their silent thunder matches mine; any

[adna]

and if you're still breathing, you're the lucky ones
‘cause most of us are heaving through corrupted lungs

Adna has been trained in diplomacy. Her father has taken her along on his diplomatic trips and although he is more warrior that silvertongue, he has guided her through it all the same. Still, the memory of it—that fuzzy thought of her fanged father gently whispering in her ear—is enough to make her flinch and recoil and forget all of it. She wants to lash out and she feels a lightheaded need to do something reckless.

To be her father’s daughter and sink her fangs into flesh for the first time.

To gain firsthand knowledge of what he means when he says that they are monsters.

She is dizzy with the instinctual need and the fear of herself and the warring desires within her and she closes her reptilian eyes against the headache that begins to brew. When she opens again, she is seeing through a predator’s eyes, watching the heat map of the land around them (the child coming looking more like prey and less like a friend) and she gasps, blinking again desperately, regaining her normal vision.

“Hi,” she says, her voice a little tight, on edge. She doesn’t want to hurt this girl, she reminds herself. She is not her father. Her blood is not cursed. She swallows again and tries to think of her mother, tries to remember that gentleness and tries to remind herself that it is her birthright as much as the serpent.

It is enough to steady her nerves. Enough that she is even able to choke back the pain when the girl asks about her scales. Bile rises in her throat and she shakes her head. “My dad,” she manages. “I look like my dad.” It was once something she was so proud of—something she practically boasted about at every opportunity—and now she can barely get the words out. “My name is Adna.”

adna

we're setting fire to our insides for fun
collecting pictures from a flood that wrecked our home

@[Eurwen]