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.

Its body was silhouetted in a thick edge of black, the translucent liquid dim and darkened with the silver of the clouds brooding in the background, a creature of storm. Lightning cracked, licked across the sky, refracted in the overlapping 'scales' and burning through the water figurine. Brows knitted sharply together, forming a hard and surly line in her stubborn efforts to keep the dragon 'alive' (so much that she forgot to breathe)—keep him breathing! And then, with a final and agonizing exertion of willpower, she forced the lines of the creature's chest to expand, and fall, in a parody of breathing. Sharp was her inhale, mirroring that of her dragon-beast, and then he fell away along with her concentration, dissolving into a cascade of raindrops punctuated by a rumble of thunder.

Lilómiel craawed, his warbling tenor rolling out in time with the growl of the skies. Irritation surged through their bond, thick and sinuous frustration, the staccato beat of his rage gnawing away at her temperance. Spindly ebon claws tighten, clutch firm against the scarred tissue of her withers, bringing beads of scarlet springing into vivid color against the darkness of her skin. Ow—she lets her pain bleed out across the bond, a soft reprimand he shakes off with a roll of his eyes and a rustle of his feathered wings. No, Nym cues again, thrusting the import of the message upon him, bending the wilderness of his foreign mind to her hand. For a moment, the nest-like warrens of his impassable thoughts squirms, tightens away from her impassive cruelty—and then it gives, reluctantly, swaying and curling into something small and beaten.

Despite the faint pang of pity she feels for the bastard, stronger yet is the satisfaction from subjugating him to her will.

The thunder of massive wings churning the dead air (calm before the storm, isn't that how it's described?) into a snappy wind snaps her from her paradisaical whims. Vermilion eyes rise, ruby retinas affixing onto a vibrant form colored cobalt and firebird orange. Eyelids ever-so-delicately widen, subtle surprise shaping exquisite features into a cleverly construed image of beauty with arachnid poise. The dark filly does not give much mind to the male's appearance, however; it is the face which bespeaks the soul, whether that be a heaviness to the eyelids, a bedraggled touch to the mane, or the weight and curve of the lips.

Another flash of lightning burns him with white light and the girl frantically leaps back from the edge of the sea-scalded rocks, mouth twisting askew and wild in shock, all grace wiped from her features in her astonishment. All she saw was lightning—and him, the colt, seemingly on fire.

Lilómiel crooned, the low vibration of his purr reverberating through her bones. Through the seed of their connection she could feel his vague satisfaction—something which translated (from what she could tell of his flashing images of burnt birds and the stench of charred flesh) to what idiot flies in a storm? And this time, her surprise is enough that she forgets to reprimand the arrogant black.

Except with a flurry of feathers and a crack of hooves on stone, the boy lands, wind-whipped and bright-eyed. Fine.

For a long and sticky moment Nymeria is struck by a steadfast silence, words paralyzed within her larynx, a surprise mirrored upon Lil's face. The dragon croaks something, a rumble of mingled confusion and disappointment (he likes his food crispy, and has yet to try burnt horseflesh), the low stretch of sound startling her into composure once again. Smooth, decided unworry paints across her face and the dark filly relaxes. She will not show fear to a stranger.

"Yes," the grullo says cordially, lashes knitting together in a coy and vaguely flirtatious vibe. "Did you get struck by lightning?"

The arachnid's head cocks, a sinuous, unsettling movement—too smooth, too well-practiced, too abrupt in its ending—an ominous and disquieting motion. Lilómiel's talons hook deeper upon the flesh of her withers, oiled black sinking and chewing into scarred tissue, a communication of private warning to his bonded. Through the serpentine coils of his primitive mind he lets seep forth his dissent, the image of her painted across his eyelids, a careful replication of his judgement. On the second repeat of the images, he adjusts the strokes of Nym's midnight paint against the black and blue canvas, recalculations made for future notes: not such exaggeration with her batted lashes, an easier stop to the inquisitive curve of her head, a more seemly way of being, not trying.

Behind the metaphorical tangle of barbed wires, trenches, and a maze of warfare, she caustically approaches his polite criticism, balanced precariously along the line of irritation and gratitude. A coil of his thoughts lick out to meet her, a submissive proffering of his mentality; with a greed, buried deep, she snatches at it, and savors the subsequent contact. For a moment they are united in mind, with all his feral being there for her to dissect.

