when the stars threw down their spears and water'd heaven with their tears:
It looks like a monkey. If, you know, a monkey had no hair. You might be inclined to watch the eerie swiftness of it gliding quite literally through the treetops and think to yourself, “If I had to guess at what it was, I’d say a monkey.”
But that would be to its advantage and this- this is what it wants you to believe; that you are simply observing something not quite natural in the sense of the word, but rather something easily shrugged away. “They are good at that,” Wyrm thinks, dropping noiselessly through a hundred feet or so of intertwined branches with the single, deft swing of an elongated arm. “choosing not to see what’s right in front of them.”
Mid-swing he stops (yanks himself to a halt, really), gripping a branch with dexterous fingers so that he might hang silently from above. Drifting, pendulum-like, noise filters up from the ground below: a pair of horses, languid in their journey north. “No…” He thinks, dark nostrils flaring as he inhales, “Longclaw.”
The creature lets go.
An inky blob plummets heavily to the earth, but does not spatter on the ground in front of them. Drawing abruptly to a halt, ears lowered and eyes flashing, Longclaw watches the thing sink below the surface of the earth before dancing forward - he doesn’t like the sight of it, wants to feel it trampled beneath his feet before it can rise once more.
“I like watching you in the afternoons.” Wyrm speaks suddenly from behind them. As a writhing, semi-shapeless mass he’s already begun to rise from the soil; a black, shadow-like horse without true shape or color just yet, only a voice and two curious, mismatched eyes. “The Western shore of Tephra is a good place for you to call your own, you know.”
Settling, solidifying now that he’s completed his resurrection, Wyrm glances over the odd pair as his shape defines and bleeds from black to his signature green. “Your mother is busy. I haven’t seen her in some time.” He relays, tilting a curious eye towards the mare. Longclaw, catching the harmless glance, moves to block the girl from Wyrm’s sight. “Is that why you came? Tell me.” The shifter demands, his once monotone phrases hardening into pointed questions. It was droll, the way his son had been acting as of late.
“Were you afraid to come alone, little Longclaw?
did he smile his work to see? did he who made the Lamb make thee?
@[Ajatar] I'll be switching between posting them while playing both, bear with me
