"But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura
Change had freed her. Where she lost power, she gained freedom. Something feels completed, a wholesomeness, down in her belly. The pale mare moves through the drab tree trunks with a smile tugging at her dark lips. Fat snowflakes stick to her hair and skin but she pays the tickling cold no mind as she moves over the crust of late winter snow.
Dark lashes fall over her eyes as she inhales the cold, chilling her lungs and letting it burn for a few moments before she exhales a large plume of warmth, dancing before her glittering sapphire eyes. The gray skies are love letters to her, proclaiming more winter, more cold. She considers the cloud's shapes as though she can interpret them. A time or two ago, she could have, but now...now they are merely plump cotton balls floating lazily through the sky.
A peaceful smile touches the edges of her lips as dark stocking limbs move her down the solid beaten path that she had chosen. The sounds of cawing crows are enough for her to tilt her ear towards then, listening to their secrets. Their shrieks vibrate in her head, mingling with the steady 'thud-thud' of her heartbeat.
Gray as the skies that tumble into one another, the frost-white owl tips a left wing towards the earth and spirals in a wide arc above the expanse of the meadow. From up above, the earth below is a taintless blanket of snow, too thick for even the criss-cross of shadowy hoofprints to muddy and ruin. A blinding, pristine sheet of milk that hides many secrets from the plain eye. But the owl isn’t fooled.
He hears something: the tick of a noise that jerks his head about ever so slightly and then he plummets. His wings fold into his body so that he can dive and it seems as if the plunge will end with a spray of snow and ice … that is, until his wings flash open once more and his creamy tarsus’ extend to spring his claws open wide. A faint dip into the snow and they re-emerge, grasping a writhing, fat grey mouse in their clutches. A skilled hunter, and now a full belly.
With a few more lazy flaps and the careful flick of his leg joints the mouse is sent up into the air, where it flops downward again into his open gullet. He swallows, and then expands, forelegs bursting from the pale white breast of the bird while he transforms and turns back into an equine. When he finishes, he’s opted to keep the satin, ghostly color of the barn owl, along with the fine, strong wings that are barred and brown on top. His mane and tail are thick, a mass of tawny and chocolate, and they fall softly over his bright green eyes as he takes in the mare who seems to have appeared from nowhere, but is now heading his way.
“Peaceful, wouldn’t you agree?” He calls out to her, legs drifting smoothly, unnaturally, through the drifts of snow as he closes the distance between them. “A bit too quiet for my tastes, though.”
The death-rattle of the rodent echoes against her sensitive ears. Epithet watches as the bird, white as new fallen snow, stalks it's prey and in a moment's breath, the mouse if found, clutched, it's tiny screams released before it succumbed to death. The pale woman watches it all.
But it is life.
What is unsettling is the way the bird lurches and bursts and births another equine right before her, pale and glittering with a pair of it's wings draped upon his strong back. Her mouth falls agape in the surprise, completely enthralled with this creature.
They are one in the same.
Epithet makes no effort to shield herself, years of magic has made her bold but she is quiet, watching him. The sound of low tones meet her ears as he speaks with dancing green eyes, the fall of chocolate and cream along his neck makes him breathtaking against the white backdrop of snow. "I do agree." The words slip from between her lips as she can't help to look away from his green eyes but in an act of comedy the pale mare slips into the exact hue of his eyes. She stands smiling rather playfully at him. "I must say I have not seen another shifter in some time." The mare stands there bright as a fresh cut emerald but with a smile. The slightly darker hue of her mane falling over her neck in long waves. "And what would you prefer to make it not so quiet?" Epi inquires with large blue eyes, smiling purely and honestly. She was not in the market to flirt, to dance the night away with strange men in the meadow but it was not often she meets another with the ability to change. Perhaps she could make an acquaintance at least out of this. "I'm Epithet." She slides her name as though it were a pair of aces across a wooden table. The green of her hide returning to the porcelain of her typical nature, dark lips smiling at him with curious blue eyes.
If she had been timid; if she had been reserved, or disgusted, or even scared he would’ve understood. But she is none of these things. Instead, a change overcomes her and across her face, like a brilliant comet, shoots a look of pure elation. Wyrm finds, with a small start of surprise too, that her skin is bleeding color, draining the white and dying it a fresh, very familiar shade of green. His own mouth hardly twitches, only parts slowly to allow the words, “You’re a shifter?” to break the silence. So far he’s only seen her ability to paint, not to sculpt. “Epithet … what are the odds?”
If she was what she claimed to be, then she’d have no problem keeping up with him. Her boast, coy as it is, only draws a wickedly elusive smile across his lips and the phrase “What would you prefer?” tumbles haphazardly from her mouth. His wild eyes flash, thinning into slits before they dart to where her blue ones sit poised. A second ticks by. And then Wyrm shifts.
Before his upper and lower lids can meet the animal has changed, body flashing in a bright array of color before the skin molds into a blur of scale and underbelly. A ghastly yellow-orange snake flickers out to close the short space between them, larger than possibly natural and with mouth agape, fangs extended to strike. It was madness, to be so bold in the bright, open lands - and if she failed … the carnage would be red and terrible.
