05-10-2020, 07:48 PM
His voice comes to her like in a dream and it is deeper than it should be, it's the voice of a mature stallion, not that of a child tugging at his sister. It reminds her of someone, not her brother, and not Wolfbane. She is so tired, with cold and shock and the sickness that wracks her body. She struggles to tell what is real and what is imagined - no, she doesn't struggle, she is not even trying to eke out the truth from the fever dream, it blends seamlessly and she doesn't question it. Her name comes to her over and over through a sea of mud and memory and she bends her ears against their voice, reluctant. A blue-green muzzle brushes her own, its velvet lips keeping teeth well-covered, and without the threat she only puzzles over its color. It should be black, not teal. A labored breath fills her lungs and she groans in a moment of clarity, picking her head up to cast a tortured gaze up over Pteron.
Pteron.
Of course. Not Wolfbane, but it explains that similarity of shape. It sets her teeth on edge, anyway, reluctant to accept his help even through her muddled thoughts and memories. She wrinkles her nose with the effort of waking up her slow brain and nods, almost imperceptibly. He's right, she knows he's right, but she's weak and even pulling her forelegs out from beneath the weight of her chest leaves them shaking and her breath puffing in raw nostrils. Her face is red, her eyes inflamed, and she doesn't remember that he struck her face, but who could tell? She remembers the ruin of it painted over Heartfire's skull, and a bitter laugh coughs out of her throat.
"Pteron?"
She blinks slowly, her eyelids clenching down as if to crush the sight out of her eyes, the strange, crawling shapes that jerk out of the darkness at the corners of her vision, black, clawed, hands that grasp and tear, a million unblinking green eyes, but they are there just the same behind those black shades so finally she relents and opens her rebellious eyes. She is a stubborn thing, and though she can't say why she brought herself here, she knows it was by a sheer refusal to do what she ought. She ought to have stayed in that mire and died, but she had snarled and dredged herself free of it, and her wanderer's feet had carried her away to the Forest. How much further might they have gone, she wonders, if her strength had not finally given out?
So she does it again. She snarls and she hoists herself upwards into an awkward seated position and her chest heaves like stormy northern seas when she leans back against her bloodied tree. Her back and barrel and flanks are on fire, torn shoulder to haunch, more obviously than the purple bruising at her throat and poll that blooms like dark flowers under her unclean hair. She can feel the way the hairs stick and clump and pull at one another, and she grins, inexplicably at Wolfbane's son.
"Do you want to know what your father's eyes taste like?"
But before he can answer, she is shaking her head weakly and looking away, the manic grin wiped away, replaced by a frown. Her bear-cub ears flicker, confused, "No-- Don't answer that."
She lets her head fall heavily against the tree, "Sorry."
Pteron.
Of course. Not Wolfbane, but it explains that similarity of shape. It sets her teeth on edge, anyway, reluctant to accept his help even through her muddled thoughts and memories. She wrinkles her nose with the effort of waking up her slow brain and nods, almost imperceptibly. He's right, she knows he's right, but she's weak and even pulling her forelegs out from beneath the weight of her chest leaves them shaking and her breath puffing in raw nostrils. Her face is red, her eyes inflamed, and she doesn't remember that he struck her face, but who could tell? She remembers the ruin of it painted over Heartfire's skull, and a bitter laugh coughs out of her throat.
"Pteron?"
She blinks slowly, her eyelids clenching down as if to crush the sight out of her eyes, the strange, crawling shapes that jerk out of the darkness at the corners of her vision, black, clawed, hands that grasp and tear, a million unblinking green eyes, but they are there just the same behind those black shades so finally she relents and opens her rebellious eyes. She is a stubborn thing, and though she can't say why she brought herself here, she knows it was by a sheer refusal to do what she ought. She ought to have stayed in that mire and died, but she had snarled and dredged herself free of it, and her wanderer's feet had carried her away to the Forest. How much further might they have gone, she wonders, if her strength had not finally given out?
So she does it again. She snarls and she hoists herself upwards into an awkward seated position and her chest heaves like stormy northern seas when she leans back against her bloodied tree. Her back and barrel and flanks are on fire, torn shoulder to haunch, more obviously than the purple bruising at her throat and poll that blooms like dark flowers under her unclean hair. She can feel the way the hairs stick and clump and pull at one another, and she grins, inexplicably at Wolfbane's son.
"Do you want to know what your father's eyes taste like?"
But before he can answer, she is shaking her head weakly and looking away, the manic grin wiped away, replaced by a frown. Her bear-cub ears flicker, confused, "No-- Don't answer that."
She lets her head fall heavily against the tree, "Sorry."
@[Pteron]
