falling deeper, with an ear sharp for the fall
His claws tighten on the trinket, drawing satisfaction from the simple feeling of ownership. Somewhere, below and behind, she yells “Get back here you pest! That doesn’t belong to you!” He cackles, undeterred.
Dune, by day, would not have much interest in stealing someone’s necklace. He was, unfortunately, no stranger to theft, but he liked to think days of thievery were behind him.
But this was not Dune by day. This was night-Dune, crow Dune, in the shimmering landscape of dream where morality and consequence melted like clocks. And the thrill of the theft filled his little crow-bones with a fiery exhilaration.
Speaking of fire-- Dune glances behind him to see a ball of it, coming in hot. He veers to the left, but not quite fast enough-- his feathers are singed as the fireball streaks past just to his right. With an indignant squawk he takes a sharp turn, down a crooked side street, and lands to the ground with a few bouncing hops.
Dune turns to face the dreamer, his expression thoughtful and completely without fear. Her fireball has set a building ablaze. The flames are spreading remarkably quickly, jumping from building to building-- this dream is a matchstick city.
He looks at the dreamer, her face illuminated by fury and firelight. There’s something about her that’s… maybe not beautiful, but captivating. Like watching a wildfire, it was hard to look away. But there’s a necklace tight in his claws and a vicious glee in her eyes. He bares his teeth, a wolf’s maw unfathomably contained behind his crow beak. And from those sharp white teeth the rest of his skin unfolds. Feathers pull back as though there’s an invisible hand skinning the bird, but instead of fleshy red they unfold to reveal fur, thick and black. Four legs emerge from the crow’s feet, and the necklace finds itself wrapped around Dune’s neck instead of clasped in his now-canine grip.
He growls, low, daring her to come closer. Meanwhile the fire is spreading, and spreading, and--
Somewhere a wolf begins to howl. It is no hunting song. It is a crying, a desperate plea. Dune’s ears prick instinctively. His eyes remain glued to the dreamer, but his wolf heart clenches anxiously at the summoning. He does not know what the hell is going on, between the necklace and the fire, the wolf and the dreamer and the city. Sometimes, that was just the nature of the dream.
@Morrighan
