nothing like a little fear to make a paper man crumble; firen

[Epithet]

An outline of frosted breath is darkened as the wide white moon hangs low, pregnant with the threat of early winter snow. Epithet draws a breath then exhales as she stands as a bull elk with a heavy head full of thorny spikes. She finds this form comforting and shafe despite the distant how of hungry wolves. She is far too old to fear any other creature for there were few that could overtake her.

One legs lifts and falls, toes splitting wide on the frozen mud, as the bull walks. Epithet releases the echo of a shrill elk's scream as a massive plume of frosted air surrounds her in a haunting outline. There were not many creatures who dared stir and it is understandable. They were smaller and more vulnerable than the shapeshifter. In the instant of her will, the white mare sheds the antlers as they fall off an away, the skin splitting and shattering at her feet as the grey mare walks from the wreckage of the pelt, disregarding the blinded eyes where she had once gazed from.

Sometimes the mare was tasteful in her shifting and others were dealt with as she had just exhibited. On a night as so, she does not shiver or shake in the chill, but wears it like a queen's cloak. Epithet was an old mare in that of a young one's body. She walks like an earthbound goddess with slow, deliberate steps. A single ear twitches when the howl of the wolves echo against the naked trunks of sleeping trees but it is the sound of a snapping stick that rips her attention back and over a single pale shoulder, dark eyes narrowing in response.

Very few have ever surprised her like this.

The mare prepares to split her skin into that of a grizzly or sabre tooth tiger (she has been around for a rather looong time) but instead allows what ever is just beyond her eyesight to show itself. The pallid hued mare freezes, watching, ear flickering and tittering as she deciphers the hypersensitivity of the situation by scent and sound.

E P I T H E T

@[Firen]

[Firen]

Tongue lulling, and chest heaving he runs with the pack. The stars twinkle above them with severe clarity - in the way that that they do on a night where the cold is almighty. Snarls and yips reverberate between the wolves as they work their prey, now and then a long and chilling howl floats across the common lands. They move along the treeline where the meadow and the forest kiss, a pack of shadows, hungry and ruthless.

On nights like this Firen is glad to be a wolf.

They are successful in their kill. The wolves will feed this night, and the next day too, but it will be a while before the omega is allowed his turn to savor the spoils.

The alpha reminds him of this with flattened ears and threatening posture, chasing him with the threat of violence. Firen accepts this, his wicked fangs flash, perfectly white at his young age, but he does not put up more of a fight than that. These wolves knew he was not quite one of them.

And anyway, there had been something he wanted to look into on his own.

His breath slows as he walks, but his blood still courses hot and quick though his extremities. The pack mostly ignored the unnatural, magic gouged creatures of this strange world they all shared. Their species didn't make easy meals, for the most part, and they rarely competed for the same prey.  It was best to let them be. But Firen had seen her, and she was not a woman he could ignore.

So he covers the miles with long strides and the quiet confidence of one who has never lost a scent trail.

There.

He finally sees her, and his breath catches.

Painted with reflect starlight, she is as beautiful as the moon and he is as dark as the night sky that was meant to hold her. She is luminescent to his well adjusted eyes, and they hungrily trace her form as she seems to float across the grassland. The thrill of the hunt should have passed, but his heart has not slowed, it hammers in his chest and an unknown emotion pools in his throat as he watches her. The fingers of his consciousness reach out and gently dance across her own, a touch so light as to be mostly imperceptible. He is only looking for any hint that she knows he is there, but as he feels her mind against his own he grows curious. He presses deeper, wanting nothing more than to fall into her ancient consciousness and learn everything there is to know. 

Snap.

Where there had been fire now there is ice as her knowing eyes cut in his direction, and she all but calls him forward from the shadows. He rises to his feet, shifting  into his equine form now that stealth is pointless.

A young stallion now stands before her, reverent and all too aware that he is in the wrong. He is tall and slender, almost wiry, if it were not for the dense brindle pelt which covers him. 

"I'm sorry," he says, as his eyes meet hers - eyes the same color as the two red embers which float above his withers. "You probably wanted to be alone."