хүнгүй hovers hovers above the fresh kills untouched and aloof.
He has become a swarm of the biting flies of the frigid plains. Those flies that so tormented the horses of his tribe.
The cold of the wind, the warmth of the sun, the smell of the horses, the rustle of the grass—as the bitter sweet memories unfold within хүнгүй’s disembodied thoughts, the swarm unconsciously comes together to form the shape of a cat with tufted ears.
The plains are open and free, but they provide precious little cover when the wyrm comes to feed. Even a shifter is hard pressed to escape. Only the ones that can become the most innocuous beings escape the baleful attention of the ravenous wyrm. The others perish, hunted down one by one.
Another shape emerges from the swarm – the shape of a winged reptile.
The balance dictates that spirit debts are to be paid, in blood or earth. The cycle turns. The prey feeds the hunter, and the hunter is ultimately returned to feed the prey.
The swarm descends, хүнгүй places a mostly human foot on the ground and bides his time.