l e p i s
the next step was a question of how
never thought it a question of wether
never thought it a question of wether
The glow of dusk is fading quickly around them, but she can see enough in the dim light. Enough to watch the emotions that pass over Castile’s face: confusion, thoughtfulness, rage. It is an odd experience, because she knows what her Uncle looks like when he feels those things, and the horse in front of her does not match her memories. Even with this perfect disguise, there are some things it does not know to imitate. Lepis tells herself that this is important to remember, any information gathered about the Curse is good information. It is surprisingly simple to think of this calmly, but such is the power of her false bravery.
It keeps her from shrinking away when it jeers at her, tossing her attempt to bargain back in her face. It gives her the courage to lunge toward him, except at that moment he drags her nearer, and the legs that had been bunched to propel her forward are instead dragged along beneath her. It is stronger than it should be, and she struggles to free her wings as the thing wearing Castile runs its mouth along hers. It is more revolting than she’d imagined being this near to her Uncle might be, and the bile that rises in her throat is not an emotion she can push away.
“At least wear a different face,” she hisses, demanding even when she has to choke the words through its grasp on her throat. Some emotions she has no need to manufacture. Disgust at this assault is one of them. The shiver that runs down her own spine is cold fear, insistent and demanding. There is only so much magic she can handle without draining herself, and she is always weary at the end of a long day infusing the lands around her with peace. That the fear bleeds through her bravery is a sign of its strength. Were she to let go of her bravery now, she doubts she could do anything more than stand and tremble.
She’d done that once, but she’s sworn never to do so again.
It yanks her head down, and she stumbles to regain her footing only to realize it’s slithered behind her and wrapped the tentacles around her wings.
Mere moments ago she’d been certain of this plan, of the efficiency of creating and growing her own bait. Thinking of it in such clinical terms made it seem simple, but the feel of him pressed against her is anything but. Despite what she has said and the monster’s suspicions, there has been no one else. The last lover she'd taken had been as red as the son she'd borne the following spring, and though she has told Elio and Celina that they are Wolfbane's children, she knows now that is not quite true. Wolfbane had never really come home after they lost Gale, and he'd been lost forever the night he accompanied Heartfire to the Beach.
She’d sworn there would never be another, and to have that vow to herself broken against her will adds a cold edge of terror to the fear that creeps down her spine. With her wings bound to her sides and claws digging into the scarred flesh of her neck, she finally reacts the way he’d expected, abandoning her near-constant efforts to keep peace in Loess and instead focusing what mental strength she had on one final effort to free herself.
It settles atop her, the weight a focal point for Lepis to send her emotions. The creature might have prepared himself to face Lepis, but she is not quite the same as when they had last argued, and she hopes that is enough to save her. The peace that Straia gave her power over is no longer spread across the entirety of Loess, Sylva, and the Brilliant Pampas. Instead, it is focused on the piebald creature that pulls her close to it with taloned feet, even the manipultion's end strength stronger than anything other emotion she can summon. To it she adds mercy and sympathy, those two that she has especially practiced for this day, theorizing they are unnatural for the monster and hoping they are not the sort of attack it had anticipated.
“You’re hurting me,” she says, the pitch of her voice inside its mind matching the way she attempts to pull away from where those claws scrabble for purchase against her shoulders. She doesn't even mean to say it, and isn't even sure she has. The base of her wings spasm at holding even a fraction of its weight at this angle – they are not meant for this, and she knows exactly how they ache just prior to breaking. Does it mean to break them? The panic of having both flight and dignity taken from her renew the strength of her still feeble physical efforts to get away, and she attempts to kick at it with her left hindhoof as she exerts the very last of her mental efforts in an attempt to sway him..
@[Wolfbane]
It keeps her from shrinking away when it jeers at her, tossing her attempt to bargain back in her face. It gives her the courage to lunge toward him, except at that moment he drags her nearer, and the legs that had been bunched to propel her forward are instead dragged along beneath her. It is stronger than it should be, and she struggles to free her wings as the thing wearing Castile runs its mouth along hers. It is more revolting than she’d imagined being this near to her Uncle might be, and the bile that rises in her throat is not an emotion she can push away.
“At least wear a different face,” she hisses, demanding even when she has to choke the words through its grasp on her throat. Some emotions she has no need to manufacture. Disgust at this assault is one of them. The shiver that runs down her own spine is cold fear, insistent and demanding. There is only so much magic she can handle without draining herself, and she is always weary at the end of a long day infusing the lands around her with peace. That the fear bleeds through her bravery is a sign of its strength. Were she to let go of her bravery now, she doubts she could do anything more than stand and tremble.
She’d done that once, but she’s sworn never to do so again.
It yanks her head down, and she stumbles to regain her footing only to realize it’s slithered behind her and wrapped the tentacles around her wings.
Mere moments ago she’d been certain of this plan, of the efficiency of creating and growing her own bait. Thinking of it in such clinical terms made it seem simple, but the feel of him pressed against her is anything but. Despite what she has said and the monster’s suspicions, there has been no one else. The last lover she'd taken had been as red as the son she'd borne the following spring, and though she has told Elio and Celina that they are Wolfbane's children, she knows now that is not quite true. Wolfbane had never really come home after they lost Gale, and he'd been lost forever the night he accompanied Heartfire to the Beach.
She’d sworn there would never be another, and to have that vow to herself broken against her will adds a cold edge of terror to the fear that creeps down her spine. With her wings bound to her sides and claws digging into the scarred flesh of her neck, she finally reacts the way he’d expected, abandoning her near-constant efforts to keep peace in Loess and instead focusing what mental strength she had on one final effort to free herself.
It settles atop her, the weight a focal point for Lepis to send her emotions. The creature might have prepared himself to face Lepis, but she is not quite the same as when they had last argued, and she hopes that is enough to save her. The peace that Straia gave her power over is no longer spread across the entirety of Loess, Sylva, and the Brilliant Pampas. Instead, it is focused on the piebald creature that pulls her close to it with taloned feet, even the manipultion's end strength stronger than anything other emotion she can summon. To it she adds mercy and sympathy, those two that she has especially practiced for this day, theorizing they are unnatural for the monster and hoping they are not the sort of attack it had anticipated.
“You’re hurting me,” she says, the pitch of her voice inside its mind matching the way she attempts to pull away from where those claws scrabble for purchase against her shoulders. She doesn't even mean to say it, and isn't even sure she has. The base of her wings spasm at holding even a fraction of its weight at this angle – they are not meant for this, and she knows exactly how they ache just prior to breaking. Does it mean to break them? The panic of having both flight and dignity taken from her renew the strength of her still feeble physical efforts to get away, and she attempts to kick at it with her left hindhoof as she exerts the very last of her mental efforts in an attempt to sway him..