But Wyrm, as mad as he is, wants proof.
HTML by Cal and Toli
ooc: Feel free to dodge/block/attack however you see fit! Thought it would be fun for them to play with their powers If you hate it, I'll change it <3
She catches her reflection in the wetness of his eyes. There is a glint, mischievous and loud though he is soundless. The pale mare heard his words, the curiosity that lies just beyond the syllables off a clever tongue but before she can bat her lashes, the male is rapid in his change. The equine body condenses, meshes, melts into an unruly large snake with dripping fangs and the same green eyes.
Epithet spents a moment laughing gently at his game.
With practiced ease, she moves before him to that of the Longma. A ripple of hard scales form over her body, iron smelt hooves replace the fine black ones that she typically wore. Sharp antlers grow into a crown as she waits for his movement. The quiet mare. The gentle one. Heaven sent...don't forget.
But immortality makes little creature bold.
She smiles at him prettily through fanged teeth as a hoof uplifts ice, dirt and grass with a single dig. She does not fear the large reptile and perhaps even welcomes the challenge. Epithet would sort it out later. It was too easy to assume the size of a woolly mammoth, a walrus, or even the hyena but she is not stupid and is aware of his abilities now. The Longma woman lifts upon her hind legs, a low feral call lifting from her lips as she launches at the snake, fanged teeth bear as she aims to plant the hard cloven hooves squarely for it's tender spine but mindful of the animal's own teeth, fangs bore as she seeks the tender flesh of the reptile. It was not her aim to kill, injure, or maim but if he wanted to spar...well, she would give him what he wanted.
Epithet had had enough. She would no longer banish herself to the shadows. No longer would she be allow herself to be perceived as weak. Blue eyes flash violently as she aims to bear down upon her prey.
when the stars threw down their spears and water'd heaven with their tears:
A change - so quick that the ordinary eye would miss it - overcomes her and his attack is sideswept. He’s never seen this form before; this melding of creatures unknown yet strangely alluring. A flash of teeth between them, her hooves split and racing earthward to where his slender body waits in supine stillness. “Clever girl.” He ponders, wasting no time in trying the skin for himself. It feels … mythical, ancient, dangerous, and he loves it. His Longma form is black as night, traced through with glimmering red and fire orange. The animals hiss, tangle, and then he decides the paltry toying is over with.
An ant, and then a sleek mouse, darting away from her to where he can sense safety again. From the frozen wasteland a rumble seizes the snow and cracks the fine, white surface, before Wyrm bursts free in the shape of something terrible. He grows, taking form as mighty Sauroniops in the fleece-laden meadow. Teeth, terrible teeth, sprout from his widened gums and a sound not heard in many millenia echoes into the very corners of Beqanna. Even for his impressive size he’s quick, slamming one splayed foot into the earth while he swings his body around, thick tail sweeping over the surface of the grass to send a spray of ice and crystal powder over Epithet. The coverage is thick enough that he shifts again, seeming to disappear into the very air itself.
He only reappears when he’s behind her, white equine shape motionless with those soft, barred wings tucked into his sides. “Epithet.” He calls to her, green eyes narrowing before a smirk flashes across his face, “Enough. I’m Wyrm, and I should thank you for showing me a new shape.” A ripple of change glides over his skin, hints of those deadly red and black scales peeking out from beneath the white. “What do you call it?”
He’s only slightly glad she wasn’t bluffing.
did he smile his work to see? did he who made the Lamb make thee?
Their bodies crasha nd crumble against one another in a terrible thunderclap. Her white agaisnt hi black, heavent sent and hell born. Teeth seek skin. Antlers seeking soft spots to gore.
They break free, Epi panting and watching with a keen eyes. She does not see the ant...the mouse only seen at the last moment but the sight of the giant creature is unmistakable. Lids fall to narrow as the Longma woman eyes the massive reptile as the familiar warmth of fire begins to brew in her belly as she lowers her head in preparation for war but instead, where she thought she was prepping for a true fight, a spray of snow disrupts her sight. The fire erupts from between her lips, steaming the snow and evaporating it but between the droplets, the ivory man steps. Ears move as she listens, his voice reaching her. "Wyrm?" The mare breathes as her scales fall off, the antlers dissolving as Epithet returns to her equine form. A small smile touches the edges of her lips as she take sa few deep breathes to calm the roar of blood in her veins. "Never have I seen such a large reptile." The remark is given, a compliment, if you will. Deep blue eyes watch him in a new light, having enjoyed the little tussle. "Where are you from Wyrm?" Epithet is quite surprised to find another with such abilities but it was a pleasant surprise to find another that could possibly understand her, understand the power at their hooves.
