Set
01-09-2020, 08:06 PM
He does slink, a piebald form weaving in and out of the shrinking blue-hued shadows of the acacia and locust trees. Of course, Set has not been entirely equine for some time now. Countless creatures teem beneath his skin. At first they had been a cacophonous roar in the back of his mind, driving him to frustrating distraction. Unable to control the shapeshifting, his body had contorted and morphed at will - every will but his own, that is. It had bothered him, perhaps more than it should have, to lose control so often, so entirely. His mind was always his and he supposes now that he should have been grateful for that. He had been too young, too arrogant to recognize anything but what he had lost when the faeries had changed him. Now though … His mouth twists in a wry grin at the memory of the predicaments that his magic had gotten him into in those early days.
The smallest of creatures are the ones that go largely unnoticed. Most convenient for matters of stealth (and fitting into small spaces), their tiny consciousnesses light up like stars in a dark night sky. They can also be the most difficult to understand, their lives, and therefore the lense through which they see the world a rather alien one.
At first, they are confused. Ripley. Nostromo. Not-Ripley. Not-Nostromo. Same, different. But with the monsters are the shadows, always … Their thoughts flicker and relay miniscule images he pieces together on the move, turning up a rock-strewn switchback and shifting into a slow jog as he ascends the canyon side. Topping the smaller mesa, he heads into the wind. A storm in the Forest had pushed a wall of wintry air into Pangea and the two small pipistrelles hidden amongst the knots of his mane grumble in protest when the cool air brushes them. Dropping down the other side of the mesa, the object of Set’s little creature’s attention becomes glaringly obvious. His eyes go to the knife-tipped tail first, tracing the wicked edge with obvious admiration before taking in the rest of the xenomorph-encased equine. With a low whinny and a devilish grin, he leaves his temporary perch and jogs to level ground and approaches. “Well, hello gorgeous,” he greets, but it’s not exactly clear whether he speaks to the fascinating weapon or its wielder. Bright eyes, dancing with an inherent, incorrigible mirth and mischief that reflects in his smile, drag themselves away from their open inspection to seek out hers.
The smallest of creatures are the ones that go largely unnoticed. Most convenient for matters of stealth (and fitting into small spaces), their tiny consciousnesses light up like stars in a dark night sky. They can also be the most difficult to understand, their lives, and therefore the lense through which they see the world a rather alien one.
At first, they are confused. Ripley. Nostromo. Not-Ripley. Not-Nostromo. Same, different. But with the monsters are the shadows, always … Their thoughts flicker and relay miniscule images he pieces together on the move, turning up a rock-strewn switchback and shifting into a slow jog as he ascends the canyon side. Topping the smaller mesa, he heads into the wind. A storm in the Forest had pushed a wall of wintry air into Pangea and the two small pipistrelles hidden amongst the knots of his mane grumble in protest when the cool air brushes them. Dropping down the other side of the mesa, the object of Set’s little creature’s attention becomes glaringly obvious. His eyes go to the knife-tipped tail first, tracing the wicked edge with obvious admiration before taking in the rest of the xenomorph-encased equine. With a low whinny and a devilish grin, he leaves his temporary perch and jogs to level ground and approaches. “Well, hello gorgeous,” he greets, but it’s not exactly clear whether he speaks to the fascinating weapon or its wielder. Bright eyes, dancing with an inherent, incorrigible mirth and mischief that reflects in his smile, drag themselves away from their open inspection to seek out hers.