:WYRM:
The freezing water sources of this land were a predator's dream. For those who had the comforts of a true homeland, they could seek safety there. As for all of the others, they were forced to seek out water where they could - and that meant trekking through the barren meadow and forest in order to seek it out. Near the northeastern tip of the great lake that drew an invisible boundary line across Beqanna, Wyrm waited comfortably in the shallow cavity of a muddy brown tree. With leaves long gone, cover was harder for the wild creatures to find, but none of this seemed to cause him concern. It was as simple as changing color for the newly restored shifter, and that advantage had him blending seamlessly into the blackened hole with only rounded, yellow eyes to glare out.
A screech owl, small and insignificant, privy to any living being that might wander by. An owl … yet still Wyrm. It felt good to have his power back, felt right, and it reminded him of unfinished business that could now be put to rest. He doesn’t even mind the fact that soon he’ll have a new charge underfoot. In fact, that thought causes the proud ruffling of feathers while a sharp, early winter breeze disturbs the treetops. It was about time, anyways. He couldn’t depend anymore on the temporary immortality that had been his crutch for so long. Time was moving again, and taking him with it.
From below, a sharp sound catches his attention and he turns a wicked yellow eye downward to catch the interruption. A familiar-looking mare, in color only, but he knows from scent and sound that they’ve never met before. Still, curious enough for him to creep slowly from his cover and mold into a small, furry creature to make the descent easier. He could be himself, he knows this, but the vanity of shock-and-awe has worn off for him these days, so Wyrm changes into something very unlike himself, a skin he’s almost never worn for that fact of just how uncomfortable it felt to don it.
He becomes a mare. Lithe, not very tall or striking, a simple grey pony of stock breed with a curious, misshapen green star on her forehead who walks easily from the woods. The worst part is putting the final touches on - shortening and folding his vocal chords to mimic a higher, much more pleasant tone, one that sounds highly unlike himself as he utters, “Hello there.” The pony mare slows, stops, and gazes over the speckled girl with bright, excited green eyes. “Headed somewhere?”
@[luster]