Set
09-08-2015, 04:49 PM
He is like a freight train, all blasting breaths and shaking earth. Sweat slicks his sides, dirt and skin cells gathering together only to streak across the patches of white and black. Nostrils flare wide, exposing skin tinged blood red as capillaries burst with the force of pulling oxygen. A silver filament, a golden orb weaver’s spider silk wrapped many times over, criss-crosses back and forth in a deceivingly chaotic weave, the ends embedded on either side of his nasal passages to keep them from collapsing under the strain of his second lap around the Chamber’s borders. Fully restored to prime health, he’d taken to experimenting with his magic and errant shapeshifting, haunting the caves of his father’s youth high in the kingdom’s mountains. Some of said experiments had proven more successful than others but it had served to pass the time and hone his magicks. Presumably one of the youngest magicians currently in Beqanna and possessing perhaps the most well-ingrained drive to be the best and most powerful, he has hardly ceased training since his return from the dead. Not to mention, the heady promise of a raid lingers on the horizon. His soul thrills with the thought, spurring him up a ragged boulder pile, hooves striking sparks from the shale.
When he reaches the small summit, he takes a moment to consider the kingdom below him, hidden from the sight of any who might be watching him. The air is sharp for spring, carrying with it the promise of a damp afternoon. Shrewdly, he picks out the Queen’s spies lounging shamelessly amongst the trees; though he would not be surprised to find them all alert and well aware of the happenings around them. One has ventured too close, perhaps considering tailing the magician and Set gives it a wide grin before pursing his lips and pinching his nostrils. Suddenly the raven is given life. A beat later, it’s tail feathers burst into black and red flames – not consuming the feathers entirely but surely burning the bird’s hindquarters. A non-too gentle shove sends his little joke shrieking in Straia’s direction but he pays it not much mind once it’s gone out of sight.
The son of the Queen and her General is about to break upon the scene, distracting him from his mischief.
Set himself was the son of the Queen and her General, Starlace and Chain. That alone had not drawn the magician’s attention to Erebor, though. The boy had a way of carrying himself, a thoughtful head on a good soldier’s shoulders. He been the one to suggest a show of strength by the Chamber – a sound diplomatic move in light of some of the other suggestions made. He’s pensive now, though outwardly shows no signs of distress. Set wonders at it a moment before a mismatched ear turns sharply. There's someone else coming.
It’s several minutes more before the blue roan arrives on the scene, the sun overhead catching the sinking of her flank as she sighs. He cannot relate to not feeling at home amongst the pines and old burn but he can understand the need for being near relatives, despite your surroundings. Ignoring the ache the thought of his absent family brings, he shifts suddenly. His form is not that of another creature, though, only a rather plain-looking black stallion. Moving so that it will look as if he has just topped the hill, he is no longer invisible and joins them, disguise firmly in place. Sweat now dried and crusted to his skin, he nods cheerily at them both before shaking out his mane and tail with a low groan. “It’s funny, how secrets attract one another,” he observes cryptically, his voice that of a foreigner, before bending down to scratch his muzzle on an extended knee. When he raises his head, dark blue eyes glinting devilishly between the two of them, he winks at Wayra before shoving at her with a blast of air, aiming to send her into the half frozen lake hidden from where they stand by a tangle of underbrush and bramble. Simultaneously, the ground rumbles and splits beneath Erebor, falling rapidly away from him, his footing surely uncertain.
When he reaches the small summit, he takes a moment to consider the kingdom below him, hidden from the sight of any who might be watching him. The air is sharp for spring, carrying with it the promise of a damp afternoon. Shrewdly, he picks out the Queen’s spies lounging shamelessly amongst the trees; though he would not be surprised to find them all alert and well aware of the happenings around them. One has ventured too close, perhaps considering tailing the magician and Set gives it a wide grin before pursing his lips and pinching his nostrils. Suddenly the raven is given life. A beat later, it’s tail feathers burst into black and red flames – not consuming the feathers entirely but surely burning the bird’s hindquarters. A non-too gentle shove sends his little joke shrieking in Straia’s direction but he pays it not much mind once it’s gone out of sight.
The son of the Queen and her General is about to break upon the scene, distracting him from his mischief.
Set himself was the son of the Queen and her General, Starlace and Chain. That alone had not drawn the magician’s attention to Erebor, though. The boy had a way of carrying himself, a thoughtful head on a good soldier’s shoulders. He been the one to suggest a show of strength by the Chamber – a sound diplomatic move in light of some of the other suggestions made. He’s pensive now, though outwardly shows no signs of distress. Set wonders at it a moment before a mismatched ear turns sharply. There's someone else coming.
It’s several minutes more before the blue roan arrives on the scene, the sun overhead catching the sinking of her flank as she sighs. He cannot relate to not feeling at home amongst the pines and old burn but he can understand the need for being near relatives, despite your surroundings. Ignoring the ache the thought of his absent family brings, he shifts suddenly. His form is not that of another creature, though, only a rather plain-looking black stallion. Moving so that it will look as if he has just topped the hill, he is no longer invisible and joins them, disguise firmly in place. Sweat now dried and crusted to his skin, he nods cheerily at them both before shaking out his mane and tail with a low groan. “It’s funny, how secrets attract one another,” he observes cryptically, his voice that of a foreigner, before bending down to scratch his muzzle on an extended knee. When he raises his head, dark blue eyes glinting devilishly between the two of them, he winks at Wayra before shoving at her with a blast of air, aiming to send her into the half frozen lake hidden from where they stand by a tangle of underbrush and bramble. Simultaneously, the ground rumbles and splits beneath Erebor, falling rapidly away from him, his footing surely uncertain.