Boredom. Oh gods and fairies, it strikes again. There’s so little one can do on an island, so little one can do in a herd if it’s under Loess. So little one can do about the shadows roaming Pangea (as if he really cares about that); so little to do in Hyaline-kingdom these days.

He tests out his wings once more, and then on a whim… Taiga. Yes. Taiga is the interesting place these days, isn’t it? Would it be interesting to them still, if he broke it a little?

White scaled-and-leathery wings sprout from the draft horse; his knees adjust as he takes to the skies, not letting them hang but retracting them in their more draconic fom; black claws stick out from an otherwise silvery body like little socks, his reddish-brown head the only other color that isn’t gold, silver or white on him. It’s weird, being a quadro-color dragon, he thinks. He wonders for a moment if his head would slightly change colour too, if he were to fully shift; but if his dark fetlocks and now black claws are an indication, then perhaps not.

He’s not unused to the feeling of changing parts of his body now, but still, he’d rather not make the full shift. He remembers very little of what Jesper told Beryl, even if he were there. Shifting into a dragon probably would be easy; it’s remembering what it’s like to be a full-blown horse that makes him uneasy about making that choice.

He’d spent so long as a half-dragon; would he be able to still remember?

The ice-attuned trickster circles the misty forests for a while; finding no heat sources directly below, he opens his maw to unleash a bit of the dragon-ice he’d always had. It’s nothing new to have it, but… wow does that have so much impact from above! Or maybe that’s just because it is so misty down below… so easy to turn cold water into ice.

Grinning, he lowers himself to a clearing. His wings shrink and let him land like a weird parachute, his claws catch him even as he returns them to horse legs and hooves; then he turns around to inspect the snow and hail and ice that covers part of Taiga. ”A hill-full, a hole-full, you’ll never get a bowl-full,” he hums contently to himself as he nears to inspect. Then, pointy teeth flash as he grins and scrapes a hoof through the ice. ”But guess what, I just did it anyway.”

Ice is so much prettier on red than it is on greys, after all.

Perfect. He decides, his humming subsided by now, but his contentment still on his face as he takes a walk back the way he came, over the snowy white blanket he’d just made. As if it’s winter - though the air’s temperature is slowly warming back up already, it’s nice to see the chill hold just about long enough for him to revel in the new scenery.

A ruffle of feathers to his left announces the presence of another being, and his heat vision shows him a small girl, and as he switches back he notices that she is coloured almost as white as the snow and ice. She has a bit of a scowl on her face, but doesn’t react wholly aggressively as she tells him that was rude. He studies her for a moment in silence, and then she complains about the cold and not having a winter coat. This early in autumn, he doesn’t think many horses have one, but then again it wasn’t like anyone would be freezing to death. Well, sure, his ice might be the coldest ever found on Beqanna, he guesses - but it’s not like this cold is spreading or even really endangering anyone.

He tilts his head at her, then nods. ”Yes, excellent deduction. I’m Rude. Who are you? Rude Too?” he smiles his most fake-innocent smile at her, wondering how she’ll take his insinuation that she hadn’t greeted him like a normal visitor either (not that he was, but it would have been polite of her).

After that, he shrugs a bit. ”If you’re too cold in the snow, you could like, walk six paces to your left.” he offers, nodding to where the line of snow ends in that direction, acting as if it’s really helpful of him to say that.