Simple lies, strange eyes; Epithet

[Wyrm]

when the stars threw down their spears and water'd heaven with their tears:

Wyrm is an ethereal being now.

Suffice to say, his entire body had become something of a ‘world master key’. Re-shaping molecules had been an old art for him, something now as commonplace as breathing. The harmony between willpower and imagination kept him from enjoying very little in life. Phasing? Why, it was just another rung on the ladder. Neither branch nor stone impedes his journey, so surefooted is the shifter - every stride swooping and long even as he passes through the solid heart of a great oak. Winding trails no longer bent his knee; he seemed master of the earth, this place.

A dove, shrouded by glossy treetop leaves, coos quietly in an attempt to upset the otherwise silent woodland and Wyrm slows. He raises a narrow head, shimmering green in the arcing glances of sunlight that filter down from above, and whuffs the humid air for traces of Epithet.

She was here, he was certain. The bittersweet tang of her sweat rolled pleasantly across his tongue as he wet his lips, the blink of his eyes moistening slit pupils that preferred the color of body heat to Mother Nature’s otherwise colorful variety. “Hiding?” He wonders briefly, picking through countless other traces of scent trails.

Not his girl - not from him. 

“Epithet?” He calls, both viridian ears darting forward as he lowers his head to wait.

did he smile his work to see? did he who made the Lamb make thee?

@[Epithet]