My, my—those eyes, like fire.
I'm a winged insect, you're a funeral pyre.
Nikolas pauses mid-stride, his ears swiveling atop his head as he lifts it and turns toward the strange sound. He considers the horned creature—she is thin, carved out in shadow at sharp angles under the moonlight. The shapeshifter sniffs at the air between them. Filing away her scent like a curious but dutiful hound. “No one important,” he answers, smiling. Though even his smile is wrong. It stretches too far along his face—revealing long rows of sharp, crocodile-like teeth that stop just short of his jaw.I'm a winged insect, you're a funeral pyre.
Eyeing the horns that curve upwards from her skull, he chuckles, and a matching pair split the skin of his head to slither up between his ears. “I quite like the look of these,” he says, motioning with his new black horns towards the ones atop her head. “Don’t think they’re my style, however.” They sink back into his skull with a quick crunch and he roughly shakes his head before focusing his attention back on the mare.
“Who might you be?” The stallion wonders, slowly slinking toward her if for no other reason than to see how she would react. “And where have you come from?”
Nikolas
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