#;tracked

I’m using this thread tracker to keep up with my kids. If you want to know if I have you, you can look here.

I add when I draft and am home, usually within 24 hours unless on hiatus.

If it says “Not Found (Why am I seeing this?)“ by your post/blog name its because it is drafted and shows private until I post a reply. The tracker just can’t actually see it yet, but I've added it in.

This sorted by my partners’ blog names. So look for your blog name then look for the thread name. (i.e. ‘mother-winchester’ then ‘Mary/John 1′). I usually number the interactions.

Flight is, simply put, intoxicating.

Morrigan is beyond ancient, but the thrill of sailing on air will never dissipate. It is her truest, most free form, the one she prefers over all else. When she sheds whatever human flesh she wears hollow bones and beak feel more freeing than anything. Like this she forfeits human thought and burden in trade for effortlessness.

It can sometimes be a bit of a problem. losing herself to the simplicity of the form, finding it hard to transition back.

It's late. The sun has set over the island. 

Red beads of eyes see the way blades of grass sway under the florescent rays of a lamp post, and she knows the park below is lit because it is dark. She thinks not for who might be watching as she slopes down, because she's found what she's been looking for. Concern has drained away and so she does not think twice about hurtling to the ground, landing with a sharp shuffle of oil spill black wings.

The process of changing form is sometimes gruesome, will seperating from instinct and tendon tearing away from bone. The moment is long, a sort of shuddering gasping as feathers simultaneously melt and fuse together, forming fabric over pale skin, newly stretched and coming taut. She hisses, these eyes adjusting to different light and vision as she stands before the demigoddess she's been tracking.

For a moment Morrigan stares down the girl, korean coming back to her not at all and then very slowly. Her thoughts are all still abstract for a long while before human lips curve up slowly, sharp teeth flashing. 

When she speaks her voice still a rough, keening timber, sounding every bit a crow speaking twisted english, regurgitating words it’s heard.