Red Blood, Blue Blood, Old Blood, New Blood

There is something strange about him. You can't place it, though. It's in little details: the way he turns, the way he looks at you. The almost-vacant tranquility of his eyes. Even the way his voice sounds, smooth and unbothered. Your eyes narrow. Gears are turning in your brain, turning and turning, a warning ringing between your ears. Danger does appear — well, "danger" — but it comes from an unexpected direction. A small creature, almost a wolf but not quite. Your sinewy body draws taut; wings flex. Your neck arches, bringing the horn to bear, but the creature ignores you. It fastens its jaws around the stranger's leg. For just an instant — an instant — and then it's gone. Fleeing. With a snort, you leap to the side and dart forward as if to give chase, but what use is an animal to you? You want the man, not this thoughtless thing. So you break off the chase almost as soon as you begin, adrenaline flowing in your veins. Circling back around to the pegasus, you blow a snort, searching more attackers. But you see none. “The fuck,” you grunt, your ears turned back. At least the excitement has warmed your blood a little. The stranger takes you by surprise, now. He speaks again, derailing your thoughts, and for the space of several quick heart beats, you just stare at him. Connor, says your brain. Your eyes skate down to his leg, to the dark blue staining the snow, and there your gaze lingers for a much longer time. Something — something darkens in you. “Bleeding,” you point out, the words grinding from your chest. A kind of curious, a kind of angry tilt to your head. You've never seen blue blood before. It could be magic, or it could be something Rift born, and that is why he's calm. Because he isn't lost at all — because he's tricking you. Your wings fold back with a snap. You step forward, surveying him. His strange, calm expression. The gold upon his forehead. The absolutely normal wings. And the wound on his leg — a leg even a Rift creature didn't want to touch. “What are you?” you ask. The words come out more a demand than a question, and now your horn has lowered just a little to mark the distance between you, a distance wavering as you move to circle him, far more predatory than his tiny attacker could ever have hoped to be. countdown to selfdestruct

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