tooth and claw; longclaw

[Longclaw]

Longclaw

Secret things, wild things - this is something Longclaw knows too much of already. In the dappled shadows of the Forest he rambles easily enough on four paws where instead, it should’ve been hooves. His thoughts are bitter, despite recent events, because he knows now that he’s a cursed creature. There’s a mark as black as sin and deeply troubling over his heart, engraved there and left to fester until the sickly tendrils of spoilt blood reach every corner of his being. The brightness of youth has fled his face, his eyes, and it leaves a hollow sort of emptiness to his wandering, green gaze.

He’s been carved out and made anew.

Some things, though, remain the same and one of them is his spectacular sense of smell. A familiar sort of scent itches at his brain, one that stops him in his tracks and has him lowering that silver-white head to the earth where a finely made, particularly small hoofprint indents the bare earth. It’s only visible because the trail has already been traveled so many times, leaving the sandy earth bare where normally it would have been smothered in the age-old droppings of the woods. Longclaw’s curiosity piques when he senses that the particular set of prints he’s looking at are singular in their purpose - not many others have ingressed this deeply without reason. That fact prompts him to move forward once more, black nose whuffing greedily at the pattern of steps while he trots ahead.

It’s only when the smell suddenly becomes overwhelming that he stops- that proud, finely made head of his rising above silver-capped shoulders to peer further ahead. A smile, bodiless and fanged, gleams back. Were it not for the shock of such an unusual encounter, he doubts that he could replicate a shift as smooth and instantaneous as the one he executes, twisting upwards to reform into the iridescent stallion that he truly was, complete with his own set of fangs to match. “Reveal yourself, coward.” He demands, with a voice that reverberates in his chest. The curse within spreads.

On his face, his eyes combust. Blue-white flames, hungry and terribly beautiful, burst from the sockets to spiral upwards where they remain to flicker and weave while he takes a solid step forward. “Now.”

One-Half contract between Wyrm and Heartfire

ooc: for some reason, you gave me allllll the muse