OOC: Just character things after recent events, plus thoughts on some big IC changes to come. ))
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The night was less cold, lying next to Ryml. He slept on his own bedroll beside her, only a thin canvas separating them from the sands of the beach. Idella lay in her own bedroll apart from him, watching him breathe. In spite the few feet gap between them, and how crammed the tent now felt, the company made this night feel far less claustrophobic. The alien sky of Outlands no longer hung stiflingly low, the dull roar of the water falling off its abyss was almost a lullaby. Nothing about Outlands had changed except the company she kept, but the night was somehow more soothing.
She half-wondered if a bedroll or even blanket was necessary as a worgen. She fully wondered if she had any idea what she was about to get into. The day after the attack, all seemed so clear: Fight, survive, do anything to make it happen. No more blowing in the wind, hiding from a life debt to the Red Witch that threatened to consumed the whole of her. Every step, every breath she took was choked by a bill she feared would soon come due. The curse of the worgen, in comparison, seemed smaller. Less frightening. But after a breathless night in the woods, haunting howls still lingering in her ears, Idella now wasn’t so sure.
Most called it a curse. Even Elli called it one, though once or twice Idella heard her calling it a “gift” if wielded properly. That seemed to be the hinge of all of it: constant control, living with the beast, and haunted with the price of what could be lost to the red rage.
Red.
Sucking in a breath, Idella nods to herself. Her emotions always got the better of her, impeded her magic. No self-respecting mage or witch could cast magic with emotions run amok. The cost was either embarrassment at its least, or utter catastrophe at its worst. But it was a familiar cost: The worgen curse was no different. Instead of spells, it was claws, and fangs instead of fire. But the same threat was there: the threat of losing control, hurting others, total oblivion.
Rolling over with a sigh, Idella stared at the canvas tent overhead. She conjured fire in her hand, letting it float above them both. Like true fire, it was hot to the touch, but perhaps even more destructive. Combustible. Unlike true fire, it burned an unsettling red. Contained in a sphere, its greedy flames could not lick at the flammable canvas, consume the tiny haven she and Ryml slept in in an instant. The tiniest loss of concentration and the flames would be set loose. If she accepted the curse, then such control would be needed as human and worgen: One, to control the flame; the other, the rage.
Closing her fist, she extinguished the flame and rolled over, watching Ryml again. He was massive as a worgen, his feet nearly spilling out the tent entryway, the crown of his head against the opposite side. Yet he slept peacefully, his chest rising and falling. The complete opposite of hours before as he tore through the marshes, claws tearing up trees. A thief, a man, a beast, a worgen. Reaching out for him, she rested a hand on his arm, curling her fingers into his fur. It was so warm. Was this the balance, the one between fire and rage? Could she be any better than the others and balance them both?
Was this the right thing?
She closed her eyes, letting herself finally drift off.
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