Haunt, haunt, haunty boy.

He’s done nothing with himself; truly, he chides inwardly – literally nothing. Sure, he’s fought and won before, more importantly he’s lost. He’s laid many a mare, sired many a child, and some that don’t disgust him, even. But he’s done nothing... really. He’s seen many rise and rise, some fall, some stagnate, but they did something at least. And why is that same ache not in him, then? To constantly claw for more and more, always starving – why is he satiated and thrilled enough to haunt the black sand beaches of his Cove? Just one of the many internal ghosts breathing down his neck as he moves step by step down the dim lit beach. Should he be more ambitious? He's never really cared before. Does he now? Maybe. Probably no.

Autumn often drags mighty and violent sea-storms to die on these dark shorse and on this early morning one has come to meet its fate. The wind whips, but not like the deadly gales they once were hundreds of miles before now, and the rain beats, but only a fraction of its peak force. The storm is half dead already, its thunder simmering and only cracking sparingly. Its boil weakens until it’s a breeze with drizzling mist, the sea now gentled underneath soft gray clouds suffocating the day’s oncoming sunlight.

Chem stands with his bone white face and chest to the winds rolling off of the lapping waves. It’s cold, and by inland standards still quite windy, but not for anyone who knows this coast like he does. The stallion’s coat is thick and well armored against the rain and frigid autumn cold; water shedding from him like it would off a duck. His teal eyes closed, listening to the wind, the waves, his lungs, his heart until the rhythms synchronize.

After having his ass near slain by Gale and his bullshit – an elephant, a lion, really? Chem scoffs at the recollection of the conflict as he thinks about it. His scars still fresh, the feline derived slashes joining the permanent gauges sliced across his left shoulder by some serpent hell-creature’s poison dripping fangs. Chem’s milk-painted body clearly shows the last few years of trials. He groans to think of it all, and of course, always dreams of doing things differently – but if he meditates for a moment, which he does do from time to time, he is truly grateful for all the rings of hell he’s gone through; it has brought him here.

Here.
The notion washes over him, wraps him, snuggles him.
My home. he takes in a deep breath. He might be alone, but he’s strong again, and he’s finally home.

He returns now from a long trip around the world (well, around Beqanna, his world). Happy to cross the border, to see the white owls dotted throughout the deep brown pine tops, looking down and across their domain with sharp golden eyes. They’ve got no loyalty to him other than he’s proven to be a good steward of their beloved land – are they spirits, are they something ethereal or are they simply a magnificent creature shaped by the plane they live in? He only wonders for a few seconds before continuing on, Irisaen slithering along the soft ground below him. They arrive home through Pangea, after visiting Kota first of course, his most favored child he’s ever fathered – mostly because he raised her, though she would argue she spent her time with her father raising him (he secretly wouldn’t disagree). Big sentient red woods gather there, where Hyaline, Pangea and the Cove meet. It’s a modest copse of giant trees just before the land turns to low, thick bush and rolling grassy hillsides. Miniature forests keep the deer and rabbits happy, and the marshes keep the capybaras and water fowl delighted most of the year – full of frogs and fish. Chem enjoys the mossy bogs, the plant-life and the array of animals throughout.

Irisaen really likes the clean clearwater bogs – very good hunting for a growing baby snake. She’s almost three feet now, and can no longer curl tightly around Chem’s ear like she’s always loved. She just doesn’t fit them same, crunching and weighting his ear down. She keeps herself anchored to him in many other ways, mostly his mane, and occasionally wrapping his neck. More and more she’s independent now though, as she grows and becomes more confident. Chem’s proud of her like any other kid, a favorite like Kota. They share thoughts, mostly communicating in images and energies, sometimes telepathic words. He’s enjoyed his companion thoroughly and struggles to even remember a time when she was not by his side and refuses to imagine a future where she’s not ever present. She is arguably a piece of him.

