I do not love the bright sword for its sharpness,
nor the arrow for its swiftness, nor the warrior for his glory

Even this many years later, he prefers his cat form to his horse form. The panther feels like his first skin, tawny and sleek, while the equine form he was born in feels strange and foreign. Alas, here in the commons of Beqanna, the cat is not necessarily a welcome sight. No matter the high number of strange occurances and powers amongst the island’s residents, somehow, they always see a predator and think “danger!” before “maybe that’s bob from next door!”. Ryan doesn’t really blame them, for he would be quite dangerous if he really was just a mountain lion, but he detests having too shed the cat for hooves and his own awkwardness. 

If it was dark, he might risk it anyway. The denizens of the night were braver, and less likely to flee from his very existence. But the autumn sun is bright overhead, filling the Meadow with indian summer heat and the last of the year’s wildflowers, so Ryan lets his gold coat shimmer back into place, framed by his natural mulberry color. Hesitant, quiet steps bring him from shadows into the sun, green eyes searching the faces of those already here – though for what, he doesn’t know. He never knows. If he did, perhaps he would have settled down long ago. He tends to stay in Hyaline, where the locals are no longer startled when he walks amongst them with paws instead of hooves, but it has begun to feel cold and empty without Keeper. If she remains, she has lost herself to the bear, who shows no recognition of Ryan when he makes overtures of friendship.

Nobody here looks familiar. Nothing makes his heart race in recognition – not that he was expecting much. The stallion suspects his mother is long gone, and he is no longer sure he would recognize his sire. When he was just a boy, Ryan had been quite sure that if he saw Woolf he would just know it was his sire, but the older he gets, the more he wonders if he’s passed his family a million times and never recognized them. Surely he is not alone in the world – there must be someone out here for him.

Ryan

( I love only that which they defend. )

I do not love the bright sword for its sharpness,
nor the arrow for its swiftness, nor the warrior for his glory

The rest of the world moves in hurried starts and stops, great lurches of destiny and power balances. Some are destined to play on that stage – his own ancestors had been major players, once upon a time, even Ryan’s mother royalty twice over. But he knew none of them, had not met a single one, and had seen the way that had taken it’s toll on Nairne, before she had left him here in Beqanna, and he had never sought that life for himself, perhaps even actively avoided it.

He was content, for the most part, with his quiet existence on the fringes of Hyaline’s society. The urges which drew him out to the Meadow were rare, and perhaps somehow related more to her surprising presence than any real desire to socialize with anyone new. Now, with his best friend pressed against him, Ryan feels nothing but content. Someday in the future he might once more be compelled to go looking for Nairne or Woolf or any of the countless other family members he never met, but today he is perfectly pleased to just be this. Ryan and Keeper, the strangest inhabitants of Hyaline.

At least it is quiet here in this corner of the meadow, and so there are few witnesses to the way he unashamedly has thrown himself at the mercy of his friend’s affections. Ryan is loathe to put any space between them, but he wants to see her face while they speak, which he cannot do in their current configuration. So, reluctantly, he pulls away, his normal shy and wistful smile on his face. “You don’t have to be sorry,” he says with calm certainty. “Everyone must wander, and be, and live. I just missed you.” No blame in the gold-and-purple stallion’s voice, just affection. “Hyaline has been my home for a long time, but sometimes I think my home now is just wherever you are.”

Ryan

( I love only that which they defend. )

I do not love the bright sword for its sharpness,
nor the arrow for its swiftness, nor the warrior for his glory

He doesn’t live a very adventurous life. Mostly, he lives the life of a large cat, though a particularly benign one who is more likely to play with the equine children of Hyaline than to eat them. His feline diet is mostly rabbits and birds, when he can’t be bothered to change back and graze. There’s always a little bit of regretfulness when he surfaces and knows he’s eaten something, but it has faded over the years. He doesn’t hurt anyone he could know, and it’s the natural order of life for the cat to want to hunt; he keeps control of what it hunts and that has to be enough.


But even though he is not particularly adventurous, he was born and raised on stories of heroes and villians, Kings and Queens and Princes. He craves stories like those, even now, and wonders if Keeper has been having grand exciting things happen while she was gone. Perhaps it is a childish hope, but he turns to her with a smile and more than a small hint of the little bot he was in his light eyes. Keeper would remember – he was barely more than a boy when they met, after all. “While you were gone – did you see anything exciting?”


He presses close to her even as he speaks, as if he could wrap his equine form around hers; it doesn’t work, his horse body not as flexible as his cat, but he has wrapped his cat around her enough times that she’ll recognize the gesture; recognize his strange and personal brand of affection.


Ryan knows she might not stay, but he treasures the hours they have, down to the last minute, down to the last breath. He’ll carefully hoard those memories, when he is alone again.

Ryan

( I love only that which they defend. )