Shroud was sleeping beneath the tree when the dream changed to a god-made vision - -
FIND HIM. KILL HIM.
KILL HIM.
KILL HIM.
NOW.
The urgency is not lost upon even her child’s brain that fires the answering impulse to seek and destroy. She climbs to her tiny feet and is steered (a little ship of sable and snowy patches and fluffy budding wings) towards a land she’s never heard of or seen.
Not true!
She’d seen the red stallion with the mark of pestilence on his chest amidst a land made of ruin and pulled up from the sea. This was a bleak land of puny almost nonexistent rivers and crippling dust. Any bones found here belonged to leviathans of the sea and horses no strangers to misfortune and death.
By the time she nears Pangea in her slow march of determination and madness; the din of battle rings out loud in screams of pain, pledge, and perseverance. Some strive to slay as others strive to thwart the killing need that has blossomed darkly in most of their hearts. She looks on the fracas from on high on a ridge of backbone and dirt.
Shroud never questions if there are sides to be taken - good or bad - she simply reacts to the message that invaded her unremarkable jumble of dreams that fateful night.
Down she goes; mindful of the blows given and taken by those around her. Blood and spittle fly and spatter her fur but she is neither grossed out nor slavering herself from it all. Sometimes she has to deliver a nip here and a kick there - all from baby feet and milk-teeth that glance off more than finding purchase, that pinch and tickle more than hurt.
Until she is in the thick of the angry mobbing swarm and then - oh then! She stretches the blossoming fluff of her pegasus wings out wide, the feathers soft as goose-down and as pure white as the driven snow. But they shift with her intense concentration to a wicked combination of natural substance: acacia branches rife with thorns and twining stems of stinging nettle. She buffets and thumps whoever gets too close with those wicked wings until she spies an opening in the fray - -
Shroud leaps for the red stallion’s flank and with a last push of energy to maintain the wicked nature of her wings, she lashes out with a pinion-point that was once a feather and now a sharp scratching thorn. The blow might land and it might not. If successful, the thorny point of her wing will have opened a gash on his flank as she falls back and is pushed out of the huddle of hot angry flesh.
She returns to the ridge of backbone and dirt; sides heaving and lathered in the sweat of her efforts. A grin of madness holds high court on her little lips as a thin rivulet of blood of sluices out of her right nostril. It is the last sign of exhaustion from the extensive use of manipulating her wings into something other than feathers.
Now she watches and she waits.
tldr: she shapeshifted her wings into a combo of acacia branches lined with thorns and the stems of the stinging nettle plant. The thorns can scratch whoever and the stinging nettle can break off and cause an allergic rash/burning sensation if anyone wants. She attempted to score Rhonen’s flank with the thorny sharp edge of her wing. Might have been successful - might not have. And let me know if this was too much! It seemed in the realm of possibility due to the trait description in the database. :]