Mercymorn wakes to the brush of pink across her nose, a gentle ripple that blurs the lines of dream and reality. The heaviness on her lips is nearly like a kiss, and all around her are flowers, their scent redolent with sweetness over the faint hint of decay. She shifts, restless, on the sand.
(Inside of Waver's mouth, spores nestle against the slick epithelial cells of the oral mucosa, their simple and elegant function activated by the mechanical recognition of foreign territory.
They unfurl in microscopic pink strands, weaving down in search of the slender branching cell network that they so closely mimic, but with greater speed and aggression than any natural growth. They are a thalergetic marvel wedded to the blood of this world, two magics intertwined, and they do only one thing, and they do it very well, and very quickly. Contact is made. A connection is formed. It lies latent, awaiting signal.)
Her mouth parts. The coin clicks against her teeth. Mercymorn snaps upright like a flicked blade, as sharp and lethal, and she stares straight ahead with fixed eyes and shivering shoulders, hands balled into cut-palm fists.
(The signal comes, and they explode into furious transmission, a seething storm of tumultuous sensation like a siren blasted into an ear, thought obliterating rage and the wild, wide sweep of physiological activation across every cell and sense.)
"Bastard!!" Bawls the Saint of Joy, as much like a child as she accused him of being, a welter of boiled over rage that sweeps all other feeling aside.
cw: body horror, forced empathy, fungus
(Inside of Waver's mouth, spores nestle against the slick epithelial cells of the oral mucosa, their simple and elegant function activated by the mechanical recognition of foreign territory.
They unfurl in microscopic pink strands, weaving down in search of the slender branching cell network that they so closely mimic, but with greater speed and aggression than any natural growth. They are a thalergetic marvel wedded to the blood of this world, two magics intertwined, and they do only one thing, and they do it very well, and very quickly. Contact is made. A connection is formed. It lies latent, awaiting signal.)
Her mouth parts. The coin clicks against her teeth. Mercymorn snaps upright like a flicked blade, as sharp and lethal, and she stares straight ahead with fixed eyes and shivering shoulders, hands balled into cut-palm fists.
(The signal comes, and they explode into furious transmission, a seething storm of tumultuous sensation like a siren blasted into an ear, thought obliterating rage and the wild, wide sweep of physiological activation across every cell and sense.)
"Bastard!!" Bawls the Saint of Joy, as much like a child as she accused him of being, a welter of boiled over rage that sweeps all other feeling aside.