He wants to whimper beneath the sharpness of her gaze. Wants to fall to his knees in prayer and beg for her forgiveness, but the screaming in his head is so loud that he can barely hear around it. There is the sound of rushing water, howling wind, and he is nearly consumed with the roar. The noise that reaches and reaches for him. That wraps cold fingers around his throat and crushes until he squirms.
“I don’t know,” he manages, his voice strangled and thick.
His wings fold over him and he glances up, his black eyes nearly rolling back in his skull. The power that writhes in him lashes out—uncontrolled, vicious. There is something bitter on his tongue and he barely comprehends the way he spears the poison straight at her, his gift doing its very best to inject it straight into her veins. He shivers, the coldness of the poison lacing through him and then he flings his head back.
A sigh, dark and guttural, something like satisfaction at the act that he cannot name. He doesn’t know what he has done, just knows there has been a perverse pleasure in doing it. Just knows that he has felt some kind of release when he had pushed the poison outward and his vision comes back slowly.
He swings his heavy-horned head to the side, looking for her again.
“Altar,” he says, his thick voice steadier. “Altar, something has changed.”
He forgets how she had lashed out at him, forgets that she had just chided him, and he doesn’t even know his poisonous attempt in the first place. So he looks for her with an innocent face, searching for her eyes.
turn your head toward the storm that’s surely coming along
@[altar]