Desreal: master of a nothing place.

“Tell me what we are,” the voice says, and calmly the wind around it dies down—two shadows move along in the dark wood; “We are nothing.” Says another voice (a distinct and familiar voice with that haute-Parisian accent and rasp). They walk along until the wind moves, a strange echo of sound carried across and through the trees, ‘are you here, auntie?’ of the figures the smaller one nods, and the pair break apart from one another.

The invisible one descends somewhere else, meanwhile a ripple of change begets the stormy hag’s shadow; Gaia, Mother, Elemmire, Primordium, whatever name you choose to call her—she ripples with uncanny change. Her angular and ancient body refreshes itself and takes a smoother and much younger appearance; one similar to the light and airy fantasy desert breeds. The new femininity is complimented by a silvery perlino color tinted with a touch of red, and legs fading down to a smoky auburn. Her main and tail are smooth and thick, long and wavy with little tangles; a bold flaxen color with vermilion and black hairs tangled in. But to nobodies surprise the change completes with the eyes; mismatched and strange they both take on a lavender color with an undistinguished doe like shape.

But within all the change she finds nothing more then walking, moss and flowers crumbling into ash when she passes: tree’s and plats withering within the unguided anger of the mare. The voice is still fresh in her ears, and the shard scar upon her hip burns suddenly when she nears the edge of the fern beds. It burns and seethes, angry and screaming within her head, she shivers and walks—once tumbling as the pain becomes a burden, but she rises and shakes it off, snapping and ignoring the whines of the thing.

“Away from the pack,” she asks it almost like a question, but it is passably rhetorical. Her voice is younger, less affected by an accent, and not at all hindered by a rasp. She stands before her, noting the position of her niece the wolf-queen and all the things around her. She sways her tail, pollen and spores rising around her; Gaia’s new eyes heavily lidded and half open watch. “Where else would I be, Solira?” her sarcasm is nothing more then meant for comedy, however she clears her throat.

She leans against a tree, her body redeveloping it’s previous angular and old shape, stormy grey and old—the forest keepers tongue slithering across her lips and those mismatched eyes opened more. “What bothers you wolf-queen?” an ear flickers, and she waits.