We got older and I should have known
that I’d feel colder when I walk alone
that I’d feel colder when I walk alone
Wow, let’s talk about friendship and brotherhood. Castile is definitely out of his inner circle by now. Amazon Prince, Nerinian male resident, dragon-kin… even the claiming of Icicle Isle - none of it connected them these days.
Polar opposites, ice and fire are. He’d frequently enough mentioned - though long past now - that the fire dragon got worked up too easily, needed a cooldown.
This was not what Leilan had in mind when he said that.
The fact that a fairy screwed with the male now roaring above did not soften the ice-covered stallion. There were limits. Burning his home - the only place he ever had named home, even if he wasn’t an official resident since returning- was the limit to his ability to understand the what, how, or why. The willingness to understand, gone.
Mid-conversation with Neverwhere, the palomino girl busted in with the news. It was just about that time that the smoke became visible from where they stood, and then Beryl was gone. ”Fuck.” he’d told Neverwhere, still a little shocked. One moment he was peacefully telling her she needed to look after her stuff - he’d definitely toyed with the idea of just claiming back that island, instead, and was just about to tell her - the next there was an idiot trying to burn snow and granite.
And prey. And the food that prey would eat.
And Beryl. And Jesla.
And who knew who else: the Isle had many residents who preferred solitude as compared to other bustling kingdoms… how many of them would be able to save themselves?
”Fuck you, Cas.” He mumbles more to himself than to Neverwhere. Once, he’d loathed the idea of a full dragon-shift. The ability being new had kept him from trying to bite more than he could swallow, but desperate times call for desperate measures.
And then, poof - Beryl disappears. ”Beryl! Stupid cat!” but she doesn’t hear him in her shadows, and his annoyed shout flows into an irritated roar.
Instead of an ice-scaled stallion, a silvery, red- white and ice-spiked dragon wings himself to Icicle Isle in something very close to cold rage.
Polar opposites, ice and fire are. He’d frequently enough mentioned - though long past now - that the fire dragon got worked up too easily, needed a cooldown.
This was not what Leilan had in mind when he said that.
The fact that a fairy screwed with the male now roaring above did not soften the ice-covered stallion. There were limits. Burning his home - the only place he ever had named home, even if he wasn’t an official resident since returning- was the limit to his ability to understand the what, how, or why. The willingness to understand, gone.
Mid-conversation with Neverwhere, the palomino girl busted in with the news. It was just about that time that the smoke became visible from where they stood, and then Beryl was gone. ”Fuck.” he’d told Neverwhere, still a little shocked. One moment he was peacefully telling her she needed to look after her stuff - he’d definitely toyed with the idea of just claiming back that island, instead, and was just about to tell her - the next there was an idiot trying to burn snow and granite.
And prey. And the food that prey would eat.
And Beryl. And Jesla.
And who knew who else: the Isle had many residents who preferred solitude as compared to other bustling kingdoms… how many of them would be able to save themselves?
”Fuck you, Cas.” He mumbles more to himself than to Neverwhere. Once, he’d loathed the idea of a full dragon-shift. The ability being new had kept him from trying to bite more than he could swallow, but desperate times call for desperate measures.
And then, poof - Beryl disappears. ”Beryl! Stupid cat!” but she doesn’t hear him in her shadows, and his annoyed shout flows into an irritated roar.
Instead of an ice-scaled stallion, a silvery, red- white and ice-spiked dragon wings himself to Icicle Isle in something very close to cold rage.
Leilan
no. 7 | ice forged in fire
Two things I know I can make: pretty kids, and people mad.
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