Simple lies, strange eyes; Epithet

[Wyrm]

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

They both twitch. Simultaneously their heads whip around, four sets of eyes and ears trained to quietly catch any semblance of activity in the woods around them. The moment stretches, the shadows deepen - and then Epithet is alive with the soft toss of her head and Wyrm is complacent with them ignoring the disturbance.

His own name vibrates against his skin, the tense pressure of Epithet’s lips as they tug against tendrils of his bright mane serve to soothe him once more. She’s content passing the minutes away like this and, briefly, he is too. But, the patience of immortality can never stand against the pressure of someone who’s time is quickly ticking away.

He shifts; moves his legs about to return blood flow to his extremities before turning his head aside to plant feverish kisses into the satin ridges of her nose. “I can hardly concentrate, stop that.” He teases roughly, the jagged edge to his tone relaying the desire that was building in his gut. He snarls, lips her with the faintest of touches, and transforms himself.

The exchange of skins is quick, effortless. He hunches down to become wolf, the soul of his ancestors in a massive, shaggy shape. His fur fades to black, a sable color that ripples with healthy shine in the dappled light. From the tip of his nose, along his topline, all the way to the fine hair at the end of his tail he makes a crimson red stripe and forces his eyes to match. With the upturn of dark lips his tilts his newly-made head to stare at her with hungry anticipation.

“Shall we hunt?” He rumbles, the echo of his stomach rattling loudly to agree. His thoughts, however, linger on the supple curve of her hips.

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

@[Epithet] Up for a little wolf pack fun?