveal how much she admires his shadowy brown and foliage green. Those glances to study his colors, fleeting and near-nervous, are quietly hidden by the unphased way Mako carries herself. She is almost robotic, the melodies of her voice covered by a practiced rise and fall.
Fat, heavy droplets begin to plop here and there, occasionally slapping hard against Mako’s scales.
“Do you?” she asks Garett, then flicks her eyes to the gray sky. “I think it’s a little too late, if you don’t.” A tease, but one that falls short on its delivery.
@[Garett]