A split and harried second later, Nymeria withdraws, guilt jumping at her heart. I'm not my mother. She did not enjoy the pain, the subservience, of others—especially not her bonded.

Hertz crackles into bright life again, fire flowers burning up against the navy of his midnight coat, and her skin shivers and flickers in fright... except this time, the moment is marked by change. This time, she stays still, pride etched in the curl of her neck and in her bright, ruby eyes. And it would seem he mirrors her sentiment; the coy curl of his lips is echoed in her vivacious, vaguely sensuous gaze, the shake of her neck as she primps her growing, curly mane. She's not entirely sure of what she's trying to do, what message she seeks to communicate, but neither does she worry about it beyond Lil's occasional commentary.

If she didn't experiment now, when would she ever get a chance to?

"I can't decide if that makes you more or less boring," Nymeria smirks, the words callous and tone serendipitous . Beneath her shallow veneer of casual cruelty, though, hovers a thickening sense of curiosity. Surely he doesn't mean seriously? Eyes rake across his well-rounded form, searching for some sign of his truthfulness or dishonesty, while nostrils cusp wide, taking in his pungent reek. He doesn't smell like lightning, at least not overly...

The tip of his head does not go unnoticed, and it is followed by a flicker of relief on her part. For all her presumed confidence, she doesn't want to appear boring—she might not be the best with company, but she didn't want him gone, either. Besides, she could feel from the edge of growing conceit in the back of her mind Lilómiel's brief subservience could well be on the way to being lost should she not retain her dominance... and unfortunately, being unable to captivate someone—especially a horny young male, with her being a girl—well, it could prove disastrous.

"I'm not a nymph." The grullo responds, a faintly waspish note entering her tones and brows sharpening over her scarlet retinas. "My genes gave me magic, that's all."

He shrugs.
It's a weird movement, she decides, something she's not entirely familiar or comfortable with. The easy roll of his shoulders is appealing in its own horse-flesh-y way—rippling all the way down through the feathers along his wings—and she watches with a queer wonder that could almost be taken for fascination.

I wonder if he practices.

Was that something most horses did? Did they face off their companions and contorts their faces and flex their necks and round up their bums and smile and prick their ears? Or did they just be, like Volterra did?

Obviously, not having a companion might make the practice more difficult. Unless they practiced with their mums or dads? That could be it...

But the shrug (and the watching of it) is only an excuse for time to collect her thoughts.

Because this time, he makes her hesitate, since there's fabricated flattery and hefty compliments (at least, it seems like a lot of sweet stuff he was saying to her. Admittedly she doesn't get many compliments from her primary acquantainces—trees.)

Irresistible. She does like the sound of that—all rich and worthy. A gentle smile creases the corners of her lips in response, a more genuine grin that shows just the slightest flash of fangs. She wouldn't wish to appear too flattered, after all; she thought that might reduce her mysterious charm.

"I'm not entirely certain I understand what you mean," Nymeria says, eyebrows quirking in a faint stereotypy of admonishment. Once more she pauses, scrambling for the right words and the right irresistibility and a way to make her more fastidious and fussy nature glorious and appealing. It's all so new to her, this idle banter—she had become somewhat unaccustomed to company in her time with Lil. That wasn't to say her dragon was poor company... but he was just, you know, different. His every thought and emotion reverberated through their bond; there was no sense of mystery, or danger.

Pause over and go—"I suppose I am naturally talented at everything, but I had always thought that was simply a side affect of being fabulous." Nymeria's head tips in a manner both curious and avaricious, her ravenous eyes striding over the boy's electric body. Her weight shifts as she props up a hind hoof beneath her, tail flicking over her silver flanks in an appropriately sassy manner. "I'm Nymeria."

Atop her withers, Lilómiel gurgles. The vaguely grotesque sound rumbles out wetly through the air, a thunder to replace the thunder. Anger snaps and licks through their bond; teeth unknit and wings flare and snap, the dragon's feather crest rising up in a spiky array of his fury.

"And this bad-tempered ass is Lilómiel. If he tries to chew out your eyes, it's not my fault."

And she smiles, right on cue.