Set
He has already turned away from her, picking his way over bits of river debris, when she makes her demands, all the determination she can muster trembling in the distance between them. He pauses, a foreleg hovering a moment before being placed carefully back down. A breath. The hard features of his mismatched face pull back in a severe smile, eyes rolling in their sockets as he turns to face her again, a matching roll to his shoulders. Unearthly gold meets grave bravado. “If it pleases,” he concedes on the heels of a devilish wink.
It no longer takes conscious thought to use his magic. Time and the ever-changing face of Beqanna had given it cause to shift and evolve – weaknesses where there had been none (and not just him, the reckoning had changed them all). But here, in the wild bits of the country, he is king.
Brazenly he reaches inside her. He tempers the strength of the flow of magic so as not to overpower her in her weakened state, but he can’t say it won’t hurt. Though he makes no move toward her physically, he draws her along with him, easing toward the edges of her soul; that other-plane, visceral part of the body where the power always dwells. A growl trembles at the base of his throat when he sees it, shuddering and lashing out. It probes at his defenses, eager for another glimpse of the world from his eyes, but its efforts this time are fruitless. He beckons her to it and eases back to himself. If you won’t control it, it will control you, he whispers into her head as he draws back. It was a lesson he had learned the hard way himself, his shifting once out of his control.
“Cunning will nearly always trump force,” he says aloud, referring to her previous, albeit accidental, invasion into his Otter’s-mind. Shaking out his mane, he makes it easier for her sliding a door open just wide enough for her to slip through, if she can control herself well enough. “Stalk your prey, slip in and out unnoticed before they realize you’ve been there.” His eyes catch on the jut of her ribs, her filthy wings. “Though, you should really fucking eat something first,” he muses.
It no longer takes conscious thought to use his magic. Time and the ever-changing face of Beqanna had given it cause to shift and evolve – weaknesses where there had been none (and not just him, the reckoning had changed them all). But here, in the wild bits of the country, he is king.
Brazenly he reaches inside her. He tempers the strength of the flow of magic so as not to overpower her in her weakened state, but he can’t say it won’t hurt. Though he makes no move toward her physically, he draws her along with him, easing toward the edges of her soul; that other-plane, visceral part of the body where the power always dwells. A growl trembles at the base of his throat when he sees it, shuddering and lashing out. It probes at his defenses, eager for another glimpse of the world from his eyes, but its efforts this time are fruitless. He beckons her to it and eases back to himself. If you won’t control it, it will control you, he whispers into her head as he draws back. It was a lesson he had learned the hard way himself, his shifting once out of his control.
“Cunning will nearly always trump force,” he says aloud, referring to her previous, albeit accidental, invasion into his Otter’s-mind. Shaking out his mane, he makes it easier for her sliding a door open just wide enough for her to slip through, if she can control herself well enough. “Stalk your prey, slip in and out unnoticed before they realize you’ve been there.” His eyes catch on the jut of her ribs, her filthy wings. “Though, you should really fucking eat something first,” he muses.
@[Eyas]