when the stars threw down their spears and water'd heaven with their tears:
Epithet speaks his name and Wyrm is transported, back to a time where he didn’t kill for sport or knowledge, back to when there was only the tangle of eight limbs and a watchful eye to tear them in half should the toying get too rough. He’s a foal again, and his younger twin is lighting himself on fire only to dissuade him from latching on to that tender, teal-swirled skin of his. “Wyrm?” Kudu asks, but the image is fading and another voice is covering his up, “...Wyrm?” He hears again, snapping back to the present with the blink of an eye. “From nowhere.” He answers, tail swinging behind him as if to wipe away the onslaught of his past.
It had been nearly that long since he’d roughhoused without killing the offender. “Though, that’s soon to change.” He tells her, perking up visibly at the idea. Age hadn’t halted for him anymore and the shifter knows that you simply cannot be a somebody if you came from nothing. He passes alongside her, one wing outstretched to allow the satin, rounded tips a gentle brush along the shape of her spine as he does so. An invitation of sorts, one extended to a creature he considers his equal, even though their personalities seem hardly compatible. It made no difference; power was power, and when the strong gained forces there was little to stop them.
“Shall we fly a bit, you and I? I’ve seen this land and discovered some of her best-kept secrets, but I still know nothing of her people.” He suggests while a slow smile works the line of his jaw into the semblance of amusement, “Perhaps you can help me decide where I might … fit in.” He muses, unable to stop himself from laughing at the absurd notion. "And in the process, you can tell me where you're from."
did he smile his work to see? did he who made the Lamb make thee?
