Simple lies, strange eyes; Epithet

[Wyrm]

when the stars threw down their spears and water'd heaven with their tears:

Wyrm is an ethereal being now.

Suffice to say, his entire body had become something of a ‘world master key’. Re-shaping molecules had been an old art for him, something now as commonplace as breathing. The harmony between willpower and imagination kept him from enjoying very little in life. Phasing? Why, it was just another rung on the ladder. Neither branch nor stone impedes his journey, so surefooted is the shifter - every stride swooping and long even as he passes through the solid heart of a great oak. Winding trails no longer bent his knee; he seemed master of the earth, this place.

A dove, shrouded by glossy treetop leaves, coos quietly in an attempt to upset the otherwise silent woodland and Wyrm slows. He raises a narrow head, shimmering green in the arcing glances of sunlight that filter down from above, and whuffs the humid air for traces of Epithet.

She was here, he was certain. The bittersweet tang of her sweat rolled pleasantly across his tongue as he wet his lips, the blink of his eyes moistening slit pupils that preferred the color of body heat to Mother Nature’s otherwise colorful variety. “Hiding?” He wonders briefly, picking through countless other traces of scent trails.

Not his girl - not from him. 

“Epithet?” He calls, both viridian ears darting forward as he lowers his head to wait.

did he smile his work to see? did he who made the Lamb make thee?

@[Epithet]

[Epithet]

She stays in the thick embrace of a sleeping forest. Her pulse was the only things that moved while she lay dormant in the ground or amongst the tree tops. When he is gone, time stops and the world creaks to a halt. he has become the very thing she breathes for. How could she let herself be so weak? Because he was worth every sticky sweet drop.

"Hiding?" The words were an echo inside her skull. The single formation of letters ricochet and she feels her eyes slitting open. Epithet had been deep in the ground as a sleeping toad, cold and nearly lifeless...but immortality will never loosen her grip upon you...Epithet knows all too well.

She moves, clawing her way to the surface, her skin is sensitive to his vibrations and his location. The amphibian emerges a bit off so she may change to her true form, shaking the dirt away except for a few leaves stuck in her pale mane and tail. "Wyrm." She breathes his name is a sweet exhale as she gently approaches him from his side, her dark lips tracing his hip till she is at his shoulder. "You have come back to me." The forest nymph whispers low and for only his ears.

She would never hide anything from him.

Epithet

[Wyrm]

when the stars threw down their spears and water'd heaven with their tears:

His paramour rises, a creature unbound by laws of Nature and time, and Wyrm turns a sordid smile to greet her. The gentle prick of her lips over the high point of his hip sends arcs of electricity dancing beneath his skin. “I never go far.” He says, enjoying the moment of solitude while she trapezes along his topline.

Settled comfortably into the curve of his shoulder, Epithet paints a lovely picture. Wyrm rather likes the way they meld perfectly, it’s so easy for them to simply adjust in order to find the right mesh of skin. He does so now; filling out the girth of his chest bit by bit, smoothing his ribcage flat, tucking the bit of muscle behind his elbow further in so that his pale counterpart might truly fall into him.

“Been keeping busy?” He asks with nonchalance, bright green tendrils of his tail swiping along her hindlegs with the subtle flick of his bone. He tilts a curious eye in her direction, angles his head so that he might catch every word, and then he says, “I was unsuccessful in my search for Heartfire. She was nowhere to be found in Nerine.”

He grimaces; altogether finding the ordeal painfully slow and quiet. It was unlike Heartfire to be so … absent, especially when her gaze travelled mind-to-mind. “I have this feeling - and instinct is turning it sour.”

did he smile his work to see? did he who made the Lamb make thee?

@[Epithet] @[Gunsynd]

[Gunsynd]

Gunsynd

(last night i got high

as your expectations)

There were many things he could not remember: names, faces, places, smells. He knew he should remember. The knowledge, or the emptiness, was enough to make his brain ache. But one thing he did know was that she (the nameless one with the condescending manor) had crossed him and he had promised to return the favor. 

The lack of memories left his mind unclouded and allowed him to lock onto her scent and remember her face and form clearly. He had nothing to do but to follow her until an opportunity presented itself. Of course she would never know she was being followed - he was the perfect stalker. He was able to make himself one with the atmosphere - no scent, no form. He could be like the cheshire cat; no more than a pair of dark eyes hiding among the branches of a tree. Perhaps she would feel his constant gaze. Would it make her paranoid? Would she lose her mind? Or would she write it off and be completely surprised when his haunting came to a close? He isn't sure which he would prefer. Sometimes he wants nothing more than to make the twigs around her snap or to breathe into her ear, just to make the haunting complete. But he holds himself back and bides his time. Something is bound to happen. 

He has been waiting, formless, above where she hides herself in the ground. He notices the green male approaching - notes his powers not unlike his own. The name he calls out does not interest him (he does not know it belongs to his prey) until he feels the vibrations that she causes in the earth. So... her name was Epithet. Like the cat, he smiles and then vanishes once more.

~spooky gunsynd~
@[Epithet] @[Wyrm]

[Epithet]

Epithet does not mourn for the other woman but perhaps she has taken a graceful way out and simply vanished. It would certainly benefit the situation that is being had between Wyrm and Epithet. A smile blooms upon her lips, full and pleased as she closes the deep blue of her eyes and loves the feeling of his skin and body firmly pressed against her own.

But-

Something is out there. Her skin tingles with a cold chill despite the strange warm indian summer night. Epithet jerks her head as she listens with expanded nostrils, scenting the air, using her ability to shift to filter the air but nothing catches...it had been just an inclination Epithet shakes it off so she may full engage in the moment with the emerald stallion, loving his skin, his scent. "Wyrm." She whispers gently, lipping at his neck, preening the bit of emerald mane that meets his withers. She is practically purring like a kitten, disregarding any sort of disturbance from earlier.

Epithet

((wanted to post something, wasn't sure what really maybe they can all go to the party? wasn't sure who was supposed to post next))

[Wyrm]

when the stars threw down their spears and water'd heaven with their tears:

They both twitch. Simultaneously their heads whip around, four sets of eyes and ears trained to quietly catch any semblance of activity in the woods around them. The moment stretches, the shadows deepen - and then Epithet is alive with the soft toss of her head and Wyrm is complacent with them ignoring the disturbance.

His own name vibrates against his skin, the tense pressure of Epithet’s lips as they tug against tendrils of his bright mane serve to soothe him once more. She’s content passing the minutes away like this and, briefly, he is too. But, the patience of immortality can never stand against the pressure of someone who’s time is quickly ticking away.

He shifts; moves his legs about to return blood flow to his extremities before turning his head aside to plant feverish kisses into the satin ridges of her nose. “I can hardly concentrate, stop that.” He teases roughly, the jagged edge to his tone relaying the desire that was building in his gut. He snarls, lips her with the faintest of touches, and transforms himself.

The exchange of skins is quick, effortless. He hunches down to become wolf, the soul of his ancestors in a massive, shaggy shape. His fur fades to black, a sable color that ripples with healthy shine in the dappled light. From the tip of his nose, along his topline, all the way to the fine hair at the end of his tail he makes a crimson red stripe and forces his eyes to match. With the upturn of dark lips his tilts his newly-made head to stare at her with hungry anticipation.

“Shall we hunt?” He rumbles, the echo of his stomach rattling loudly to agree. His thoughts, however, linger on the supple curve of her hips.

did he smile his work to see? did he who made the Lamb make thee?

@[Epithet] Up for a little wolf pack fun?