The inky psychopath was back.  He needed to disappear, he had to get his head on straight. If he couldn’t find the bastard to kill, then at the very least he could give the rest of the word something to remember him by. A smile curls on his lips, a gleam shone in his leafy colored eyes. He watches as others mule about innocent and unaware of the darkness lurking nearby. His collection of abilities had grown over the years, as each horse he touched and replicated gave him a piece of their soul. The first time was always the hardest, exhausting and trying on his abilities, but each attempt he made at any particular one made it easier and more fluid until he could hold it for a few minutes at a time.

As he grew his muscles hardened, bulging from his body. Though as chiseled as he was, he still held more elegance the average draft. With a delicately boned mother, and a draft of a father. The result was intoxicating. Lean, firm, sharp edges that were pronounced. He was, in a word, beautiful, and he knew it, walking into the middle of the field the once knock kneed colt oozes of confidence. A switch of his tail and he stops, the grasses just covering his feathered ankles. Looking around he wonders at the horses cocking his head to the side, curiosity eating away at him. 

His father’s wolf was the biggest comfort, and this is what he uses for the moment, circling until he finds a comfortable position lying down in the greenery his muzzle resting on his paws. The telltale sign of his presence hidden under the squinting lids. Was he laughing? The smile on his face not at all forced but closed lipped is a natural part of his charisma. The sandy wolf’s tail fluffed against his hind paws still felt strange compared to the whipping strands of hair that his horse form produced. Still it was warm and familiar, and carried parts of distant memories that were pleasant. Far more pleasant then the horrors that a few years earlier had haunted him.

Kryten

His smirking lips pull apart in a wolfish snarl, the squeal alerted him to the presence of another being, just as the rumbling clatter of hooves on grass had. He picks his head up lazily blinking, his green eyes adjusting to the lighting. He watches her stumble and fall, the effort of the shift had left him groggy and a little dazed, but even if that had not been an excuse he still would have watched her without moving. Why should he move? To move would be to cause a worse situation then there already was. Likely ending in snapped bones and bloody tissue.

Shaking out his black tipped fur the wolf lumbers over to her curiously. Extending a wet nose to sniff for any indication of what she was feeling. Its only after he is satisfied that he shifts back. She had giggled and said something, but he doesn’t bother to answer for several minutes before he shifts. Back in his chiseled horsy state he takes a look at her. She wasn’t a bad looking creature, her hide glinting bright in the sun. Her mane lank and dark setting off a vivid contrast, only question was, was she worth breaking? Well there was only one way to find out. He smiles at her gently, I’m fine miss, I should be asking you if you are ok? The words taste sour in his mouth, but then again he is as smooth as they come. Allowing for his earlier education in diplomacy to show through, using the skills of a prince to guide him in the manipulation of her knowledge of him. There was no way that she would be able to pick up on the truth of his sickness, no way that she would know the depth of his cruel infectious thorn.

A monster had been created, and the monster that had done so, was anything but regretful of it. Kryten would never know this though, for finding the Krampus had been impossible. He came from a line of pride, and resiliently bitter spirits. Every thought and feeling was already ingrained in his blood. The land while it did not move or gravitate towards him, there still seemed to be a small recognition. It watched him, and curiously would caress him with a breeze every so often, especially in the moments that he was about to cause grief. It’s not long before he realizes that most civilities tack on a name, so just as he is supposed to he nods to her and stated in a rasping voice I’m Kryten, he has to ponder a moment, wracking his brain for more information that eluded him. The diplomacy of his princely training seemed to slip the longer he stayed away from acting on the good memories he used to have with the king, and king’s consort on the Valley’s bluffs. He shifts his stance, the draft/arabian mixed horse uncomfortable in the silence, when he is supposed to be smoothly in control of the situation at hand. Can I help you with anything? To make up for startling you. His voice smoothing out, into the normal lyrical sounds that his proudly inherited blood gave him. Many deep tenors and airy sopranos mixed and melded together to make the form of his voice. It was a deep seeded pride he had, one that his mother taught him, engrained in him, and made every certainty that he would never forget. It was information that would be passed from one generation to the next, and as her only son, he held the most important duty of all, to make sure that their lines stayed pure.

Kryten