The inky psychopath was back. He needed to disappear, he had to get his head on straight. If he couldn’t find the bastard to kill, then at the very least he could give the rest of the word something to remember him by. A smile curls on his lips, a gleam shone in his leafy colored eyes. He watches as others mule about innocent and unaware of the darkness lurking nearby. His collection of abilities had grown over the years, as each horse he touched and replicated gave him a piece of their soul. The first time was always the hardest, exhausting and trying on his abilities, but each attempt he made at any particular one made it easier and more fluid until he could hold it for a few minutes at a time.
As he grew his muscles hardened, bulging from his body. Though as chiseled as he was, he still held more elegance the average draft. With a delicately boned mother, and a draft of a father. The result was intoxicating. Lean, firm, sharp edges that were pronounced. He was, in a word, beautiful, and he knew it, walking into the middle of the field the once knock kneed colt oozes of confidence. A switch of his tail and he stops, the grasses just covering his feathered ankles. Looking around he wonders at the horses cocking his head to the side, curiosity eating away at him.
His father’s wolf was the biggest comfort, and this is what he uses for the moment, circling until he finds a comfortable position lying down in the greenery his muzzle resting on his paws. The telltale sign of his presence hidden under the squinting lids. Was he laughing? The smile on his face not at all forced but closed lipped is a natural part of his charisma. The sandy wolf’s tail fluffed against his hind paws still felt strange compared to the whipping strands of hair that his horse form produced. Still it was warm and familiar, and carried parts of distant memories that were pleasant. Far more pleasant then the horrors that a few years earlier had haunted him.
Kryten