he had been someone before the fall
the legends forgot he was made of flesh and blood
Torix notices her wings before anything else.He feels a child’s wonder for them; and in that wonder is the mixed portions of excitement and, perhaps, a tinge of fear. They mark her as other, as something he will never be or understand.
A pegasus.
Up until a year ago, he had thought them unreal. But on Novus they are plentiful, as if not abnormal.
The second thing Torix notices is how she wears her silence like armour. He does not rush in breaking it. Vercingtorix only watches her with analytic eyes; the striking, magpie-like markings, the black and the white and the soft way the light silhouettes her in the dark.
Damascus is not so patient, however. The dragon lifts his massive head—larger than either of them, or both of them combined—and fixes her with those strange, opalescent eyes. There is a moment—transient, as if it never even occurred—when through their bond Vercingtorix can feel Damascus wondering, perhaps I should—
No.
No.
Now is not the time for your magic.
“You are welcome to join us,” Damascus says, his voice velveteen. Torix will never become accustomed to the way everything spoken from the dragon’s mouth seems nearly hypnotic; primordial, as in the ancient dance of wolves and bison, of drumbeats and hearts.
Vercingtorix does not yet speak.
"Speech." || @
made of: crooked grins, careful hands
eyes the colour of dawn
