when the stars threw down their spears and water'd heaven with their tears:
High above the lofty woodlands, Wyrm dips without thinking into a lower shift of wind and levels out to soar over the many heads otherwise occupied out in the Meadow. His other engagements satisfied, the shifter had time to disappear - to lose himself and let the power of his gift wash over every fibre of his being. It was a pleasant sort of spring day, one that tempted even the more shadowy of creatures out to bask, and Wyrm gives them barely a glance as he pulls his wings close for a streamline effect. The result has him barreling through the air, a blur of inky feathers that soon eclipses the ability of most eyes to pry, before the land below him bleeds greenery and fades to sugar-like sand.
Once the first wall of briny air slams into him, he spreads both hollow arms and coasts easily enough. Below him the roiling sea churns, still unsettled by winter’s mixture of currents and preparing for spring’s unpredictable storms. He toys with the whitecaps, dipping on one wing and then the other to trail his primaries through the water before banking against a warm current of wind; it steadies him, gives lift, and like a ballerina he rises on unseen hands. The breeze, in her invisible strength, pushes against him to the point that he’s simply hovering over the edge of Beqanna, jerking softly from side-to-side while his eyes take in the great nothingness beyond them all.
The moment is short-lived.
Only a subtle movement sends him plummeting right beneath the surface of the ocean, a wave folding over top of him as he sinks. It makes no difference; from here Wyrm trades feathers for fins, lungs for gills, and the resistance of water over his denticled skin feels just like the air did. With slow, languid movements he glides through murky depths like a knife through silk. A tiger shark, striped and deadly, that follows the undulating seafloor back and forth until the sand meets water. Exhausted and supple, he rises once more from the shallows as himself: green, hetero-chromatic eyes, and rather uninterested in returning to his people.
It’s only when his gaze rises to see what’s standing before him that he betrays any semblance of surprise, struck silent by the uncanny timing of it all.
It’d been too long.
did he smile his work to see? did he who made the Lamb make thee?
@[Zojja] @[Salem]