trippin on the constellations we see [ANY]

[Scorch]

WATCH THE FLAMES CLIMB HIGH INTO THE NIGHT

Oh, what she would give to meet the Khaleesis who once walked this very same jungle. Self-procured images of the brazen and the timid, the spies and the warriors are endlessly within her mind. While some faces appear now and again – Prague – others are lost to the darkness forever. Echion, Kagerou, Quark. Their names and others she will never learn weigh heavily upon her, for despite the fact that she has reached the same level as they, a thirst dwells yet within her to meet her predecessors.

The alarms are not sounded when she enters, for the creatures welcome the sisters with an honorary silence. Thus, Scorch is unaware of a legend amongst them. She’s threading the jungle alongside the jaguar-mare, though each in their own fashions. Unlike her Jakka, the Khaleesi travels a worn trail, though only to accommodate her newfound girth. While being hairless in equine form earned her many a judgmental, uncomfortable glance, in this form, it felt natural.

No one dares judge a rhinoceros, after all.

Funny, though, that in this form, she’s a cow. Not much better than a rat, though far more dangerous. Even so, she’s about as hideous as she is regularly. Large, wrinkly, and grey, Scorch has fallen in love with her gift from the Spirit. She had hoped – prayed? – for something along the lines of fire, as she always had, but this nearly trumps her namesake. While she has few of her kind in the Jungle, a small crash of Javan rhinoceroses have bonded well with her. The only distinguishing features between the natural born rhinos and the shifter are Scorch’s magic eyes; pupilless, and constantly shifting colours. Of course, none are quite like she in the way of speech, yet she has found herself heavily intrigued by them and their own private language.

Today however, she leaves the crash to themselves by a water basin upon the lowlands of the Jungle. She has not quite mastered this whole walking thing; her legs are like tree trunks, as is her girth. A true Amazon may race articulately through the underbrush, but she supposes she deserves an asterisks next to that statement now. She trips often, bumps into objects which evade her notice, and snags her horn in a plethora of hanging things. Despite having never been the face of elegance, all this trouble tends to piss Scorch off quite nicely. After a couple hours of bowling through the land, she closes her eyes and imagines herself as a horse.

And, slowly but surely, she returns to her natural born self. Hairless, ugly, and esteemed.

She begins trotting aimlessly once the transformation ends, breathing easy now that her footfalls were certain, not rickety. The path splits before her, and though she moves to take the left, Scorch’s ears twitch at the sound of voices. A lid flicks over her eyes, and she looks to her right, into the clearing. Two horses stand there, one clearly Lagertha with her cool blue horns and fiery hot body. The other Scorch cannot distinguish through heat-vision alone; snorting softly, the Khaleesi swivels to investigate.

“Tantalize?” She asks firmly, coming into the clearing with forward-facing ears. She had not picked up on the rest of the conversation, but the twinkle in her lime-green eyes admits that that one word – name – is enough to invite curiosity within her. Glancing to Lagertha, Scorch offers a firm nod, agog shining in her eyes. Halting a few paces away from each mare, Scorch returns her hard gaze to the jaguar-woman. “You ruled before my mother, Echion.” Well, fake mother. But let’s not get into the details. “I am Khaleesi Scorch.” A grin slips across her charred lips, the expression steely but interested. “Well met, sister.”

Scorch

Khaleesi of the Amazon Jungle