Priscilla's world is awash in flame.
The fire has spread, and her fur is aflame, the unbearable heat sending her into a panic. The soft strands wick ever closer to her pristine white skin, barely fazed by Priscilla's frantic rolling.
"PRISCILLA!" Sær emits a strangled cry, frantically slapping at her in a vain attemp to quench the flames. "Frost breath! Frost Breath!" She draws in a deep breath, only to have her lungs filled with smoke, her nose filled with the smell of singed fur. She coughs and splutters, fighting the urge to retch.
Finally, with a painful gasp, she draws a breath deep enough, drawing small crystals from her salivary glands. The crystals swirl within her mouth, cooling the air inside, releasing a torrential gust of frost as she frantically exhales. The chill wind and snow covers her skin with a snapping, sizzling sound, quenching the fire just as it consumes the last of her fur.
Priscilla lays back, panting, her skin pink, raw, and itchy from the heat.
Sær lets out a choked sob, rushing over to his dragon bride-to-be and frantically checking her for injury. His eyes come to rest on her neck, where a large, delicate hand clasps over it. Priscilla slowly moves her hand, letting out a whimper of relief as she sees that Sær's gift, the beautiful diamond ribbon, is untouched. Her hand is blistered, burned from protecting the precious gift. She sees Sær's face and gives a weak smile. "What kind of wife would I be... If I let your gift burn?"
Tears slowly drip down onto her burned hand, rolling off into the frost covered ground.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Priscilla shivers as Sær rubs ointment on her back.
Though barely even touched by flame, her frantic rolling on the hard ground had given her tremendous bruises. She bites back a moan as Sær spreads more across the nape of her neck.
Most of her fur is gone, save for the odd tuft here and there. Her tail is still covered, only singed in places, and a light dusting covers her lower back and spine. The fur of her face had been singed clean off, and her hair now rests just past her neck.
Finished with the ointment, Sær rubs his cheek against Priscilla's chest, his skin tingling from the pleasant softness. She stirs, cracking one eyelid and smiling as she nuzzles him with her nose. Supporting him with her arms, Priscilla turns to lay on her side, drawing her knees up and enveloping Sær with the soft, toned flesh of her smooth thighs. He gives an audible moan, a jolt of electricity shooting down his back, goosebumps quickly following. Sær lifts his head to give her a quick smooch, and the two lovers lock lips, enjoying the heat of each other's mouths. Reluctantly, they separate, a thick strand of drool still connecting them. Priscilla's tail curls around her lover's chest, just tight enough to constrict his breathing a little.
Just the way he likes it.
Priscilla has collected a vast knowledge of Sær's weak points, far exceeding his knowledge of hers. She knows his ears, neck and upper back are unbelievably sensitive to her touch, possibly more that that place. She isn't sure, as they haven't ventured that far yet. She knows he likes to be licked and squeezed. She knows he likes it when she nuzzles her cheek against his. She knows that he loves it when she purrs. And she knows that if she does all of that at once, Sær will writhe in ecstasy, begging her to stop before he faints from the pleasure. He is putty in her hands.
Sær's breathing evens out, indicating that he has fallen asleep once more. His peaceful face moves with the rising and falling of Priscilla's chest, and she strokes his hair gently as she drifts off to join him.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Priscilla hates her clothes.
A patchwork of old tents from Darkroot City create a makeshift cloak, the dark, multicolored squares clashing horribly with her white hair and skin.
Having never worn any clothes before besides panties, ( a fact that had made Sær grow red) Having the foreign substance rub against her skin was maddening. More than once she had disrobed in frustration, prompting Sær to cover his eyes, fighting hard not to peek. He didn't always win; Priscilla is the most beautiful creature he has ever seen. Her skin is pale, yet still healthy-looking, and her somach is toned yet smooth, gentle sloping curves leading down into her hips. Sær never thought a mere midriff could be sexy, but it barely suprised him that Priscilla's is.
"Your stomach is beautiful," he had said while she was hastily pulling on her dress.
Priscilla had flushed scarlet. "I-It-It's just a tummy!"
Her new appearance and ability to flit betwixt the bonfires is an opportunity that shant be ignored. While crossbreeds may be shunned throughout Lordran, giants and giantesses are much more common. Indeed, they are revered, especially in these dark times. Their size makes them excel in all maner of tasks, from woodcutting to construction, though none are anywhere near as fair as the lovely Priscilla. Nor are any other maidens, come to think of it.
"Darling, can we visit the city first? I want to see all the little people!" She exclaims.
"Ah, Priscilla..."
"They must look so funny, hundreds bustling about in such a small place! Silly little humans."
"Priscilla."
"Hm?"
Sær crosses his arms clearly miffed at the demeaning comments toward his species.
Priscilla sucks in a breath. "Ahh, s-save for my darling, of course!" She giggles nervously. Sær rolls his eyes, tugging her towards the bonfire by her tail.
The two touch the bonfire, and smoke billows around them, shifting time and space as they are whisked off to a city as yet unknown. For when the might of a crossbreed is introduced to the bonfire, there is no telling where one might end up...
T.B.C.