06-12-2021, 11:34 AM
Think.
She knows the answer to this, surely? She knows why she shouldn't be out alone at night. The child has always depended on her mother so heavily, has never let the pale mare out of her sight until now. Now. She is silent, tilting her head to the side at the scaled stallion peering down at her with a mouth full of sharp teeth and that forked tongue splitting the air. Her dark eyes are unreadable, empty, innocent, as if they have not seen a year and a half of darkness and horror and of the triumphant sun.
She is new, those wide, dark, doe eyes say, blinking languidly, uncomprehendingly, at the demon.
But something is scratching at her belly. Not right, not right, it says, and behind the falsness of her innocence the magic scrambles to catch up. It is slow, unpracticed, and his own magic confuses it so terribly. Starlust had been easy to read - open like the sky over the river, stretching wide and blue and the storms so easy to see as they roll in from over the meadow. Draco is like trying to see the sky from the darkest depths of the forest, where hungry branches choke out the sun shining in.
Silently, Enthrall comes closer, hiding the confusion by pressing velvet lips to those black scales. It comes like a flash when she touches him. It comes like drowning in some northern sea, icewater filling her lungs and her veins, but her bones feel like fire. They don't want to change, this shape is comfortable, familiar, and the girl groans softly, wincing away.
Too late.
Awakened, the magic works quickly, though it feels an eternity to the girl trapped inside it, to the girl whose lazy bones crack and lengthen, aging, aging, until she is not a child but a lithe, willowy, woman grown with skin pale like the sun shining across a clouded sky, dappled with starlight and snowflakes and the brightest blue eyes. And the blood. Oh, there's so much blood, like scarlet rain pouring from those clouds ripped asunder by unknown teeth. The sclera of those eyes is dark with it, and it spatters a fine spray across her lips when she speaks his name like a dying breath.
"Draco...?"
Too much. It's too much detail and the magic flares like a flame burning too hot, exhausting itself, but when it flickers out, she is a child again and still not the shape that she should truly be because this is the one her body knows the best, this child. What would she be if not that? Eyes that should be dark are still bright blue when they seek his again.
Where is her mother?
Running.
Enthrall The only thing to fear
She knows the answer to this, surely? She knows why she shouldn't be out alone at night. The child has always depended on her mother so heavily, has never let the pale mare out of her sight until now. Now. She is silent, tilting her head to the side at the scaled stallion peering down at her with a mouth full of sharp teeth and that forked tongue splitting the air. Her dark eyes are unreadable, empty, innocent, as if they have not seen a year and a half of darkness and horror and of the triumphant sun.
She is new, those wide, dark, doe eyes say, blinking languidly, uncomprehendingly, at the demon.
But something is scratching at her belly. Not right, not right, it says, and behind the falsness of her innocence the magic scrambles to catch up. It is slow, unpracticed, and his own magic confuses it so terribly. Starlust had been easy to read - open like the sky over the river, stretching wide and blue and the storms so easy to see as they roll in from over the meadow. Draco is like trying to see the sky from the darkest depths of the forest, where hungry branches choke out the sun shining in.
Silently, Enthrall comes closer, hiding the confusion by pressing velvet lips to those black scales. It comes like a flash when she touches him. It comes like drowning in some northern sea, icewater filling her lungs and her veins, but her bones feel like fire. They don't want to change, this shape is comfortable, familiar, and the girl groans softly, wincing away.
Too late.
Awakened, the magic works quickly, though it feels an eternity to the girl trapped inside it, to the girl whose lazy bones crack and lengthen, aging, aging, until she is not a child but a lithe, willowy, woman grown with skin pale like the sun shining across a clouded sky, dappled with starlight and snowflakes and the brightest blue eyes. And the blood. Oh, there's so much blood, like scarlet rain pouring from those clouds ripped asunder by unknown teeth. The sclera of those eyes is dark with it, and it spatters a fine spray across her lips when she speaks his name like a dying breath.
"Draco...?"
Too much. It's too much detail and the magic flares like a flame burning too hot, exhausting itself, but when it flickers out, she is a child again and still not the shape that she should truly be because this is the one her body knows the best, this child. What would she be if not that? Eyes that should be dark are still bright blue when they seek his again.
Where is her mother?
Running.
@[draco]