But it was nice. Nice to feel normal. Nice to have a conversation. Nice to feel like she could actually belong in Beqanna. Quiet attention is given to the stallion as she listens for his reply.
when the stars threw down their spears and water'd heaven with their tears:
Epithet speaks his name and Wyrm is transported, back to a time where he didn’t kill for sport or knowledge, back to when there was only the tangle of eight limbs and a watchful eye to tear them in half should the toying get too rough. He’s a foal again, and his younger twin is lighting himself on fire only to dissuade him from latching on to that tender, teal-swirled skin of his. “Wyrm?” Kudu asks, but the image is fading and another voice is covering his up, “...Wyrm?” He hears again, snapping back to the present with the blink of an eye. “From nowhere.” He answers, tail swinging behind him as if to wipe away the onslaught of his past.
It had been nearly that long since he’d roughhoused without killing the offender. “Though, that’s soon to change.” He tells her, perking up visibly at the idea. Age hadn’t halted for him anymore and the shifter knows that you simply cannot be a somebody if you came from nothing. He passes alongside her, one wing outstretched to allow the satin, rounded tips a gentle brush along the shape of her spine as he does so. An invitation of sorts, one extended to a creature he considers his equal, even though their personalities seem hardly compatible. It made no difference; power was power, and when the strong gained forces there was little to stop them.
“Shall we fly a bit, you and I? I’ve seen this land and discovered some of her best-kept secrets, but I still know nothing of her people.” He suggests while a slow smile works the line of his jaw into the semblance of amusement, “Perhaps you can help me decide where I might … fit in.” He muses, unable to stop himself from laughing at the absurd notion. "And in the process, you can tell me where you're from."
did he smile his work to see? did he who made the Lamb make thee?
He keeps her attention as she watches how the light fades momentarily from his eyes, the way his pale body relaxes as he seems detached. Epithet falls quiet as she waits for his reply. Deep blue eyes move from the snowy face of her companion as she looks over their surroundings, the softest call of geese flying overhead. She wishes she could detach at times...to be lost and invisible but something makes her stay.
When she returns her gaze to Wyrm, he is already looking at her with those serious eyes, as though peering through an eyeglass into the shattered cracks of her soul. His words are received with curiosity, ears pricked prettily as she listens, the soft tingle of his wing tip grazing just so lightly enough that it causes her to shiver.
"Yes...right." The woman gains her composure after her features furrow and she shakes away the caress, her spine still on fire from where he touched her. In the simplest of efforts, oily black raven's wings unfurl from her spine, slick and shining beneath the sunlight. Epithet only admits to herself that she likes the way the black contrasts the porcelain gray of her skin and the dark stockings that wrap her legs and highlight her lips and lashes.
She offers Wyrm a small, crooked smirk before the great wings spread out with uncanny ease and she is projecting skyward. The mare knows he will soon follow her but for now she would lead the way if he is able to keep up with her.
Up in to the clouds, through heavy rain and blinding lightening, she is laughing like the very thunderclaps that deafen her eyes as she glances only occasionally for the stallion. Epi knows he is some man, a stranger in the meadow, but damn it felt good to race the wind and face death amongst the heavens. She finds herself smiling, laughing, the wing gnarling and tangling her pale mane. Would he attempt to overtake her or continue the chase?
when the stars threw down their spears and water'd heaven with their tears:
Slick, fine wings spread out from the point of her shoulders to unfurl and catch the dying rays of light that glance out from beneath the cloud cover of the heavens. Wyrm smirks in approval, watches as she takes off, and then lowers his body earthward to shift into a more comfortable form. Limbs meld and skin reforms to give him the shape of a magnificent, slender tiger, barred in varying shades of brown. His paws spread wide and he leaps upward, extending those long wings to beat mercilessly against the force of gravity that would normally hold him down. The melting snow beneath him stirs and then he is soaring, ever upwards, to chase that speck of black and grey through the thick, darkening skies while his wings beat against each other at every turn.
Higher they climb, until the clouds split themselves asunder with lightning that dazes him and sets Epithet aglow in silver. She’s laughing, that delirious woman, but despite himself Wyrm finds that a toothy grin has spread his cheeks and that a rumbling sort of laughter is echoing inside of his ribs. His ears pin flat to his skull, the rain driving itself as sheets into his vision. He shifts his eyes, adjusts the rods and cones within to sense heat signatures instead of colors, and then the world is made anew to him. Epithet is racing the thunder, twirling haphazardly around the forks of lightning while he hovers atop some cloudhead like a lurking mythos.
But he won’t be denied the chase of a lifetime.
In leaps and bounds he plunges from one stationary greyhead to another, the great bolts of electricity firing around him while he shifts his feathers to take the formation of goose wings, the brunt of the downpour rolling off of them without hesitation. He is sleek, powerful, illuminated by dazzling light and steadily gaining on her. Yet, when the two find themselves together once more he chooses not to overtake her - instead winding up and over her, barreling down and under as he loops carelessly around her. Where they travel, he no longer cares.
The freedom she provides is good enough for once.
did he smile his work to see? did he who made the Lamb make thee?
ooc: thought I might actually try and wrap this up, as I won't be around much more to reply. I can start a new one soon though! <3 her
If you hate it, I'll change it <3
