Set
08-24-2020, 12:44 AM
He rises with the sun because even kings with crooked crowns must sleep. As dawn slips over the still waters of the cove, chasing away the final wisps of silver moonlight caught up on the surface, the raw-boned piebald stands with a low groan and stretches before shaking out his mane.
Hunting down his youngest son is nowhere near as easy as it had been finding Salomea. The wan-eyed mare is animal and powerless, relatively weak-willed and she cares about about things – that is, someones. Niklas cares about … well, Niklas for the most part, Set and his family whenever it suits him. Though birthed from the womb of the dapple gray shadowmage, the black devil isn’t quite animal and thus drifts on the boundaries of Set’s control. His soulless offspring is adept at melting into the void just as soon as he’s been discovered, into those shadows that exist between worlds. It would be maddening were father not so fond of son.
Stepping through time would be the quickest way to travel, but it is not an optimal exercise of his gifts, or of his physical form. There was a time that he did not have anything but what he had been born with, before the mythical and untraited comingled so readily and the magical mutations flooded Beqanna. He was well into adulthood when he had experienced his first taste of the powers that the faeries had to offer - uncontrollable shifting, tethered to his emotions and instincts. It had taught him a lesson that he would never forget, one that would have been even further cemented had he been around for his homeland’s recent history. He is not so foolish as to abandon his magic altogether (he couldn’t now, woven into the fabric of his being now as it is), but keeping his matter just as fit as his mind and control of his magicks is a balance he thrives on.
His breath his heavy as he reaches the mouth of the river, having swum across from the opposite shore. He blows and snorts, his bright eyes red-rimmed from the salt, chin chucked just above the water’s surface. There is nothing like knowing the form of dozens of aquatic animals to understand just how ill-suited for swimming the horse is. Blinking seawater from his field of vision, he pulls himself up onto the river’s north bank, resting until his heart rate returns to normal and his muscles no longer ache with fatigue. His eldest is likely in the forest, where the shadows are hollow and the prey abundant. He casts a glance at the nearest mountain, the mid-morning sun dressing its crags in light and shadow. Hyaline would be easiest to traverse by river, and he waits only another minute or two before shifting and slipping back into the water as a giant river otter.
He cannot remember the last time he met a stranger – a female one, that is – who was anything but ill-mannered (broken, jaded, calloused). Frigga, perhaps, that delightful mare with laughter like music and sense of adventure enough to play tag with him in the forest. Make no mistake - the ones that challenge him, that genuinely rival him and engage him – these are the interactions and relationships that he, in fact, craves. He just feels cheated when they bristle even before he opens his mouth.
He shed the otter’s form for his own, but water sheds from his coat just as easily as it had from the otter’s. His gaze drifts across the bay mare’s body. It lingers on the scaling, the reds brilliant in the midday light, before meeting the vibrant scowl cast over her shoulder. Her tone bespeaks of a creature used to getting her way and he does nothing to stifle the wide grin he faces her with, bright eyes dancing. Ears flickering back and then forward again, he continues downriver through the shallows, drifting closer without making a direct line for her. Nonchalant would be the best way to describe the air that accompanies him, but he is wary of this viper hybrid with the jagged, broken horn. In his experiences, the snake is wont to strike first and ask questions later. “Indeed,” he finally agrees, cheekily. He’s stopped just across from her. “Have you seen many others about? Perhaps a hollow-eyed black creature - almost as attractive as I am - stinking of sulfur and accompanied by a massive hellhound?”
Hunting down his youngest son is nowhere near as easy as it had been finding Salomea. The wan-eyed mare is animal and powerless, relatively weak-willed and she cares about about things – that is, someones. Niklas cares about … well, Niklas for the most part, Set and his family whenever it suits him. Though birthed from the womb of the dapple gray shadowmage, the black devil isn’t quite animal and thus drifts on the boundaries of Set’s control. His soulless offspring is adept at melting into the void just as soon as he’s been discovered, into those shadows that exist between worlds. It would be maddening were father not so fond of son.
Stepping through time would be the quickest way to travel, but it is not an optimal exercise of his gifts, or of his physical form. There was a time that he did not have anything but what he had been born with, before the mythical and untraited comingled so readily and the magical mutations flooded Beqanna. He was well into adulthood when he had experienced his first taste of the powers that the faeries had to offer - uncontrollable shifting, tethered to his emotions and instincts. It had taught him a lesson that he would never forget, one that would have been even further cemented had he been around for his homeland’s recent history. He is not so foolish as to abandon his magic altogether (he couldn’t now, woven into the fabric of his being now as it is), but keeping his matter just as fit as his mind and control of his magicks is a balance he thrives on.
His breath his heavy as he reaches the mouth of the river, having swum across from the opposite shore. He blows and snorts, his bright eyes red-rimmed from the salt, chin chucked just above the water’s surface. There is nothing like knowing the form of dozens of aquatic animals to understand just how ill-suited for swimming the horse is. Blinking seawater from his field of vision, he pulls himself up onto the river’s north bank, resting until his heart rate returns to normal and his muscles no longer ache with fatigue. His eldest is likely in the forest, where the shadows are hollow and the prey abundant. He casts a glance at the nearest mountain, the mid-morning sun dressing its crags in light and shadow. Hyaline would be easiest to traverse by river, and he waits only another minute or two before shifting and slipping back into the water as a giant river otter.
He cannot remember the last time he met a stranger – a female one, that is – who was anything but ill-mannered (broken, jaded, calloused). Frigga, perhaps, that delightful mare with laughter like music and sense of adventure enough to play tag with him in the forest. Make no mistake - the ones that challenge him, that genuinely rival him and engage him – these are the interactions and relationships that he, in fact, craves. He just feels cheated when they bristle even before he opens his mouth.
He shed the otter’s form for his own, but water sheds from his coat just as easily as it had from the otter’s. His gaze drifts across the bay mare’s body. It lingers on the scaling, the reds brilliant in the midday light, before meeting the vibrant scowl cast over her shoulder. Her tone bespeaks of a creature used to getting her way and he does nothing to stifle the wide grin he faces her with, bright eyes dancing. Ears flickering back and then forward again, he continues downriver through the shallows, drifting closer without making a direct line for her. Nonchalant would be the best way to describe the air that accompanies him, but he is wary of this viper hybrid with the jagged, broken horn. In his experiences, the snake is wont to strike first and ask questions later. “Indeed,” he finally agrees, cheekily. He’s stopped just across from her. “Have you seen many others about? Perhaps a hollow-eyed black creature - almost as attractive as I am - stinking of sulfur and accompanied by a massive hellhound?”
@[Sabbath]