Like this one, there are moments in which Thana feels fully 'other', fully something else that has perhaps forgotten all the rules of this world. There are moments in which she feels like a wild thing in the black center of a forest, or a stone in the middle of a battlefield. It has always felt like looking down, watching the horses of this world work their tongues in a language she can understand and know nothing of at the same time. “I am Thana.” She answers with a scrape of that same language, but the blaze in her violet eyes is different, darker, brighter, more.
She watches the mare stamp her hoof into the ground and she watches the soil turn swampy at the show of temper. There is still a bit of thorn winding its way up her leg, creeping closer and closer to the skin covering her heart. Lines of blood bloom where the thorns scrape, tiny marks that look almost like teeth in the places were they circle out in soft half-wounded suns.
Eligos watches too, with his cheek pressed to Thana's rib-cage, in a way that is no less 'other'. It's more hungry, that look of focus on his face, desperate almost.
He has been too long from the desert, too long from the rage sands that still remember the wars of the gods.
Part of her wants to step forward and lay her lips against the water pooling around them. The violet waters have done litter to slake her thirst. They only fuel the wrath without end and the aching of her sharp-shard soul. But Eligos is still saying please like a prayer, and somewhere the pack is howling at the moon as it runs onward without her. Somewhere there are other wild things that would understand all the broken parts of her are the same parts of the island that are sick. Of course this mare doesn't understand. So few do.
“The magic is different here. Changed.” The purple of her eyes deepens even as she drags her tail across the moss growing at her feet. It carves a long line in the earth (the same line Thana wants to carve across the mare's side for calling this place wrong in the same way something would be called a dead thing). There is a threat in every inch of her unnatural stillness.
It's harder to control it here, the violence in her form that has nothing to do with magic and everything do it with blood. Sometimes, in moments like this, it seems an impossible thing.
@Morrighan
