05-09-2020, 10:50 PM
(This post was last modified: 05-10-2020, 06:56 AM by Neverwhere.)
It's not wolves that come.
For a moment, she mistakes his shape as someone else, and ears that lean loosely to their sides pin flat and trace the contour of her poll. She snakes her neck stiffly and the claw marks crack with the movement, inflexible. Her lips draw back in a snarl of pain and anger and she brandishes her red-stained teeth at him, snapping them in the air, a futile attempt at warning him away.
You'll die this time.
She doesn't know why she isn't dead already. She doesn't know how she pulled herself out of the mud, or how - or why - she brought herself here. She hadn't been sure how she was ever going to make the long journey back north, but now that won't be necessary. The mare turns to face him as he steps through the undergrowth, but, not strong enough this time to lunge at him when he pauses, she remains leaning against the reddened bark of the tree. She waits for him to get nearer, waits for him to close in on her. With the strength of her legs gone, she resolves to pop however many eyes she can, like crushing frog eggs between her teeth, until he strikes her down and finishes what he started.
Her breath growls in her nostrils. Her eyes are still bleary with fever and swelling. A flash of teal gives her pause, the pale, silvery, dun of his skin, but she is already so far committed to believing this is Wolfbane that she barely wastes a moment second guessing. He can change his shape, his color, and yet.. Can he change his scent so quickly? The dappled mare inhales a shivering breath and there is nothing of the shifter's strange smell, no metallic tang clinging to his hairs or claws or hooves. He smells of oakbark and golden leaves and of another horse whose skin he has pressed so close and so frequently against that their scents intertwine.
Neverwhere hesitates. Uncertain, now, she leans against the broad side of her dam for support, hiding from the biting winter winds. the tips of her ears no longer hurt, they no longer feel anything, really, and when her brother nips at them to draw her out to play, she does not feel his teeth, only the tickle of his whiskers in the soft hairs curling out from below. She squeals and it sounds strange and distant. The white-faced filly tries to jump aside, but her mother is there, firm and unmoving, and instead she falls down beside the mare's roots in the pink-stained snow. Rough bark scrapes her side as she sinks, eyelids half drawn over her eyes.
Neverwhere?
Her brother's voice is warm as he calls her name. Sleepy eyes flutter open and she smirks at him. A terrible place for a nap. But she always sleeps at her mother's feet.
"No, no, it's fine," she murmurs, exhausted, her nose pressed against the ground "Did you find my ears yet?"
Image by RattyFor a moment, she mistakes his shape as someone else, and ears that lean loosely to their sides pin flat and trace the contour of her poll. She snakes her neck stiffly and the claw marks crack with the movement, inflexible. Her lips draw back in a snarl of pain and anger and she brandishes her red-stained teeth at him, snapping them in the air, a futile attempt at warning him away.
You'll die this time.
She doesn't know why she isn't dead already. She doesn't know how she pulled herself out of the mud, or how - or why - she brought herself here. She hadn't been sure how she was ever going to make the long journey back north, but now that won't be necessary. The mare turns to face him as he steps through the undergrowth, but, not strong enough this time to lunge at him when he pauses, she remains leaning against the reddened bark of the tree. She waits for him to get nearer, waits for him to close in on her. With the strength of her legs gone, she resolves to pop however many eyes she can, like crushing frog eggs between her teeth, until he strikes her down and finishes what he started.
Her breath growls in her nostrils. Her eyes are still bleary with fever and swelling. A flash of teal gives her pause, the pale, silvery, dun of his skin, but she is already so far committed to believing this is Wolfbane that she barely wastes a moment second guessing. He can change his shape, his color, and yet.. Can he change his scent so quickly? The dappled mare inhales a shivering breath and there is nothing of the shifter's strange smell, no metallic tang clinging to his hairs or claws or hooves. He smells of oakbark and golden leaves and of another horse whose skin he has pressed so close and so frequently against that their scents intertwine.
Neverwhere hesitates. Uncertain, now, she leans against the broad side of her dam for support, hiding from the biting winter winds. the tips of her ears no longer hurt, they no longer feel anything, really, and when her brother nips at them to draw her out to play, she does not feel his teeth, only the tickle of his whiskers in the soft hairs curling out from below. She squeals and it sounds strange and distant. The white-faced filly tries to jump aside, but her mother is there, firm and unmoving, and instead she falls down beside the mare's roots in the pink-stained snow. Rough bark scrapes her side as she sinks, eyelids half drawn over her eyes.
Neverwhere?
Her brother's voice is warm as he calls her name. Sleepy eyes flutter open and she smirks at him. A terrible place for a nap. But she always sleeps at her mother's feet.
"No, no, it's fine," she murmurs, exhausted, her nose pressed against the ground "Did you find my ears yet?"
@[Pteron]
