Don't be afraid when the night wolves cry,
feast on their bones, suck the marrow dry.
feast on their bones, suck the marrow dry.
He leaves because he can. Deimos is his teacher, not the whip master - that much was obvious by the lack of a metal collar around his own neck. To dance with the tongue and learn with the mind is one thing, (and a thing that the silver wolf is becoming adept at) but to wallow like a baseborn creature beneath the thumb of a magician is never his intention. Longclaw leaves because he wants to give Deimos no reason at all for turning that devil’s eye upon him.
As a wolf, the shifter can cover more ground. Theoretically he could simply combust - turn himself into a comet of flame and use the intense heat to rocket himself across the sky like some hellish blue star, trailing destruction in his wake as he flew. Thank goodness for theoretics that Longclaw is neither showy nor in the mood for total chaos. Not yet at least. He can use his fire as he sees fit, it bows to his command without ever protesting, but he wants so much more than that. He wants this darkness to consume him, to rebirth him into something more terrible than he ever could have imagined.
Naturally, he goes where the fire burns hottest in Beqanna.
At the edge of the field where his claws dig sharply into fine, sugar-brown sand, he peers out over the expanse of the channel and listens to the lull of the incoming tide. His inky nose tips skyward, silver-white head shaking once with force enough to have the motion travel through his body. The undulating shift of skin slackens, stretches, thins out and then molds anew while he rises upwards to horse again. With a flick of his navy tail the transformation becomes complete and Longclaw the shimmering stallion is now standing patiently where his wolf counterpart once waited. Every day that he slipped skins the action came smoother, less troubled, but he would never attain the ease of body changing like his father. That skill was unsettling to watch.
A gray hoof of his stretches forward, followed by another, and then another as he edges into the water. The freezing current tugs against him, soothes his muscles and draws him further with tender caresses until he’s chest-deep into the tide. His blue mouth lowers, lips opening to breath a tender flame above the water where it sparks, dances, and flits away. The creature's seafoam gaze follows the tiny thing until it disappears from view and for a moment, it would seem that nothing of importance had ever happened.
On the opposite shore, though, the tiny flame touches the sand of Tephra and bursts upwards - expanding in all directions until it unfolds in the shape of a phoenix. There the firebird will wait, hovering with blistering wingbeats right above the sealine until someone or something is tempted to investigate. Longclaw uses the animal as a calling card, if you will, in order to keep from ingressing on territory. A clever device with purpose that will wind down once more into the little tendril of fire it came from to lead an envoy across the waters where he waits.
As a wolf, the shifter can cover more ground. Theoretically he could simply combust - turn himself into a comet of flame and use the intense heat to rocket himself across the sky like some hellish blue star, trailing destruction in his wake as he flew. Thank goodness for theoretics that Longclaw is neither showy nor in the mood for total chaos. Not yet at least. He can use his fire as he sees fit, it bows to his command without ever protesting, but he wants so much more than that. He wants this darkness to consume him, to rebirth him into something more terrible than he ever could have imagined.
Naturally, he goes where the fire burns hottest in Beqanna.
At the edge of the field where his claws dig sharply into fine, sugar-brown sand, he peers out over the expanse of the channel and listens to the lull of the incoming tide. His inky nose tips skyward, silver-white head shaking once with force enough to have the motion travel through his body. The undulating shift of skin slackens, stretches, thins out and then molds anew while he rises upwards to horse again. With a flick of his navy tail the transformation becomes complete and Longclaw the shimmering stallion is now standing patiently where his wolf counterpart once waited. Every day that he slipped skins the action came smoother, less troubled, but he would never attain the ease of body changing like his father. That skill was unsettling to watch.
A gray hoof of his stretches forward, followed by another, and then another as he edges into the water. The freezing current tugs against him, soothes his muscles and draws him further with tender caresses until he’s chest-deep into the tide. His blue mouth lowers, lips opening to breath a tender flame above the water where it sparks, dances, and flits away. The creature's seafoam gaze follows the tiny thing until it disappears from view and for a moment, it would seem that nothing of importance had ever happened.
On the opposite shore, though, the tiny flame touches the sand of Tephra and bursts upwards - expanding in all directions until it unfolds in the shape of a phoenix. There the firebird will wait, hovering with blistering wingbeats right above the sealine until someone or something is tempted to investigate. Longclaw uses the animal as a calling card, if you will, in order to keep from ingressing on territory. A clever device with purpose that will wind down once more into the little tendril of fire it came from to lead an envoy across the waters where he waits.
Longclaw
ooc: word vomit
![[Image: sScEgld.png]](http://i.imgur.com/sScEgld.png)