Desreal: [ raphael; blowing stories passed the skyline ]

The wind so wild grabs at her flesh; but she does not shake. And he comes upon her in shape; a dull stormy gray with white splattered hairs amidst her underbelly and legs, her black inky mane and tail strung together with vines and flowers—her face chimerical and half white with burning mismatched eyes. He comes upon her as she was, and crudely she eyes him (discerning his presence and admitted irritation at his arrogance). And aside her stands the mare-child, whose wild grey eyes narrow as he approaches. The child looks upon him with scrutiny, feeling the biting of his wind; unlike her supposed mother, she flattens her ears and the earth beneath her turns to black ash. He speaks, and without hesitation the sun-golden child with wild curly hair and grey eyes speaks. “Ya bampot, daedna hiv nae rummle?” her tongue speaks strange words, unhindered by the bizarre accent; he wouldn’t know it- but alas, she is an unruly Scot. Her grey eyes are strange, as if fire itself burns within them, but nonetheless the sun-golden mare is silenced by her counterpart.

The mare steps forward, her storm grey body rippling, and color changing: she becomes a cobalt grey sort of color, with a skeleton white face and black eyes. Her legs are dark still, and her hair turns stringy and old: she casts him an eye, and chuckles wickedly. “I know nothing more then your scent idiot,” she pauses, her eyes narrowing; he’s one of Hypatia’s minions. Her voice picks up, with the slovenly grace of a drunk Parisian barmaid whose smoked all her life, needless to say that’s about what she sounds like too. “And I care to know nothing more of you. I advise you leave, I am not in the mood for bedtime stories.” She steps ahead again, the earth swirling beneath her feet. She stands before him; shifting again… her body becomes dark brown and thick; smelling heavily of the earth itself. Her mane and tail becomes vines, willow branches, and flowered thorny creepers: her hooves jagged quartz—and her wicked breath a toxin most strange. She stands before him at 32 hands high, a massive giant amidst Desreal.

Her sun-gold counterpart cackles wildly, her grey eyes aflame. She licks her lips, although her ears are flattened; she stands beside the giantess without fear. “Beware the fiends—“ she speaks, her accent mutilating her words and an involuntary serpentine rasp pressed in her voice, “you have sought in the night.” the primordium is wild, a single hoof striking the earth. She snorts; and yet… I tell you now… flee! Flee while you can.

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