Isla
Isla knows not to hunt the unicorns around King's End, even if the predator that now burns in her veins would very much like to. And so it's a deer she's stalking when the tell-tale whinny of distress pricks up her feline ears, the molten tiger halting in her prowl to subtly change direction, padding towards the sound on four massive paws. Still, as she nears the creature (and she can smell its fear, as well as something both cold and botanical, both familiar and not).
By the time she parts through the shrubbery, it's on two feet rather than four, Isla in a soft yellow sundress that only emphasises the healthy tan to her skin, the freckles that scatter along the bridge of her nose. With her fair hair down and wild - and crowned by gleaming topaz horns, which is a new addition, not the man before her will know or care - she seems more like a lost maiden than an experienced medic. And for the first time, Remi really won't know any different.
"Please don't hurt it--" she's already blurting out, presuming him to be the one who had set the trap - a poacher or a hunter, perhaps. But then she sees it, in the slope of his shoulders and the way he holds his hands, in the twist of his curls and in the slow, careful movements of a man too used to being the strongest one in the room.
"Oh," Isla says, because what the fuck else do you say at a time like this? "Oh, gods-- sorry." Like he'll remember enough to care, Isla. Don't be silly.
By the time she parts through the shrubbery, it's on two feet rather than four, Isla in a soft yellow sundress that only emphasises the healthy tan to her skin, the freckles that scatter along the bridge of her nose. With her fair hair down and wild - and crowned by gleaming topaz horns, which is a new addition, not the man before her will know or care - she seems more like a lost maiden than an experienced medic. And for the first time, Remi really won't know any different.
"Please don't hurt it--" she's already blurting out, presuming him to be the one who had set the trap - a poacher or a hunter, perhaps. But then she sees it, in the slope of his shoulders and the way he holds his hands, in the twist of his curls and in the slow, careful movements of a man too used to being the strongest one in the room.
"Oh," Isla says, because what the fuck else do you say at a time like this? "Oh, gods-- sorry." Like he'll remember enough to care, Isla. Don't be silly.
I'll take a bruise, I know you're worth it
When you hit me, hit me hard
When you hit me, hit me hard
