when the stars threw down their spears and water'd heaven with their tears:

A change - so quick that the ordinary eye would miss it - overcomes her and his attack is sideswept. He’s never seen this form before; this melding of creatures unknown yet strangely alluring. A flash of teeth between them, her hooves split and racing earthward to where his slender body waits in supine stillness. “Clever girl.” He ponders, wasting no time in trying the skin for himself. It feels … mythical, ancient, dangerous, and he loves it. His Longma form is black as night, traced through with glimmering red and fire orange. The animals hiss, tangle, and then he decides the paltry toying is over with.

An ant, and then a sleek mouse, darting away from her to where he can sense safety again. From the frozen wasteland a rumble seizes the snow and cracks the fine, white surface, before Wyrm bursts free in the shape of something terrible. He grows, taking form as mighty Sauroniops in the fleece-laden meadow. Teeth, terrible teeth, sprout from his widened gums and a sound not heard in many millenia echoes into the very corners of Beqanna. Even for his impressive size he’s quick, slamming one splayed foot into the earth while he swings his body around, thick tail sweeping over the surface of the grass to send a spray of ice and crystal powder over Epithet. The coverage is thick enough that he shifts again, seeming to disappear into the very air itself.

He only reappears when he’s behind her, white equine shape motionless with those soft, barred wings tucked into his sides. “Epithet.” He calls to her, green eyes narrowing before a smirk flashes across his face, “Enough. I’m Wyrm, and I should thank you for showing me a new shape.” A ripple of change glides over his skin, hints of those deadly red and black scales peeking out from beneath the white. “What do you call it?”

He’s only slightly glad she wasn’t bluffing.

did he smile his work to see? did he who made the Lamb make thee?

when the stars threw down their spears and water'd heaven with their tears:

Epithet speaks his name and Wyrm is transported, back to a time where he didn’t kill for sport or knowledge, back to when there was only the tangle of eight limbs and a watchful eye to tear them in half should the toying get too rough. He’s a foal again, and his younger twin is lighting himself on fire only to dissuade him from latching on to that tender, teal-swirled skin of his. “Wyrm?” Kudu asks, but the image is fading and another voice is covering his up, “...Wyrm?” He hears again, snapping back to the present with the blink of an eye. “From nowhere.” He answers, tail swinging behind him as if to wipe away the onslaught of his past.

It had been nearly that long since he’d roughhoused without killing the offender. “Though, that’s soon to change.” He tells her, perking up visibly at the idea. Age hadn’t halted for him anymore and the shifter knows that you simply cannot be a somebody if you came from nothing. He passes alongside her, one wing outstretched to allow the satin, rounded tips a gentle brush along the shape of her spine as he does so. An invitation of sorts, one extended to a creature he considers his equal, even though their personalities seem hardly compatible. It made no difference; power was power, and when the strong gained forces there was little to stop them.

“Shall we fly a bit, you and I? I’ve seen this land and discovered some of her best-kept secrets, but I still know nothing of her people.” He suggests while a slow smile works the line of his jaw into the semblance of amusement, “Perhaps you can help me decide where I might … fit in.” He muses, unable to stop himself from laughing at the absurd notion. "And in the process, you can tell me where you're from."

did he smile his work to see? did he who made the Lamb make thee?

when the stars threw down their spears and water'd heaven with their tears:

Slick, fine wings spread out from the point of her shoulders to unfurl and catch the dying rays of light that glance out from beneath the cloud cover of the heavens. Wyrm smirks in approval, watches as she takes off, and then lowers his body earthward to shift into a more comfortable form. Limbs meld and skin reforms to give him the shape of a magnificent, slender tiger, barred in varying shades of brown. His paws spread wide and he leaps upward, extending those long wings to beat mercilessly against the force of gravity that would normally hold him down. The melting snow beneath him stirs and then he is soaring, ever upwards, to chase that speck of black and grey through the thick, darkening skies while his wings beat against each other at every turn.

Higher they climb, until the clouds split themselves asunder with lightning that dazes him and sets Epithet aglow in silver. She’s laughing, that delirious woman, but despite himself Wyrm finds that a toothy grin has spread his cheeks and that a rumbling sort of laughter is echoing inside of his ribs. His ears pin flat to his skull, the rain driving itself as sheets into his vision. He shifts his eyes, adjusts the rods and cones within to sense heat signatures instead of colors, and then the world is made anew to him. Epithet is racing the thunder, twirling haphazardly around the forks of lightning while he hovers atop some cloudhead like a lurking mythos.

But he won’t be denied the chase of a lifetime.

In leaps and bounds he plunges from one stationary greyhead to another, the great bolts of electricity firing around him while he shifts his feathers to take the formation of goose wings, the brunt of the downpour rolling off of them without hesitation. He is sleek, powerful, illuminated by dazzling light and steadily gaining on her. Yet, when the two find themselves together once more he chooses not to overtake her - instead winding up and over her, barreling down and under as he loops carelessly around her. Where they travel, he no longer cares.

The freedom she provides is good enough for once.

did he smile his work to see? did he who made the Lamb make thee?