The Deva hears Osytha shouting up to her from the valley's basin, a dark speck of movement amidst the verdant landscape. Whatever reply she's looking for cannot be given in words. Now, wouldn't that be a neat trick, thinks the Shifted, already halfway back to her normal self, limbs enveloped in a soft, fuzzy glow. Like a hallucination, or trick of the light, easily disregarded.
'I've sheltered in worse places,' the she-devil replied, voice husky with the shift. 'Ruralfolk fear us as much as cityfolk do. No doubt they would jump at their own shadows, too, were they not bound to each other so.'
A grimace, as wyld thoughts wove themselves into reality, and were promptly snuffed out.
It was always rough, the comedown. Usually, when she shifted, she had more time to grow accustomed to the change; the broadening of senses, and the newfound hunger that came with it. The run to Corndon had been sweet as it was fleeting. A single moment of unshackled freedom, before the dream collapsed in on itself, and reality came rushing back in to place its hand on her neck.
Xenovia felt the world grow cold around her. The wind pulled at her mane, dragged its fingers her across skin, then down the arch of her spine. Winter bled slowly into Spring, but the weather remained tempermental. Clear skies one day, torrential rain the next.
The afternoon had yet to decide what it wanted to be, other than chilly. Xen decided to get dressed. All the better to avoid the slack-jawed stares of yokels who probably hadn't seen a devahni in months. Perhaps years. 'When was the last time you rode through these parts?' Slipping on her winter sleeves, Xen flexed her biceps, appreciating the way the fabric stretched to accommodate. 'When you saw your family last? Or d'you come this way t'get back to the Monastery, wherever it is?'
'I've sheltered in worse places,' the she-devil replied, voice husky with the shift. 'Ruralfolk fear us as much as cityfolk do. No doubt they would jump at their own shadows, too, were they not bound to each other so.'
A grimace, as wyld thoughts wove themselves into reality, and were promptly snuffed out.
It was always rough, the comedown. Usually, when she shifted, she had more time to grow accustomed to the change; the broadening of senses, and the newfound hunger that came with it. The run to Corndon had been sweet as it was fleeting. A single moment of unshackled freedom, before the dream collapsed in on itself, and reality came rushing back in to place its hand on her neck.
Xenovia felt the world grow cold around her. The wind pulled at her mane, dragged its fingers her across skin, then down the arch of her spine. Winter bled slowly into Spring, but the weather remained tempermental. Clear skies one day, torrential rain the next.
The afternoon had yet to decide what it wanted to be, other than chilly. Xen decided to get dressed. All the better to avoid the slack-jawed stares of yokels who probably hadn't seen a devahni in months. Perhaps years. 'When was the last time you rode through these parts?' Slipping on her winter sleeves, Xen flexed her biceps, appreciating the way the fabric stretched to accommodate. 'When you saw your family last? Or d'you come this way t'get back to the Monastery, wherever it is?'