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    COTY

    Assailant -- Year 226

    QOTY

    "But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura


    [open]  Out from the new day's mist, I run; Kristinpony/any
    #1
    Going to sleep as a horse was normal; he'd been doing it for his entire life after all.  Waking up as a wolf was not.  On the contrary, it had left the green stallion quite confused, with a dash of irritation thrown in for good measure.  The quiet, unassuming life he'd been content to have seemed to be over with, and Skjoldolfr can't help but wonder what else is going to go wrong now.  He knew that he had shapeshifting in his immediate family tree, for his mother had explained more than once during his colthood the meaning of his name and spoken of his never-met father.  At first, they had thought perhaps he would be a "late bloomer", but it had never come to pass, and he'd mentally shrugged and assumed it was the sort of thing that just skipped a generation.  Now, however....he flicks his gaze up towards the sky suspiciously, a glare cut short as he actually catches himself scratching at a sudden itch.  Oh dear.  Was he going to be resigned to nightly howling, smelling horrible whenever it rained, and never being able to enjoy a juicy apple again?  Absolutely not, he tells himself.  This had happened, and it could therefore un-happen.  And so, for the rest of the morning he devotes all of his energy and thoughts to the task.  


    He tries doing normal horse behavior that probably was leaving any witnesses thinking that he'd lost his mind: uncovering and chewing grass which had tasted simply awful to his now-lupine taste buds, leading him to spit it out; and attempting a simply gods-awful imitation at neighing, before forcing himself to take a break before he became so frustrated that he ended up biting something small and furry.  Skjoldolfr sits down, muttering under his breath that sounds more like a soft growling which he did his best to ignore.  It's only by accident that he figures out how to fix the situation; as he sits and sulks, thinking mournfully and at length about the equine body he'd seemingly lost and how it looked based on his memories of gazing into various bodies of water throughout his life, than he abruptly realizes that the ends of his feet have reverted to hard hooves instead of soft squishy paws.  He finds himself rocketing back up onto said hooves, letting out a bugle of triumph.  Curiosity gets the best of him after a short while, however, and he finds himself concentrating now on what he thinks his wolf form must have looked like, and presto, paws are back.  Well, as long as he could have control over the process, he supposes it isn't so bad.....maybe.  At least, since the land lies covered in winter's chill embrace and the lupine body boasted fur thicker and fluffier than any horse could claim.  He doesn't even want to think about all this fur in the middle of summer.  With a yip of sudden contentment, he tucks his tail around his feet to keep them warm.  A branch snaps nearby, and he turns his head to see who's been witness to his temporary bout of insanity. 
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    #2

    He's grown, the green colt with the worried claret eyes has become a grown man, though youth still shines from every inch of his body. He has grown tall and confident with a natural smile and curiosity in his gaze. Florian does not regret leaving his shifting atop the Mountain, and can think of no reason why he would ever return. He is better off without the magic curse that once gripped his heart in crushing vines.

    He moves with practiced ease through the deepwood, slipping between the cold, dark, trees like a creature born to them. It comes of living among them -of course, these are not his trees, his hide smells of the earth-and-smoke smell of Sylva's autumnal wood, a place more open and warm than this one. Still, his affinity for the forest is strong, he prefers the close trees (and now that he no longer fears abruptly turning into a gourd, he is less worried about the dangers that lurk there,) to the wide and open expanse of the Meadow or the wild crashing of the turbulent river that slices the continent in half like a blade.

    Florian follows along the deer trails near the forest's eastern edge, picking at the winter browse as he passes. The food is better in Sylva where winter never quite reaches, here the fruits and grasses are dried and dull, and the most common food of all are buds and twigs snapped off trees and low scrub. He is chewing thoughtfully on a bitter floret picked from a close-by eastern hemlock when he happens on the little lone wolf, and, watches closely with those burgundy eyes as the creature growls to itself and drifts somewhere between canine and equine before finally settling. He swallows the well-chewed bud at last and steps forward, head dropped to the wolf's height and that charming grin breaking up the fir-tree color of his face with a blaze of white teeth.

    "You'd think a wolf with hooves would be terrifying, but somehow it's just too ridiculous to be scared of."

    Oh. My. Gourd.
    Image by Tekke-Draws



    @[Skjoldolfr]
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