( ooc: i'm not canon-familiar, but i read the wikipedia summary to get a better sense of the curse (lmao MAN faeries are dicks). anyway! erring on the side of super vague, but just lemme know if i get anything wrong or go too far! )
[ Stephen feels the hand at his back and immediately stiffens. Bony lumps in the fabric writhe under the man's hand – judder, flap in a panicked frenzy, a mass of bird wings trapped under polyester–
He shoves away from the man, stumbles a couple feet until something hits his calf – slightly higher than it should be, angling toward digitrade, lopsided compared to his other side. He turns, realizes that in his state of discombobulation, the man guided him to a bench.
Something goes dry in his too-deep mouth. This man, the shopkeeper, others by the side of the road on his way here – even as he grasps for filaments of the power he normally possesses, strangers have tried to reach out to him. Help him.
They assume it's something he needs. Something that won't consume them whole. In a broken universe, there at least was nothing left for him to destroy. ]
Sorry. [ The word comes out tight, distorted, and not just because of the half-forked tongue in his mouth. He winces, inhales and cricks his neck with concentration. The wings along his back go still; the keratin threatening to burst from the toe of his shoe slowly ebbs away from hoof to foot. His legs even out. He realizes his hand's taken grip of the edge of the bench as he lets out a sharp breath and opens goat-slit eyes that fade back to tired blue.
He appraises the guy. A little overdressed for the venue, a little awkward, though the latter could be due to the nature of what he just witnessed. There's something else, too – a trace, just along his edges. Something dark. ]
Got the water covered. [ Stephen waves his hand, takes hold of a clear glass of water as it apparates into his palm. He takes a generous swig, other hand still gripping the bench as he raises a tired brow at the man. ] Could offer you something stronger, if you need it.
this'll be an awfully strange thread
[ Stephen feels the hand at his back and immediately stiffens. Bony lumps in the fabric writhe under the man's hand – judder, flap in a panicked frenzy, a mass of bird wings trapped under polyester–
He shoves away from the man, stumbles a couple feet until something hits his calf – slightly higher than it should be, angling toward digitrade, lopsided compared to his other side. He turns, realizes that in his state of discombobulation, the man guided him to a bench.
Something goes dry in his too-deep mouth. This man, the shopkeeper, others by the side of the road on his way here – even as he grasps for filaments of the power he normally possesses, strangers have tried to reach out to him. Help him.
They assume it's something he needs. Something that won't consume them whole. In a broken universe, there at least was nothing left for him to destroy. ]
Sorry. [ The word comes out tight, distorted, and not just because of the half-forked tongue in his mouth. He winces, inhales and cricks his neck with concentration. The wings along his back go still; the keratin threatening to burst from the toe of his shoe slowly ebbs away from hoof to foot. His legs even out. He realizes his hand's taken grip of the edge of the bench as he lets out a sharp breath and opens goat-slit eyes that fade back to tired blue.
He appraises the guy. A little overdressed for the venue, a little awkward, though the latter could be due to the nature of what he just witnessed. There's something else, too – a trace, just along his edges. Something dark. ]
Got the water covered. [ Stephen waves his hand, takes hold of a clear glass of water as it apparates into his palm. He takes a generous swig, other hand still gripping the bench as he raises a tired brow at the man. ] Could offer you something stronger, if you need it.
[ You know, after seeing. That. ]