:WYRM:
Yes, a femur is strong. But is it steel? Is it flame or stone or sheer will? Those things, Wyrm thinks, are words that imbue strength. A bone … that is only as strong as the youth it bears and the muscle that supports it. It cannot function without the other workings of the body, therefore, it is not independently something he would consider as a name for a foal. But he is not a mother, nor is he a mind reader. He is simply Wyrm, camouflaged and curled high above the cinnamon mare while she peers longingly down at the overgrowth and the carcass beneath. What was she doing here? If the smell alone wasn’t enough to deter a normal horse from taking this path, then there must be ulterior motives at hand. Either that or this particular woman had reason to ignore fear and instinct.
Curious.
Curious enough to drive him from the sheltering confines of the crown and descend to where she loiters above the waste of some fallen creature. If she is here, then there wouldn’t be a reason to show restraint with his power, so he doesn’t. At first, he’s likened himself to some slender sort of housecat, though his paws are larger with the addition of a sixth toe on his forefeet. His skin, sleek and nearly hairless, is patterned to match the surroundings - white with splashes of shadow and a swirl of brown here and there. As for a tail, there is none; his head is broad with mismatched parts that seem to make no sense. A muddling of something entirely new. With each step towards her though he takes new shape, rises upwards and fills out to become the emerald green stallion he’s always been, leaving only a trace of leonine in his gaze with slitted pupils.
“This isn’t exactly the place for an evening stroll,” He purrs, stopping near the soft earth where the skull has sunk beneath lichen and snow, “but you know that.” Obviously. His eyes blaze trails across her otherwise innocent face, blinking slowly, one after the other, when they’ve had their fill. “Though I will admit it’s nice to see a fresh face in my part of these woods.”