Scene
Annastara wandered deeper into Terafna’s wilds, her stone wings folded close, her mind echoing with Teano’s kindness. She paused beside a tall, twisting tree, its bark dark as iron. Something about it felt… watching.
Then the bark rippled. The trunk bent forward, stretching, reshaping — until a tall figure stepped free of its own disguise. His skin bore the color of moss and bark, eyes green as forest shadow.
“You are not welcome here,” he said curtly, voice like creaking wood.
“Are you like the Moroc? Or the Morraw?” Annastara asked, hopeful.
“I am Morem. Born of the land, not of stone nor water. We are no kin.”
Before she could speak further, his form blurred. The man became a hawk, wings snapping wide. He leapt skyward with a sharp cry.
But Annastara’s stone wings spread with a thunderous beat. She surged upward after him, cutting through the air with impossible strength. The hawk twisted mid-flight, startled, nearly tumbling from the sky.
“You—” his voice rasped, half-human as his form wavered. “A Moroc… who flies?”
For the first time, curiosity gleamed in his eyes. The dismissal in his tone faltered, replaced by something else: interest.