He was enraged, furious. He threw the book across the room and it caught fire. He tossed his chair backward as he stood up and he launched his fist as the wall. It shattered violently, sprayed delicate crystal shards across the room and down into the garden below. He had to burn something...burning something made him feel better.
He turned around and looked out his window, taking in a grove of yews not far away. That would do. He snapped his fingers and they ignited. The fire was not orange, not yellow, not red, not even blue or white hot. It burned purple. Within not even a second, the trees were gone, not even ashes remianed. He subsided the blaze, and noticed his hand was bleeding horribly from his contact with both his sword and the wall.
Poison felt searing heat in her back and then heard the telltale ripping. The wings pushed through her skin, covered in some clear, sticky fluid. The delicate purple feathers were plastered together and she bit her lip as they grew.
The pain on her thigh told her the thorns were claiming their true place also, as did the tips of the purple spikes sticking out of her clothing. Blood trickled from them, but she didn't care.
Poison bent over and spread the wings. They started to dry and she looked up, not seeing anything, just simply staring into space.