The gold of his dapples gleams softly metallic, the thick hair of his winter coat giving a plushness to that shine. Wherewolf stands at the edge of a cliff - a thing he has no doubt learned from his mother - and his stomach lurches - a thing he is sure she has never felt at all. He feels like the wind might pull him right over the edge the way it tugs at him, and he snarls at it, defies it. Then, tentatively, he unfurls dark wings, and suddenly the way the wind pulls at him is more eager, hungrier. The right wing outstretches to its full length, crisp feathers stretching out to taste the air, but the left...
"Oh hell!"
Both wings snap back to his sides and the boy tosses his head with a litany of curses belting out across the sea. There is no reason that his wing should be so uncooperative. There is absolutely nothing wrong with it. The injury healed so long ago he can't even remember what happened or if there had been any pain. His neck twists, bristling mane standing on edge as if radiating his irritation, and his short tail snaps loud enough to wake a sleeping dragon on the Isle. His dark lips curl away from white, wet, teeth.
"This is shit." Everything is shit. Anger blossoms in his breast like fire and he, in a rare fit of creativity, imagines that the fog of his hot breath in the frigid northern air is smoke curling up as if from a chimney. He feeds that anger all his angst and insecurity. All the little hurts and insults, even the ones he knows weren't real; the ones he made up, and the arguments that only happened in his head.
Trapped. He isn't truly stuck here, in fact, almost nobody cares where or when he goes at all, yet he feels trapped just the same, as if his heart is pressing against sharp wire bars. He can feel it with each thrum and beat, sees it in the pattern of shapes that play across his eyelids when they close and shutter those sea-green eyes from the stormy grey waters crashing on sharp rocks below.
Trapped.
His eyes re-open on the pallid sky, slick with clouds and promising snow. The colt looks at the sea, at the wicked rocks below, and it is a simple thing to let himself fall, to spill over the precipice, and plummet through the air. The blasted wing will open, or it will not. He almost doesn't care, the healing will soon do for the pain of shattering on those rocks, will soon repel the water from his lungs like a clam half-buried in the sand. In short order, the wreckage of his body will join itself together again. Great wings unfurl again, they catch the wind beneath them and, for one brief, shining moment, his fall slows, he drifts on the updrafts of the sea, and then - oh, and then! - that traitorous left wing twitches and withdraws the smallest amount, and inch, a centimeter, almost nothing at all, but the wind catches him up in a vicious spin. He cartwheels into the rough black cliff wall with a yelp and a flash of light that flares up behind his eyes, giving way immediately to darkness and to oblivion.
Broken-legged, broken-winged, he lays crumpled on the unforgiving beach below and the clouds above open, weeping wide snowflakes that dust his too-still body with icy down.
"Oh hell!"
Both wings snap back to his sides and the boy tosses his head with a litany of curses belting out across the sea. There is no reason that his wing should be so uncooperative. There is absolutely nothing wrong with it. The injury healed so long ago he can't even remember what happened or if there had been any pain. His neck twists, bristling mane standing on edge as if radiating his irritation, and his short tail snaps loud enough to wake a sleeping dragon on the Isle. His dark lips curl away from white, wet, teeth.
"This is shit." Everything is shit. Anger blossoms in his breast like fire and he, in a rare fit of creativity, imagines that the fog of his hot breath in the frigid northern air is smoke curling up as if from a chimney. He feeds that anger all his angst and insecurity. All the little hurts and insults, even the ones he knows weren't real; the ones he made up, and the arguments that only happened in his head.
Trapped. He isn't truly stuck here, in fact, almost nobody cares where or when he goes at all, yet he feels trapped just the same, as if his heart is pressing against sharp wire bars. He can feel it with each thrum and beat, sees it in the pattern of shapes that play across his eyelids when they close and shutter those sea-green eyes from the stormy grey waters crashing on sharp rocks below.
Trapped.
His eyes re-open on the pallid sky, slick with clouds and promising snow. The colt looks at the sea, at the wicked rocks below, and it is a simple thing to let himself fall, to spill over the precipice, and plummet through the air. The blasted wing will open, or it will not. He almost doesn't care, the healing will soon do for the pain of shattering on those rocks, will soon repel the water from his lungs like a clam half-buried in the sand. In short order, the wreckage of his body will join itself together again. Great wings unfurl again, they catch the wind beneath them and, for one brief, shining moment, his fall slows, he drifts on the updrafts of the sea, and then - oh, and then! - that traitorous left wing twitches and withdraws the smallest amount, and inch, a centimeter, almost nothing at all, but the wind catches him up in a vicious spin. He cartwheels into the rough black cliff wall with a yelp and a flash of light that flares up behind his eyes, giving way immediately to darkness and to oblivion.
Broken-legged, broken-winged, he lays crumpled on the unforgiving beach below and the clouds above open, weeping wide snowflakes that dust his too-still body with icy down.
@[Nashua] Grammarly says this is Angry, Forceful, and Frank. I don't know who Frank is, he's new.
