The river is not a peaceful thing, it is brackish and laden with murk and mud: never settles nor clear and its currents batter stone and the rocky edges. Green and brown, with rushing white water breaks there is a bizarre shadow that manifests beneath the surface: an inky darkness whose malleable form slithers between rock and beds of overgrown algae. It never surfaces completely and only flashes of the dark body can be seen, the slightest glimmer of something faint blue and black: of something dusted with grey and white. Yet it stirs for one reason or another, and there is a sudden shape that begins to push the water’s surface and rise without complaint, a creature whose appearance is a grotesque mockery of a horse.
Its head is too perfect, too smooth and too easily made into the shape, and the thick tangle of curls on the neck and where the tail should be seem too heavy and dense. For Yidhra, the creature, this is simply illusion: the shadow cast on her in a way that from a distance- she is merely one of them; but up close?
No, she is a nightmarish fiend.
The tendrils form a false-nose slump and bend, hanging down and writhing as they clutch the hardened shell of a clam and draw it into the center of the maw. The chitinous and dagger-like beak sneak and bite, crack the shell and litter traces as she feasts on the soft… salty-sweat meat: the radula grinding and tearing as she considering returning: hunting, and stalking the river.
A voice, however, intervenes in her mind and Yidhra hears a familiar whisper- a sound, and she allows the hairless, watery flesh to remain under the sun. Stalking along the expanse of rusted Pangea and her rocky crags and plateaus- she hears the shrill wind and its voice… the spirits, or supposed ones, of older years come and gone. Graceful and easy in her steps she guides herself through and around the maze, weaving and wandering all the while tasting the blood that drips from her mouth and awful beak.
She finds him, somewhere, and her teal eyes are impassive in how they stare: her frame unmoving and attentions fixating as she leers over the gray and white, over the blues and purples: the colors of shifting astral-being and all the horror he embodies. “Ah,” she speaks softly- of begins to. “You creep like the darkness between the stars: watching and waiting, ever devouring and spreading your claws and fangs… letting chaos reign. Death,” she pauses only to slither forward, to approach with reverent awe and some ancient form of respect. “Is what you bring now, sickness and infection. Does it amuse you how they struggle, how they rebuild? Homes abandoned and kingdoms left for dust.”
Shrugging at the metaphor and meaning, Yidhra ceases to move, curious and yet restrained as the porous and fleshy appendages sway and move: as the pair on her shoulder lay across her back with the barbed spikes visible near the suckers. “Suffice to say, Pangea is also risen and rising: and she has strength to yet be seen.” blunt, and without question she idles- studying and roving: considering Carnage and his state- all the wonder and dread.
Yidhra thinks of the Stone, of the cataclysms within the Element… and she sees the reflective gloss, the surface and shine. Same and yet? Different.
Yidhra
@[Carnage]
