I crave you | any

[Scorch]

WATCH THE FLAMES CLIMB HIGH INTO THE NIGHT

Old dogs cannot learn new tricks, but perhaps that was meant to be. Old faces always came when the Jungle called, and while this may be the most basic of tricks, the very first that they learnt, it offered the largest rewards. Malka, Myrina, Prague, Pomona, Pharaon and Lyris – they all came and went like the ocean’s tides, sometimes surging further than ever before, other times only dabbling against the shore. While Scorch may find their spotty activity troubling and slightly annoying, she understands the way the Jungle invites inactivity. When she lost her daughter and went without her husband for years, the shadows of the land enveloped her the way she supposes a mother ought to. And perhaps when the crown falls to a different head, she will fade once more into the chaos, be it of the Jungle or of death.

A frown creases her forehead deeply as she stares at herself in a large pool of water, the same one her crash of Javan rhinoceroses frequently visited. Her shift from leathery to hairless beast had not gone quite right, and frustration glows in her fiery dragon eyes. Two horns protrude from the middle-end of the flat of her head, the one farthest from her eyes larger than the one nearest. Snorting, Scorch turns her head to inspect the rest of her body; an inch too far to the left, and her neck gives out. Snorting again, Scorch raises her head with effort, unaccustomed to the weight of the horns. When she tries to look to her left again, she snaps back to her original position; something in her neck just fucking tore. Great.

Heavily self-invested, Scorch does not notice the Makaws calling. When ash is carried past her field of vision on a rare Jungle breeze, however, she snaps into attention. Of course, this means swivelling her head to the left, and she curses as her own little fire alights within her muscles. Snarling beneath her breath, the Khaleesi carefully turns before moving quickly to investigate.

Who she finds is rather unnerving.

“Pomona, Prague,” She says, surprise lacing her masculine tones. She tilts her head to the left in a show of concern and confusion for the magical mare who seems completely out of sorts. “Fuck!” She mutters when her neck gives out again. Fucking horns. Her tail swishes angrily, though she doesn’t realize that it’s her rhino tail, long and skin-like with a tuft of fur right at the end. Drawing herself up, she looks to both mares inquisitively, careful to remain in one position.

“Prague, what’s up your ass? And Pomona, where have you been? We missed the two of you.”

Scorch

Khaleesi of the Amazon Jungle