Wear it out (the way a three-year-old would do)
Characters: Kurayami (paintitgray), Smoke (inthecenterfold)
Date/Time: February 28th, evening
Location: Melee Island, Kura's workshop
Rating: PG-13 - knowing these two, there will be language of some sort.
Summary: It's the last day of the maddest month, and the Sphere sprang a last little joke on Kurayami. Smoke, in the meantime, has his body back and a few things to say...
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Really, she shouldn't have taken it so calmly.
But something about it had felt familiar, waking up snuggled into a bed that felt strangely large. Kurayami had woken slowly, stretching her limbs and gradually realizing that something was off. It had been obvious when she sat up and found that her clothes hung loose and her feet just comfortably reached the floor.
She'd glanced over her shoulder first, instinctively, one fat braid sliding to fall back against the roots of her wing on that side. And there they were. The mottled charcoal spots from her memory.
They'd held her gaze for a very long moment, while her insides churned and yet the sunlight still fell warmly through the window; and then Siesta cocked her head, perched on the bedpost, and roused her own plumage and hopped onto Kurayami's shoulder, leaning down to preen a few of the girl's feathers.
It isn't as if it matters, you know, the crow's sleepy, good-natured voice told her. It's only a color. And she had looked back into its button-bright eye, and smiled, and got out of bed.
The day had passed in a quiet, somewhat dreamy haze. It was difficult to do her chores at this size, but she'd pulled on a long sleeveless sweater of hers over a short-sleeved shirt, and the overall effect was more or less like a dress that stopped above the knee. At any rate, the wing-slits still matched up. She'd done the dishes kneeling on a chair, trading the same wry, playful conversation with Siesta that she'd enjoyed for the last week or so; swept up the floor; and called that good enough.
A little reading, a little sketching. The afternoon was shading into sunset colors to the west. Finally, she'd wrapped up in a too-long scarf and too-large mittens, and wandered outside to look at the animals in their pens, while Siesta wheeled overhead, cawing faintly. Settling onto a bench, she tucked her mittened hands under her arms to keep them warm and smiled, watching her breath form clouds in the air...
Date/Time: February 28th, evening
Location: Melee Island, Kura's workshop
Rating: PG-13 - knowing these two, there will be language of some sort.
Summary: It's the last day of the maddest month, and the Sphere sprang a last little joke on Kurayami. Smoke, in the meantime, has his body back and a few things to say...
------
Really, she shouldn't have taken it so calmly.
But something about it had felt familiar, waking up snuggled into a bed that felt strangely large. Kurayami had woken slowly, stretching her limbs and gradually realizing that something was off. It had been obvious when she sat up and found that her clothes hung loose and her feet just comfortably reached the floor.
She'd glanced over her shoulder first, instinctively, one fat braid sliding to fall back against the roots of her wing on that side. And there they were. The mottled charcoal spots from her memory.
They'd held her gaze for a very long moment, while her insides churned and yet the sunlight still fell warmly through the window; and then Siesta cocked her head, perched on the bedpost, and roused her own plumage and hopped onto Kurayami's shoulder, leaning down to preen a few of the girl's feathers.
It isn't as if it matters, you know, the crow's sleepy, good-natured voice told her. It's only a color. And she had looked back into its button-bright eye, and smiled, and got out of bed.
The day had passed in a quiet, somewhat dreamy haze. It was difficult to do her chores at this size, but she'd pulled on a long sleeveless sweater of hers over a short-sleeved shirt, and the overall effect was more or less like a dress that stopped above the knee. At any rate, the wing-slits still matched up. She'd done the dishes kneeling on a chair, trading the same wry, playful conversation with Siesta that she'd enjoyed for the last week or so; swept up the floor; and called that good enough.
A little reading, a little sketching. The afternoon was shading into sunset colors to the west. Finally, she'd wrapped up in a too-long scarf and too-large mittens, and wandered outside to look at the animals in their pens, while Siesta wheeled overhead, cawing faintly. Settling onto a bench, she tucked her mittened hands under her arms to keep them warm and smiled, watching her breath form clouds in the air...