( he really doesn't have anyone but himself to blame for that one. if he didn't want it to happen, he shouldn't have said it. julian's lips pull back in a grimace as she stands, his fingers curling to grasp at her like he might pull her back down to the ground. he could, probably easily. more easily than he realizes, in fact. he truly doesn't know the extent of his own strength anymore, but it's a lot. it isn't enough that he's bigger and equipped with spines and fangs and claws, but that with all that size came an abundance of raw power he never quite had before. he could pull her down alright. he could throw her clear across the clearing one-handed if he wanted to.
of course he would never.
just like he would never pull like a barbarian, either. just grasp on, pathetically urging as if that'll accomplish anything. he knows it won't. once morga makes up her mind, that's that, it's done. so he's got no option but to drop the pleading look and sigh resignedly. )
Alright, but don't say I didn't warn you...
( technically, he has not quite seen himself upright. hasn't really looked in a mirror or anything. doesn't technically know what he looks like anymore beyond what he can see and feel of himself. but he knows it's a lot more imposing than it was. he often had to duck through certain doorways, but now he knows he's got to duck through all of them. he's broader, too. partly because of the wings that jut out a bit on either side, even when he's got them tucked close to his body. and— well. she'll see in a minute.
getting up is difficult for him, in fact. as was probably evident by his ungainly movements while she was stalking him, he hasn't quite figured out his body in a lot of ways. it takes a good couple of minutes before he is, at last, standing as "upright" as he can get. arranging his bent legs to support his weight and standing, keeping his balance with an involuntary beat of his wings that rustles up dirt and twigs and leaves from the forest floor—it's a process. even once he is standing, he can't quite straighten his neck or shoulders, although whether that's an effect of his long-practiced bad posture since he disappeared or because of the shape of his body now, it's hard to tell. either way, he's... quite imposing. quite imposing. somewhere past seven feet tall and hulking in a way that might even rival the good ol' scourge of the coliseum—not because of his musculature, although it seems there may be more of it (although that might just be because he isn't wearing anything; doesn't need to, the feathers do the job of decency for him these days), but because, again, of the shape of him, his silhouette, the almost menacing hunch he makes while standing. and the wings, those too. they're enormous, but they hang as useless as if they'd been taped to his back rather than the real, working appendages that they are. he wouldn't really know how to spread them out wide anyway. and he doesn't want to anyhow. why advertise even more what a horrible, unnatural monster he is?
no. instead he holds his arms out at his sides, palms up. once upon a time he was a sculpture model in a faraway land and something like this should have been fun, a chance to flirt—but he's long, long forgotten about that. now his stomach just roils with uneasy nausea, eyes averted. )
no subject
( he really doesn't have anyone but himself to blame for that one. if he didn't want it to happen, he shouldn't have said it. julian's lips pull back in a grimace as she stands, his fingers curling to grasp at her like he might pull her back down to the ground. he could, probably easily. more easily than he realizes, in fact. he truly doesn't know the extent of his own strength anymore, but it's a lot. it isn't enough that he's bigger and equipped with spines and fangs and claws, but that with all that size came an abundance of raw power he never quite had before. he could pull her down alright. he could throw her clear across the clearing one-handed if he wanted to.
of course he would never.
just like he would never pull like a barbarian, either. just grasp on, pathetically urging as if that'll accomplish anything. he knows it won't. once morga makes up her mind, that's that, it's done. so he's got no option but to drop the pleading look and sigh resignedly. )
Alright, but don't say I didn't warn you...
( technically, he has not quite seen himself upright. hasn't really looked in a mirror or anything. doesn't technically know what he looks like anymore beyond what he can see and feel of himself. but he knows it's a lot more imposing than it was. he often had to duck through certain doorways, but now he knows he's got to duck through all of them. he's broader, too. partly because of the wings that jut out a bit on either side, even when he's got them tucked close to his body. and— well. she'll see in a minute.
getting up is difficult for him, in fact. as was probably evident by his ungainly movements while she was stalking him, he hasn't quite figured out his body in a lot of ways. it takes a good couple of minutes before he is, at last, standing as "upright" as he can get. arranging his bent legs to support his weight and standing, keeping his balance with an involuntary beat of his wings that rustles up dirt and twigs and leaves from the forest floor—it's a process. even once he is standing, he can't quite straighten his neck or shoulders, although whether that's an effect of his long-practiced bad posture since he disappeared or because of the shape of his body now, it's hard to tell. either way, he's... quite imposing. quite imposing. somewhere past seven feet tall and hulking in a way that might even rival the good ol' scourge of the coliseum—not because of his musculature, although it seems there may be more of it (although that might just be because he isn't wearing anything; doesn't need to, the feathers do the job of decency for him these days), but because, again, of the shape of him, his silhouette, the almost menacing hunch he makes while standing. and the wings, those too. they're enormous, but they hang as useless as if they'd been taped to his back rather than the real, working appendages that they are. he wouldn't really know how to spread them out wide anyway. and he doesn't want to anyhow. why advertise even more what a horrible, unnatural monster he is?
no. instead he holds his arms out at his sides, palms up. once upon a time he was a sculpture model in a faraway land and something like this should have been fun, a chance to flirt—but he's long, long forgotten about that. now his stomach just roils with uneasy nausea, eyes averted. )
...You see? Appalling, isn't it?