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03-06-2017, 12:26 PM
Яikyn Duir regrets his decision to provoke the use of the magic once he watches it in use, in the shape I have bid it to take. Looking away with discomfort, his lips are a line, straight line, while mine curve upwards more and more, the more she struggles, and the further the angle in her knees bends regardless. Volterra had hidden the pain of fighting against it much better than she does, I note, likely due to the number of scars that had, even back then, smattered his black hide, and it’s strangely thrilling to know that it hurts, as much as it frightens. Most had fallen victim to the magic’s whims easily, but for my strongest opponents, and that the self dubbed Mutant withstands it for as long as she does is impressive. I will have to try her on the field sometime! I think, while Duir rolls his eyes. Fuck you, she says, from where she’s been forced to one, quivering post, and I laugh, despite the cruelty of my magical imposition, and the obvious anger it rouses in Wessex. Relinquishing the pressure of my will, feeling my being wind back towards my own body, becoming, once more, me, not the changeling unicorn before me. Prepared to dance away if she rebukes with violence (I would), my body seems otherwise relaxed – hopefully disguising how very mentally taxing it is to use my magic in the first place. "Is that an offer?" I impishly goad, brows waggling over amusedly glimmering gold eyes. in every heart a hole |
@Wessex
