when the stars threw down their spears and water'd heaven with their tears:
A change - so quick that the ordinary eye would miss it - overcomes her and his attack is sideswept. He’s never seen this form before; this melding of creatures unknown yet strangely alluring. A flash of teeth between them, her hooves split and racing earthward to where his slender body waits in supine stillness. “Clever girl.” He ponders, wasting no time in trying the skin for himself. It feels … mythical, ancient, dangerous, and he loves it. His Longma form is black as night, traced through with glimmering red and fire orange. The animals hiss, tangle, and then he decides the paltry toying is over with.
An ant, and then a sleek mouse, darting away from her to where he can sense safety again. From the frozen wasteland a rumble seizes the snow and cracks the fine, white surface, before Wyrm bursts free in the shape of something terrible. He grows, taking form as mighty Sauroniops in the fleece-laden meadow. Teeth, terrible teeth, sprout from his widened gums and a sound not heard in many millenia echoes into the very corners of Beqanna. Even for his impressive size he’s quick, slamming one splayed foot into the earth while he swings his body around, thick tail sweeping over the surface of the grass to send a spray of ice and crystal powder over Epithet. The coverage is thick enough that he shifts again, seeming to disappear into the very air itself.
He only reappears when he’s behind her, white equine shape motionless with those soft, barred wings tucked into his sides. “Epithet.” He calls to her, green eyes narrowing before a smirk flashes across his face, “Enough. I’m Wyrm, and I should thank you for showing me a new shape.” A ripple of change glides over his skin, hints of those deadly red and black scales peeking out from beneath the white. “What do you call it?”
He’s only slightly glad she wasn’t bluffing.
did he smile his work to see? did he who made the Lamb make thee?
