The youngest wolf had discovered the stone bridge a week before, a spit of dark rock piercing through the clamorous seas. Surrounded by the ocean, by chaotic blue and black smashing against hard land—it struck something within her, a chord of simultaneous sympathy and mistrust.

Surrounded by the water was an island; she was sure of it. It grew up from the ocean in a ragged hook, a dark peninsula draped in blue curtains of molten magma and veiled by rivulets of smoke and shadow. Dark clouds gathered 'bout it, not white and pure but colored like cinder and ash. It reminded her of that which Lilómiel produced when he coughed and choked in his efforts to make flame (and, in case one was wondering, his attempts continued to be just that: attempts. Nym didn't have the heart to tell him it would be at least a couple more months before he might make true dragonflame, and even that would be a mere spark beside the bonfire of an adult.) All the mystery—the strange, flickering colors, the silver clouds—were curious, and frightful.

Naturally, she had to investigate, but she wasn't planning on being a fool about it. With a well-intentioned caution, she set up camp on the safe side of the bridge, taking on a crepuscular habit. She combed the beach; she investigated the texture, the heat of the stone; she watched Lilómiel dart in and out of the waters, agile and adept, snagging silver fish from the shallow estuaries. Mother stayed with her, for some of it- other times, the battle-scarred matriarch drifted away, silent as death with her kitsune perched on her withers.

It was on this day, when Confutatis had strayed, that Nymeria had decided to practice her magic.

Although still wary of the peculiar nature of the landmass, the spider drifted out to the midway point of the bridge, hips swaying in her mother's fashion. Here, above the water with the wind combing back her tangled mane, she braced herself: and then she cast her gaze downwards. Lips pressed firmly, tightly, as Lilómiel's talons snagged in her mane, twisting into the knots for a firm grip. The small dragon was warm against her back, but the heat emanating from his sun-soaked scales was tolerable with night well on the way, the sun a mere glint above the horizon line.

With feigned patience, the grullo took a deep breath, and reached in towards the seed of magic which awaited her gentle hand. It was as elusive as its nature would dictate; whenever she snatched at it, it melted away, fluid as the water it bent to its will. No. Patience was key, here- and the careful scrutiny of Lilómiel.
There was nothing like being watched under a loathing gaze for motivation.

Today it came to her. It sprung towards her, a cool and welcome embrace, thrumming power which surged through voltaic veins, blissful as the salt-spray wind. This—this feeling of power was inexorable, exhilarating, and euphoric, all in one. The tiniest of smiles quirked up her lips as she set her mind to the task, letting Lil's desires (his wants for entertainment) shape the water below them. It was a delicate process, seeing as she was yet untrained and unschooled in the bending of the sea, but it was pleasant nonetheless.

The first to rise from the waves was a dragon, seafoam and dark blue, coaxed from her imagination and sculpted into reality. Wings unfurled from a spine glittering in sunlight, wings of silver spray and churning blue; and then, with an exhalation, the dragon collapsed back into the sea.

Lashes clasp tight together; and then the sun is gone, in a glittering flash of light, disappeared behind the edge of the world.