i'm hovering throughout time - any

[Niklas]

It drifts in a state of semi-consciousness, somewhere between reality and Hell, there in the hollowest of shadows that only the most arcane dare to venture. The tediousness of mortal existence had driven it there, giving it cause to retreat, regroup. Another decade turned and still yet, the living realm tempts it not. Here now, though, the shadows stir and tremble. They pulse with an excitement known only by devoted creations when master draws near. The gloating energy ripples through its bone and flesh, drawn close against its unmarked black hide. The shadows gasp and arch, drawn taut against Hell-made-flesh, twisting and clamoring over one another until the intangible becomes such no longer …

It moves without sound - for what is darkness but silence? Lanky limbs, nearly skeletal. Jutting angles and harsh lines, sinuous and without the inherent softness that comes with the possession of a soul. Angular and thin without being unattractive (with ancestry such as its, it cannot help its predatory appeal), it shifts through the forest on the other side of the river, near the Meadow’s northwest border. Its pace is sedate, unhurried, for she knows it is coming and she will wait. For it. Though it existed before her, and will exist after her, she had given it its freedom. While aboveground had thus far proven rather uneventful, it is she who had borne him, she who had broken the chains that kept it tethered below, where its options were rather limited. It is she and he that its loyalty belongs to, and perhaps that is the most mortal thing about it.

Yellowed teeth clack together. Thin ears pinned to its head. Its cloudy, pupil-less eyes darken and the delicate skin about its muzzle wrinkles in distaste. Tongue pressed tight to the roof of its mouth, its hiss lands on the other side of the bird-boy’s. A warning? Maybe. Possessive? Aye.

Its own vocalizations end with blood drawn, a scrape of tongue on canine. Ichor, blacker even than its taut hide, trickles from mouth to earth. For a breath, or two, it watches the crouching figure (and the grazing one) with the same studious gaze as the crows that flock in its wake. The bull-colt’s horns draws a momentary interest then - admiration is not beneath it - but the gray, she is its prize, and it is she who exists at the end of its path. It casts no shadow, none follow it; all of them caught up and eager to be presented to her, their shadowmare. It grimaces - a smile? - and presses close to her, equal parts pleased and devoted. It would yet toil and ache beneath their feet were it not for her. “Mother,” it rasps, lips tucking under her chin in a fleeting gesture that is what it has perceived as affectionate. It circles her, a press of thin muzzle to flesh here and there, before settling contentedly amongst her shadows.

Niklas