let my shadows prove the sunshine
How long has it been? There is no answer to the question - no thought that stirs in the recesses of the mountain lion’s mind, despite the fragments of another life that glimmer wistfully below the surface, struggling to be recognized. The question cannot be answered because there is no sense of time that lingers beneath dark and wild eyes, framed by black-lined eyelids and matching (terrifying) lips and shining fangs. The beast is large and his frame is bulky with muscle and the thickness of his winter’s coat, massive paws placed expertly so on the sharp incline of Hyaline’s mountain face. Claws dig into dirt and rock alike as the cougar pounces from one perch to the next, traveling into the lowlands that he has not explored since the stallion had changed into the cat. Snow riddles his back and shoulders, carefully collecting on the muted curves of each muscle of his body. His black-tipped ears flick absentmindedly, delicate flecks of white brushing away from his fur and dusting around him to settle on the cold ground below him.
There is a curious hum in the cougar’s throat as he feels the pinprick of another in the back of his mind, fighting for control. It happens more often than not, especially after the mountain lion’s runin with the leopard. The tawny cat mewls his displeasure, peeling back his lips to wrinkle the shortness of his muzzle, sandpaper tongue flicking sinisterly between shining teeth as his hackles begin to raise. His tail slashes warningly as the pinprick turns into a more forceful push, and as the cougar’s eyes flicker from wild black to cerulean, the beast continues to move down the mountainscape and into the valley where the snow is less and the prey is even more so.
Tension is clearly visible in the mountain lion’s descending pace, though there is no way to guess the inner turmoil that rattles the beast’s mind. There is a moment of lucidity - where the cat’s face lifts to the sunny sky and the brightness of the out-of-place blue irises stare greedily into the atmosphere - and a pause, but it is brief and is met with the rattling shriek of the lion’s protest.
Normally it is enough to send the color away from his eyes, but as the lion’s paws fall with a soft thud against frozen grassland, his irises do not sway.
The lion’s head throws itself backwards and then side to side, snarling and spitting as it fights to continue to remain in its current lifestyle. But there is new strength that is found in the now-cerulean gaze, and the thickness of deep gold is substituted with a pattern of ivory and honey, framed with a mane and tail of vivid blue and alabaster. Hooves replace claw, the snout elongates and teeth soften.
With a shuddering exhale, Svedka stumbles into Hyaline - clearly disheveled and disoriented, weak in the careful (unfamiliar?) steps he attempts to take forward.
Despite his weariness and the lapse in his memory, there is a breathless smile on the pale white of his lips.
svedka
