:WYRM:
It’s a good thing that Wyrm has almost no inclination of just what Heartfire’s powers entail. He knows, from personal experience, what she can accomplish, how she can transform and twist the mind without so much as twitching a muscle. He is not aware, however, that she can sip delightedly from past and present cups. Their histories have never been revealed to one another - and why should they? - because it has never been incredibly important. He worships the Heartfire he knows now, knew then, and that is all there ever need be.
The starkness of winter in the forest irritates him. There is always an annoying lack of entertainment, a restless sort of slumber that drenches the shadowy depths and leaves him longing for something more. Even curled tightly to a barren limb, part lion, part scales and claws and slitted eyes, he feels a restless sense of urgency that will not drain, no matter how long he lazily fights it. He knows (with a cringe that tenses between his shoulders) that it's because somewhere, out there, she drifts and carries new life. “Damned woman.” He thinks, frowning while he rises from his perch. A little boost from his hind legs and he leaps, arrow-straight, into the canopy above where he bursts from the treeline in a whole new shape.
An eagle has never been so black, nor so large, but this form suits him as he careens above the world and rides the bitter currents in search of her. In all of this place, there has never been a scent like hers, and the mere minutes it takes for him to find that particular aroma pleases him. Nevermind that she had not been far to begin with. What does not please him is the smell of sickly, tainted male that intertwines with hers as he circles above them before dipping easily into a lower, vertical shift of wind. Wyrm finds that jealousy doesn’t suit him well.
The shift is the most natural thing in the world. Feathered tarsus’ reach outward while his talons expand and grow, taking new form while his forelegs burst from the ebony breast. A neck sprouts, bright green, and from it a head grows and replaces beak and rounded eyes. By the time the earth rises up to meet him, he his whole, and his hooves lose no ground as they keep the forward momentum going into a brisk trot. Only the wings, sinfully black and outstretched, remain to balance him until he nears Heartfire from behind, folding tightly into themselves as he closes the final inches between them.
“Heartfire.” He calls to her, nose gliding gently over the tense shape of her hip. For a moment his face contorts, nostrils thinning and stretching into scaled, green slits. His eyes follow, growing wider and circular again but with sharp, vertical pupils. From between his stretched lips a forked, purple tongue flickers out, tasting the cold air around them while he inhales and sees the thermal transformation. The snow-laden meadow is blue-white and dead, but her body is radiating with red-orange life - and there … just there curled inside of her is the faint beginnings of their makings. To say that he was pleased would be a disgusting understatement.
A sharp tick of his muscles and the serpentine attributes vanish, leading him to raise his mismatched eyes to where the mess of bones and flesh stand some feet away. The shifter only tilts his head, moves forward in order to take a comfortable place at her side, and questions aloud, “What is this?” before falling quiet again.
If only he knew just what trouble she’d been stirring up.