Silvertip Mountain one never learns how the witch became wicked

hours passed, or... minutes? seconds? time turned liquid, flowed warm and sensuous around the snakeling, a lover's caress with razor talons sensed but not felt — for the moment.
here asperas stood on the precipice of change, staring into an endless sea of bloody revolution. perhaps one day, she would look back on this and see the moment she became something more than what she was meant to be; the moment life truly took hold of her. or perhaps she would not remember it at all.
a nose at one ink-stained cheek roused the night-pearl, then the rough warmth of a tongue. a shudder of revulsion washed over asperas, who jerked violently upright despite the tilting spin of the earth under her paws. a shock of pain clutched at something deep in her chest, eliciting a strained, breathy growl. in her head, endless echoing shrieks. horrors, she muttered, eyelids squeezing together. something was wrong, but she did not know what.