The clouds are heavy with rain.

She's waiting for it to fall, red eyes cast towards the dark horizon. Gray grows and swells, like the bags underneath an insomniac's eyes, and with each minute they thicken. Soon they will envelop the horizon. Soon they will devour the sky. And she wonders, absent-mindedly, if it would make it rain faster if she strode towards the horizon, if she ran into the storm—but she knew that was impossible. What the clouds and birds traversed in minutes took hours for her.

Sometimes she wishes she could fly. Today was one of those days.

You see, if she could fly, she could rescue mom. If she could fly, she wouldn't have to worry about being someone's dinner. If she could fly, she could be with her companion, and play in the sky, and never have to worry again.

Lilómiel wheels above, dark wings cutting an imposing silhouette against the silvered backdrop, ruinous in his black garb. His mind welds into hers, cramming tightly against her mind's poisonous cracks, his thoughts weaving and binding against hers. It brings the faintest of smiles to curl up her lips—his violent reconciliation with her wants are sweet, in a strange way. They originate out of well-meaning, out of a fierce and overwhelming hunger to give her what she wants. Even if the pressure of their connection makes her head pound... she can't really complain.

And even better, if she closes her eyes, she can almost feel the wind on her wings, the breeze snapping at her cheeks and ruffling through her feathers.

Nymeria sighs.
Lilómiel drifts higher, their growing physical separation not leaving a blemish on their mental closeness.
She turns towards home.

Hooves scrape over earth and brittle grass. Hips sway, relaxed and flexing comfortably. Neck softens, head lowering in an image of casual, insolent grace. Mother's walk, she had always thought of it; she worked every day to emulate it, to let it become a natural, easy movement, but it was difficult. Elegance was easy; but to pin down the faintly threatening curves and the viperous strength to her neck and the fierce look in her eyes less so.

I wish she was here to teach me it.

She's not, but a stranger is here to let her practice it.

Dark gray, thick lines, bright eyes, curving horn. Nymeria's head lifts, her vivacious eyes settling on that toxic male form. One step. Ears prick forward. Two steps. Knees snap a little higher. Three steps. Hips flex wider. Four steps. Neck curls. Five steps. Head tilts just so. Six steps. A smile.

Lilómiel thunders, the darkness of his thoughts roiling in protest.

"Hello!" The wolf calls out, turning on full charm (and ignoring his collapsed, sad-looking situation.)