Set
"Don’t you ever tame your demons; but always keep them on a leash. "
He studies the edges of the lake, shrewdly noting the shoreline’s heart shape, barely discernible from the heavy blanket of snow that covers it. Here, with little to deter it, the wind howls almost perpetually. It knots cold fingers in the dreads of his mane, plasters his tail against tucked haunches. The faeries had raised the Isle from the depths, a safe haven from the Plague. If he has learned nothing from his near-century, it is that the faeries do little for no reason. His gold-colored gaze flicks to the lone tree that stands at its head, black and stalwart against the blowing snow. Dead at first glance, Set can feel the thrum of life within its dark and gnarled branches. A purpose, indeed, he muses. Mismatched ears twitch with the whispers, a dull hum at first, until it grows enough that he finally locates the proper frequency. Strangers, flocking to the safety that the reborn isle can offer them. Some infected already, most not.
He feels the shift in his core, one creature borne from another.
His own shapeshifting had been a dirty trick. A prize won as he had fought his way through the ranks in the third Alliance, the faeries had tempered his elation by handicapping the magic - he had been unable to control it. Without warning, an image of his beloved Katriel flinging his caterpillar body across a field in the Chamber plays out against the backs of his eyelids. It had been decades since he had thought of his treasured daughter. He grits his teeth at the pain of it, giving his neck and mane a good shake. The motion blurs his form for a moment, a breath, and an arctic fox stands where the piebald was a moment before. Licking his lips, he turns into the wind and sets off east, toward the nearest stranger who has made landfall.
He does not bother to keep himself downwind, thick-furred paws padding along the heavy crust of snow in a meandering line. It has died down some here, anyway, only shifting gently over his dense white coat. His dark nose twitches with the newcomer's scent, the walls, permanent fixtures against psychic attacks, lowering just enough for him to brush against the other’s subconscious. Jesper. Carnage’s son, Brennan’s grandson. Fox shifter. Fascinating combination, Set muses, teeth parting in a friendly bark as the walls go back up. His tail stands straight up when he bounds forward, then drops in a play bow, brown seeking blue. “Welcome to Icicle Isle,” he says, eyeing the bronzed tips of the other fox’s ears with curiosity he does not have to feign.
SET
alliance champion, once king, mage