the war of the flowers
There is a certain peace in the thoughtlessness of a fight. In the mindlessness of it. In the way he only needs to worry, for the moment, about the feel of his teeth scraping along the back of Andras’ neck and how he will react to it.
He does not answer Andras’ question. He does not need to.
Ipomoea already knows his Warden — his friend — knows the answer perhaps better than he knows it himself.
It should worry him that battle still comes so easily to him. That the war, for him, has never ended but lives on and on and on now in his veins, in his heartbeats, in the magic thrumming in his bones that is begging (always begging) for more. It should worry him that he has to remind himself to soften his blows, to strike the muscle instead of the joints or the throat.
But he’s still looking for the bloom of blood on Andras’ skin and it’s drowning out everything else. He’s still waiting for the metallic taste on his tongue to remind him you were born for this, in the way a desert-born thing is always made for violence. Ipomoea has been waiting for war and it makes another fissure rise between all the other cracks of his heart.
And when the explosion comes — every electrifying jolt of it, echoing through the hollow parts of his bones in all the ways he always imagined it would — it makes every other thought wink from his mind like the sun dipping below the horizon.
He does not remember hitting the ground (he does not remember falling through the air, or letting go of Andras’ neck, or the way the grass of the field suddenly rose like a wave to catch him gently.) Later he will remember the rush of it, the weightlessness, the feeling of every single hair on his body standing on end, the sound of Andras’ laughter racing like a shot of lightning through the darkness of the field.
Later he will remember the way that laughter awakened something in the pit of his belly, something that had only been sleeping since they went to their Emissary’s cottage all those months ago.
It races out of him now with the roar of a teryr spreading its wings in the desert. Until every bit of sand and soil surrounding him rises, and grows teeth, and claws, and the faces of wolves howling not at the moon, but at Andras. They are still howling when they cross the small space separating them, as he drags himself to his feet and looks on after them like a hunter commanding his hounds. With every step they are better formed, with every step they are more beast than earth. Until they reach the warden at last, and his hold on them tethers like a rope cut.
He does not know if they still have their teeth when they reach him.
He does not answer Andras’ question. He does not need to.
Ipomoea already knows his Warden — his friend — knows the answer perhaps better than he knows it himself.
It should worry him that battle still comes so easily to him. That the war, for him, has never ended but lives on and on and on now in his veins, in his heartbeats, in the magic thrumming in his bones that is begging (always begging) for more. It should worry him that he has to remind himself to soften his blows, to strike the muscle instead of the joints or the throat.
But he’s still looking for the bloom of blood on Andras’ skin and it’s drowning out everything else. He’s still waiting for the metallic taste on his tongue to remind him you were born for this, in the way a desert-born thing is always made for violence. Ipomoea has been waiting for war and it makes another fissure rise between all the other cracks of his heart.
And when the explosion comes — every electrifying jolt of it, echoing through the hollow parts of his bones in all the ways he always imagined it would — it makes every other thought wink from his mind like the sun dipping below the horizon.
He does not remember hitting the ground (he does not remember falling through the air, or letting go of Andras’ neck, or the way the grass of the field suddenly rose like a wave to catch him gently.) Later he will remember the rush of it, the weightlessness, the feeling of every single hair on his body standing on end, the sound of Andras’ laughter racing like a shot of lightning through the darkness of the field.
Later he will remember the way that laughter awakened something in the pit of his belly, something that had only been sleeping since they went to their Emissary’s cottage all those months ago.
It races out of him now with the roar of a teryr spreading its wings in the desert. Until every bit of sand and soil surrounding him rises, and grows teeth, and claws, and the faces of wolves howling not at the moon, but at Andras. They are still howling when they cross the small space separating them, as he drags himself to his feet and looks on after them like a hunter commanding his hounds. With every step they are better formed, with every step they are more beast than earth. Until they reach the warden at last, and his hold on them tethers like a rope cut.
He does not know if they still have their teeth when they reach him.
Summary: Ipomoea is struck completely by Andras' explosion and is left disoriented. His second magic comes to him by instinct, forming a few wolves from sand and soil to race after Andras (assuming they are still in close enough proximity to each other.)
Attack Used: 2
Attack(s) Left: 0
Block Used: 0
Block(s) Left: 1
Item(s) Used: N/A
Response Deadline: November 24, 2020
Tags: @Andras, @Sid, @inkbone, @nestle, @layla, @griffin
Attack Used: 2
Attack(s) Left: 0
Block Used: 0
Block(s) Left: 1
Item(s) Used: N/A
Response Deadline: November 24, 2020
Tags: @
