𝒔𝒂𝒍𝒕𝒔𝒌𝒊𝒏

she has never not been hungry.

since the day she was born, doused in magic, sena has never not known famine. the third horsemen hangs over her, arm over shoulder, bone mouth against the soft of her head like a blessing and a curse. in the crux of her hearth, the black horse places a quivering fissure and seals it with a kiss. over the span of years, it grows no matter she puts in it—each passing infatuation is simply that, never enough.

with magic, it's always the same.

it's always the hunger. the need to know more and want more. it wasn't enough as she was then, versed in the teachings and magics of her coven but tied, arms and legs, to hanno; nor is it enough now, nestled comfortably within the school's library, hunched over open textbooks and magic theory.

all of which would've made a lick more sense, if she could comprehend the text at a more fluent level. she exhales out of her nose, muted vexation etched clear against dainty features. if there had been a spell to instantly learn a language, let someone pass it to her now. but till then—and here her eyes wander for a passing victim—here, she cites the horsemen's voracious curse/blessing as a reason for her clear lack of manners.

her hand reaches out, grasping onto the passing body's sleeve. "hey," sena starts, free hand tapping against the page opened on top of the table, invoking of the spirit, witch's circles and the works. "can you help me with this?" for her impertinence, she follows with a disarming smile, head tilting slightly.

the blood moon haunts her. sena would swear on it if her tongue could enunciate the sentiments to her companions. each apprehensive glance upward is rewarded with an eerie sheen in the copper red moon. it isn't nearly red enough, the realization drops like a pin, it's as if its waiting to be fed more.

the forest is no different from the the ones in hanno. dirt is dirt. but magic—magic is alive. magic permeates, parts metal and parts earth (blood. blood and dirt. dirt and blood. always and forevermore in that order.)—so much so that each step runs her lungs haggard and blood pounding against her sternum. magic, in a startlingly abundance that floods her mind to the point that she's unable to think; nails pressing into the heart of her palm till her vision blurs and clears.

earlier's elation has come and gone. in its place is monster discombobulated, thirteen limbs and four sets of eyes, it crawls past the unwilling small of her mouth and down her throat—straight to bottom of her gut. "we should," sena starts despite herself, giving pause at a faint chime of the bell. must be the wind. "split up, i think." she gestures vaguely, eyes roving from face to face. it is the best way to cover more ground.

"eunho can search from the skies." she points up, finger giving a little lighthearted twirl. funny, the ease in which she takes to ordering around a familiar she had renounced all but a week or so ago. "what about... yours?" her attention flitters over to juwon and her companion, blinking slow. sena realizes she doesn't even know the form (nor name) of her familiar—never bothered to ask, more like—though, even that doesn't matter at the end of the day.

she's been watching the waxing moon. it whispers to her, in hours between the dusk and dawn, its voice is cold and melodic, eerily like her mother's: you should've stayed in hanno.

tonight, it doesn't speak. instead the bodies beneath its light speaks for them. the underlying thrum in the air is almost palpable. briefly, sena wonders if she's the only one who notices. each inhale is metallic, wet, and cold; it slithers down her lungs and billows across the expanse of her torso like a blood red spider lily. that is, magic.

magic fills the air. magic seeps through the fibers of her shirt and into fair skin. magic swirls, above, below, within. from where she sits, child of the moon beneath the skies just meters away from her peers, it swarms her mind, body, and soul like a colony of hornets. more and more and more.

it's almost like—

"eunho." her voice is a soft murmur, all but a whisper carried to his ears by an accompanying breeze. "it's starting to feel like i'm being hunted." the word choice is poor, almost awkward; korean is still a language her tongue struggles to curl around. she forgets the term (stalking), but hopes the shot lands either way.

her eyes lower from the blood moon to find him, almost instantly (it's easy, if you follow the nagging pull), in the dark. in this form, at least, the idea of him like this is far more feasible. sena waits till he approaches, scooting to make space for him on the log.

current lineup — nagano sena — witch, mirror walking — ji eunho — familiar, magpie — nam juwon — witch, rain manipulation — open spot

** tw culty things, blood.