Set
09-04-2020, 03:44 AM
Salomea still slumbers, the rise and fall of her ribcage steady and even. She has once again come to accept her purpose in life; though he is not so sure she will feel the same way once he fetches Niklas back to him. His gaze shifts to the smaller impression in the grass off to the side of Salomea, no doubt where Dretch had slept– for some hours, at least. There is no sight of the impish filly now, but when he taps into the minds of those eyes tasked to watch over her, he grins at the pictures. The child is off in the tangled center of the peninsula, barrel-deep in a badger’s den, her short tail swishing furiously at her dark hindquarters waving in the air. Fearless in the face of the creature’s obvious upset over her abrupt invasion, she giggles and pauses only to blow her forelock out of her face before redoubling her scrambling, sweating, and squeezing. With a low chuckle, he soothes the cornered animal’s mind and leaves the shifter child and the (now) calm badger to their day.
He has already searched the River, and some parts of the Forest. Each foray had been relatively unsuccessful, turning up ornery, mad-at-the-world mares. His bright eyes dance with laughter as he stretches long and low before sprinting down the black-sand beach. Or maybe it was just him?
The faeries had imbued him with the ability to shift first, but he had been unable to regulate it at first. It had taken time to learn to control it, even after he had won his magic, but now he knows it intimately and there will be a time that he forgets that he was ever without it. The wings that sprout from his shoulders and lift him into the sky are rawboned and feathered, the shiny black of a raven’s head. Winter leaches south and the air is cold and frost forms and clings to the ends of his hair, catching bits of morning sun as he falls back over his shoulder and drops several feet to a warmer altitude.
When he drops back to earth, it’s on to a goat path that tracks its way down the last several hundred yards of Pangea’s southern mountain. Arcing his wings back and toughening up his skin, he sits down on his haunches and slides down the rock-strewn, winding path. His chest rumbles with laughter, as if his many years of living his life have not dampened the lightheartedness of his youth. Sweat and grime streak his white-patched hide. The gray skies begin to unburden themselves but even that cannot dampen his mood. He jogs south, letting the rain cool his heated muscles, his wings slowly disappearing off his back in a trail of feathers. Once they’re gone, he begins to teleport in small, darting bursts, searching for his wayward son in the shadows of the Meadow. When he’s suddenly nearly touching noses with a familiar scowling (she may not even be scowling, but he imagines she is) face, he wastes no time and chucks her underneath the chin with an accompanying impish grin before shifting to the edge of the tree canopy above them.
“I see you finally found something to eat,” he tells her, pointedly eyeing her barrel with a shameless grin.
He has already searched the River, and some parts of the Forest. Each foray had been relatively unsuccessful, turning up ornery, mad-at-the-world mares. His bright eyes dance with laughter as he stretches long and low before sprinting down the black-sand beach. Or maybe it was just him?
The faeries had imbued him with the ability to shift first, but he had been unable to regulate it at first. It had taken time to learn to control it, even after he had won his magic, but now he knows it intimately and there will be a time that he forgets that he was ever without it. The wings that sprout from his shoulders and lift him into the sky are rawboned and feathered, the shiny black of a raven’s head. Winter leaches south and the air is cold and frost forms and clings to the ends of his hair, catching bits of morning sun as he falls back over his shoulder and drops several feet to a warmer altitude.
When he drops back to earth, it’s on to a goat path that tracks its way down the last several hundred yards of Pangea’s southern mountain. Arcing his wings back and toughening up his skin, he sits down on his haunches and slides down the rock-strewn, winding path. His chest rumbles with laughter, as if his many years of living his life have not dampened the lightheartedness of his youth. Sweat and grime streak his white-patched hide. The gray skies begin to unburden themselves but even that cannot dampen his mood. He jogs south, letting the rain cool his heated muscles, his wings slowly disappearing off his back in a trail of feathers. Once they’re gone, he begins to teleport in small, darting bursts, searching for his wayward son in the shadows of the Meadow. When he’s suddenly nearly touching noses with a familiar scowling (she may not even be scowling, but he imagines she is) face, he wastes no time and chucks her underneath the chin with an accompanying impish grin before shifting to the edge of the tree canopy above them.
“I see you finally found something to eat,” he tells her, pointedly eyeing her barrel with a shameless grin.
@[Eyas]