Can you please sit the fuck down?
The skin stretches over his too tall frame, taunt and slick. The inky black seems to bleed like tar from the bell towers of medieval castles in storybooks long lost and forgotten. His movements, though well executed, are forced and stiff. He feels foreign in this body and it is unnerving. His form is slightly emancipated from his lack of nourishment but it is by choice. He misses the taste of flesh sliding down his throat, the way blood spills across his tongue, face, and coat. The unpleasant growl of a too empty belly reminds the tall stallion of this.
A frown etches into the cracked and split lips, grimacing slightly from time to time with annoyance for his sheer existence without his true form. The damned fairies had taken his sharp teeth and returned him, BELITTLED him to this skin and bone cage.
He hates it.
Damned are the fairies and their games. Perhaps it was jealousy that brightened the glow of his yellow eyes as he stalks along the forest floor with dragging hooves and hatred burning in his breast. The feral beast that lay dormant snaps angrily in his head, wild and hungry and desperate. The feral beast grinds his teeth, drives him relentlessly, tirelessly as he seeks a way...a purpose. Occasionally as he walks, Phynn crushes a few rabbits nests that he stumbles upon. The tongue slinking from between bleeding lips as he attempts to lap up their still pure blood. He attempts to ignore the repulsion his digestive system feigns but the feral beast will not let him rest till it has been sated at one cost or another.
P H Y N N