Darkness falls in Pangea and out of habit, Skandar rises. Shadows weave in and out, cloaking his body in their caressing fingers, reminding him of the eclipse and all that he had done beneath it as he ran with the monsters. He allows himself to be pulled by the darkness, blurring the edges of his body into wisps of shadow, the once brilliant orange and violet of his skin dimming into a deep shade of indigo. His skin even flutters quietly to mute the stars and galaxies that placate his skin naturally, hiding them so that he may become the very shadow he had grown to love.
The skinwalker moves further from the canyons and into the sweeping grasses of the meadow. He is nothing at this point - mere darkness and intangible - and he floats like the shadow of a dense cloud over the moon. He is indiscernible until layers of shadow begin to collect, shaping its likeness to that of an equine. As he becomes more substantial, there is the sound of flesh fluttering together like paper-thin leaves, one layer on top of the other until shadow becomes true skin.
Starlight bathes the meadow in twinkling silver, though it is lost on the sparkling constellations that erupt across the deep orange, violet, and blue of his natural skin. There are a few more moments of movement across his galaxy-strewn body (his skin settling, following the command to be made solid) and then there is silence - save for the few crickets that are still awake and the gentle flap of leathery wings of stray bats flying haphazardly overhead.
There is a solemnity in the meadow as well in Skandar’s posture, every now and then a twitch of his skin giving away the fact that he is truly alive beneath the moonlight.
skandar