05-03-2021, 11:24 PM
Wherewolf does not have any friends, like any true Northerner, he considers himself to be the best company and has no need for anyone else's, and he is about to tell the black stallion just that when he pauses, lips parted slightly with the interrupted words dead upon them. The memory falls across him like fog gleaming gold in the sun, but it's bitter on his tongue like something artificial, sour as the bright cranberries peppering Nerine's bogs.
The thick-limbed colt spits venom at her simply because she has the misfortune to meet him. He's haughty, angry, fueled by deep veins of insecurity and bitterness (the memory giver may not know this, but Wherewolf does,) and the delicate girl beside him vibrates with anger when he dismisses her, when he turns with final insults and steps away. She reaches out for his wing with teeth that shine in the bright of day.
There's blackness after. Darkness. He doesn't remember what happened after, but the memory pushes on. Wherewolf, in the present, blinks hard with a snort and a jerk of his head as the memory continues to wash through him. His mind tells him that there was only blindess after, and pain, and then he woke, panting and tangled with her in the mud and the sharp tang of sweat mixing with blood, but against the dark screen, the memory plays vividly on. It dawns on him, suddenly, that this is not his memory. This is not a daydream brought on by the other stallion's sarcastic question.
No.
This is something else. Someone else.
"Get of of my head you little witch." He growls, voice dropping an octave, teeth bared and so bright against the dark of his lips. His head swings back to the black, ears dropping flat once again, though it is not intended for him.
"I assure you, it is because no-one can stand me."
His head swings back, yes, but those stormy eyes, their color shifting slightly to a cold gray-green, do not rest on dark skin or ruby eyes. Instead the dappled stallion searches the tawny oatgrass for the mare he knows must be here. At first she is barely visible, her once russet coat turned gold, but he recognizes her anyway. The feathers of his wings lift and rustle loudly like the leaves of wind-tossed trees. Unbidden, unnoticed, his left wing hitches higher and tighter to his barrel.
Aela approaches, gleaming and silk-skinned and silver-tongued, and it may be difficult not to count the differences that mark them when they are side-by-side. She is civil, but he does not have a civil bone in his body. Instead of answering her question, he snorts derisively.
"Yellow is not your color."
The thick-limbed colt spits venom at her simply because she has the misfortune to meet him. He's haughty, angry, fueled by deep veins of insecurity and bitterness (the memory giver may not know this, but Wherewolf does,) and the delicate girl beside him vibrates with anger when he dismisses her, when he turns with final insults and steps away. She reaches out for his wing with teeth that shine in the bright of day.
There's blackness after. Darkness. He doesn't remember what happened after, but the memory pushes on. Wherewolf, in the present, blinks hard with a snort and a jerk of his head as the memory continues to wash through him. His mind tells him that there was only blindess after, and pain, and then he woke, panting and tangled with her in the mud and the sharp tang of sweat mixing with blood, but against the dark screen, the memory plays vividly on. It dawns on him, suddenly, that this is not his memory. This is not a daydream brought on by the other stallion's sarcastic question.
No.
This is something else. Someone else.
"Get of of my head you little witch." He growls, voice dropping an octave, teeth bared and so bright against the dark of his lips. His head swings back to the black, ears dropping flat once again, though it is not intended for him.
"I assure you, it is because no-one can stand me."
His head swings back, yes, but those stormy eyes, their color shifting slightly to a cold gray-green, do not rest on dark skin or ruby eyes. Instead the dappled stallion searches the tawny oatgrass for the mare he knows must be here. At first she is barely visible, her once russet coat turned gold, but he recognizes her anyway. The feathers of his wings lift and rustle loudly like the leaves of wind-tossed trees. Unbidden, unnoticed, his left wing hitches higher and tighter to his barrel.
Aela approaches, gleaming and silk-skinned and silver-tongued, and it may be difficult not to count the differences that mark them when they are side-by-side. She is civil, but he does not have a civil bone in his body. Instead of answering her question, he snorts derisively.
"Yellow is not your color."
@[Aela] @[Obscene]