Their long trip – it was to the mountain and back. Instead of having to climb it, he found a faerie fishing at the bottom in a pond it clearly created itself. Dragonflies abound, flitting around and diving at the snake nestled in Chem’s onyx hair. The faerie’s big eyes, black and deep, focus on him and he’s knocked unconscious immediately. He comes to, Irisaen clinging to his face, relieved to see his teal eyes flutter open. A purple dragonfly hovers, its humming wings seeming to drown out everything and a voice comes through. “For your honorable fighting. You don’t have to ask.” It does a little loop dance, as if excited, “Enjoy!” and it’s gone. Chem rose to his feet, confused, and started to make his way back to the Cove.

“I still don’t feel anything…” he tells Iris, but the words don’t leave his leaps. She looks up at him, flicking her tongue, a reptilian smile curling her prominent white lips. “You will.” she responds with a purr, dragging the last letter of the last word to softly echo inside his mind. He ponders while they walk further into Silver Cove, heading for the horn’s tip, the northern most coast. The hills there have the most lush grasses ad he’s starving for it – no other place in Beqanna has such a delicacy (or so he feels).

It takes him some time to have an idea. Perhaps he’s sleep deprived, hungry, what have you – but he stops suddenly when the idea comes to mind. ‘You do not have to ask’ the dragonfly said. Well, he was going to ask for shapeshifting – like Gale had. It retrospect it seems an unstoppable quality for battle – to be anything you want, almost anything. He laughed to himself, thinking briefly that Gale probably couldn’t be anything he wanted, right? Like, a dragon – and when the thought passes through him so does an ice cold feeling, seizing him and letting him go just as quickly until his skin feels hot. He shakes his head, a bit dizzy, blinking. He looks over to Irisaen, wait, he shakes his head again – why is he so low on the ground? He looks to his arms, then his body. He morphed into a small dragon, pearly white and onyx black scales shine in the sunlight. He stretches his little wings, laughing, revealing a mouth full of predatory teeth. “What the fuck!” he exclaims, hopping from side to side a little bit. His only complaint being that he is little, and not some leering ful sized scary dragon but he guesses that with all magic, it takes time to be anything special. “Try something a little more simple, will you.” his companion’s voice comes through and he sighs through a smile. He turns back into himself, hulking, massive and fully equine. He flicks his tail and a long curving horn produces from his forehead. He chuckles, waving it about, “It worked.” the horn is long and glassy black, matching him perfectly. He walks on, dreaming up more things, but doesn’t dare try them yet. He tries wings next, and after a few tries, it works. “Ahaha!” he flaps big obsidian feathered wings, finally the size they need to be to match his body. He looks down to his companion, delighted with himself, really. “Should I try to fly?” he says aloud, a devious grin wide on his lips.

The Cove is a quiet place as of late and he enjoys it. His mind drifting gin and out the like the flow of the sea, going away and coming in again. Optimism and pessimism playing with his thoughts like the toiling of a stormy sea. His body is slashed in fresh scars, slashes and rips through his painted flesh. This is what it is to have something of your own these days? His skin twitches as if to deflect an insect, but it’s a recoil of his anxiety.

Spring, the children are arriving, some may even be his children. It’s something he’s usually alight with, but this year it seems a dull even comparatively. He fears, and can feel the dark loud loaming, he may have made a mistake by leaving the Isle and taking the Cove for himself. It laid abandoned, and still, te moment he came crawling into the silver light; new enemies came crawling forward too.

He doubts himself tonight, tipping his bright eyes up to the grinning moon. A pair of white ghostly ravens gush from his chest, at first a mix of white smoke like material and floating liquid. They float up to take full form, still pale and translucent, they extend their long wings and circle above him as he watches the sea from the black sand shores. Irisaen is wrapped around his scarred ear, her iridescent scales reflecting the moon’s strong glow.

He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes, “Grandfather,” his gritty voice begs for help with just one word.

He is drowning.