when the stars threw down their spears and water'd heaven with their tears:
He closes his eyes. Imagines the warm spray of blood across his face. Wyrm hasn’t had that comfort in a while, hasn’t been able to return to the woods for sport (aside from Rapture, of course) and perhaps that’s why he forgets: never celebrate before a total victory. His eyes flash open and the air before him, so lifeless blue in infrared, is quivering - turning almost … purple. “Son of a -”
But he’s already twisting his body in flight, belly up to the sky while slick wings press tightly over his back and as he soars, the wall of flame erupts around him. Never (in his entire life!) had his sire ever thought to touch him with the blue flame. The shifter has never known the lick of fire and as it eats away feather, skin, flesh - he is blind to every other feeling. His back curves, the veritable soup of his molecular makeup writhing beneath shapeless skin while his hind legs twist above him, sending him in an arc that lands him slamming (belly first) into the ground. The thing writhes, shrinks, and bleeds color until only rivulets of trampled sand seem to remain.
And then the sand shifts.
A cloud of fine granules explodes from the floor of the arena, spraying in all directions like the sea against a stone to reveal outstretched, leather wings. The skin, paper thin over hollow bones, is blistered and causing him an incredible measure of bloody pain. “-bitch.” He hisses, squatting on thick legs. Above him, pretty as a picture, is the damned fire-wielder; flapping about to play the part of a sitting duck. Wyrm is more than obliging to rise to the occasion. With a great heave he rockets skyward, pumping demon-like pinions against the force of gravity while ignoring the slick wetness of those wings as they touch together over his spine. Wyrm is something else in this moment, something terrible and unstoppable as an act of nature and his flaring red gaze is locked on that fucking orange eyesore.
He’s a second away from being in range for a long-distance attack - mere moments from being able to push the limits of his own imagination! The terrors he could free from his own body are waiting for the command … and then - he *snaps* altogether from thin air, becoming a whizzing black dot that’s headed straight for the exposed area between the other stallion’s eyes.
A horse is a horse, of course, so it’s only natural that Wyrm should be a freaking horsefly while he zips right into the other shifter’s blind spot.
did he smile his work to see? did he who made the Lamb make thee?
ooc: Wyrm's gonna getcha, Gendry.