“ she whispers to us of wind and forest—and she tells us stories, ”
Her laughter when it comes feels like a cleansing as it blooms from bind her smile. It rings both louder and softer than her chain, louder the the song of his feathers. The song of her rings through the forest and the wind and like all beautiful things she's both more and less than that fragile laughter living inside her. “I have never been called a beast before.” Isra whispers between her bell-chime amusement and everything about her suggests that she finds it wonderful to be a 'beast'.
“What sort of beast shall I be then?” She tosses her horn and watches the way the dappled morning sun reflects off her spindle bone and casts around them strange colors and lights. When he hooves dance closer there is something both deer-like and bird-like in the movement, as if the places where she sets her gaze seem to tremble and turn to dream-stuff.
Isra imagines what it might mean to be a terrible beast, a dragon or that thing that circled and circled over her head in a storm. She wonders if she could ever make a world burn and smolder and freeze before her rage. Or perhaps, she thinks, it is better to be a sad sort of beast. She could be lonely in a cave with only shadows and moss and mold to keep her company. The shadows, she knows, are friends to the story-tellers, they listen for years and years and never shift away.
Sometimes she still feels like the lonely sort, the type to suffer endlessly because happiness seems like a dream as delicate and fragile as silk spider webs.
And for a moment, when the light reflects off her horn onto this feathers she's enthralled with the way the spaces between his wings seem to swallow up even that small burst of light. What a wonderful thing it must be to fly? The sea gave her a horn, scales, a chain and a form made not for exploring but surviving. So with a soft sigh of longing she looks away from his wings and smiles to meet together their gazes again.
“Lately it seems to be a habit.” Her eyes when they shift overhead seems searching, as if she's looking for another dragon, a beast more fearsome than she could ever been. “The mountains have been full of danger.” And when her horn dances in the light it's clear that she has rarely though of it as a weapon. It's nothing more than another part of this strange new skin of hers (as strange as the crown she never wears).
@Blyse
