01-30-2019, 09:57 PM
When you can be anything you want, sometimes you’d rather just be nothing at all.
It’s that nothingness that suits the changeling nowadays, when nearly everyone has forgotten who he was or might’ve been. He’s walking, which can be discerned by the casual pace of his steps, but everything else about him is … unsettling.
Limbs that shift, constantly. First feline, then equine, then avian or some mixture of them all. No muscle sits still underneath the patterned skin he continues to change; they ripple freely through spasms of growth and shrinkage. When he meets an obstacle in his path he never pauses to adjust his stride, rather the world and its objects remain as they are while he passes easily through them. The secrets he’s uncovered are plentiful enough for endless lifetimes, but such a prospect does little to satisfy his endless hunger.
Wyrm has found himself on a cold trail.
Only death remains his master - an infallible end - and in all his years of living for himself and striving for power, that one small iota of harrowing fear seems to finally be catching up. “Any day now.” The manipulator reminds himself, feeling the truth of it in his bones as he glides, wraith-like, through a quiet Forest.
And his hope? Gone. Carried away on the wings of his grandson, the young King, as the striped pegasus had slipped out of his grasp and subsequently out of Beqanna. Or so the rumors would have it.
But if there was one creature who knew the truth, she was sure to be around (much like himself, their kind never quit) and Wyrm was sure her curiosity might outweigh her desire to see him dead. For a moment or two. “Heartfire.” He rasps out into the empty void, finally allowing his structure to settle on the old, familiar stallion she might recognize, albeit a bit ancient and gray around the muzzle.
Some creature, some unassuming living thing would glance at the noisy word and it’s source only to see him. Which is exactly what he needed. Exactly what she needed to find him, since he’d done them both a favor and ripped his eyes clean from their sockets years ago.
“@[Heartfire] …”
It’s that nothingness that suits the changeling nowadays, when nearly everyone has forgotten who he was or might’ve been. He’s walking, which can be discerned by the casual pace of his steps, but everything else about him is … unsettling.
Limbs that shift, constantly. First feline, then equine, then avian or some mixture of them all. No muscle sits still underneath the patterned skin he continues to change; they ripple freely through spasms of growth and shrinkage. When he meets an obstacle in his path he never pauses to adjust his stride, rather the world and its objects remain as they are while he passes easily through them. The secrets he’s uncovered are plentiful enough for endless lifetimes, but such a prospect does little to satisfy his endless hunger.
Wyrm has found himself on a cold trail.
Only death remains his master - an infallible end - and in all his years of living for himself and striving for power, that one small iota of harrowing fear seems to finally be catching up. “Any day now.” The manipulator reminds himself, feeling the truth of it in his bones as he glides, wraith-like, through a quiet Forest.
And his hope? Gone. Carried away on the wings of his grandson, the young King, as the striped pegasus had slipped out of his grasp and subsequently out of Beqanna. Or so the rumors would have it.
But if there was one creature who knew the truth, she was sure to be around (much like himself, their kind never quit) and Wyrm was sure her curiosity might outweigh her desire to see him dead. For a moment or two. “Heartfire.” He rasps out into the empty void, finally allowing his structure to settle on the old, familiar stallion she might recognize, albeit a bit ancient and gray around the muzzle.
Some creature, some unassuming living thing would glance at the noisy word and it’s source only to see him. Which is exactly what he needed. Exactly what she needed to find him, since he’d done them both a favor and ripped his eyes clean from their sockets years ago.
“@[Heartfire] …”