Shango couldn't fly, exactly, but he could glide, and with a combination of hopping gallops, half-assed parkour off the cave walls, and gliding, he'd made his way back to Canis.

He'd been bored: Eridanus was wet, and the only thing that ever really drew him anywhere was a desire to bring rain, lightning, thunder, and all the other parts that storms entailed. He'd been intending to go to Hydra, a streak of mischief and dutiful determination driving him to make it rain, there, but he'd stopped here--in Canis--realizing that this place was just as much in need of a good roaring rainfall.

He was now perched atop a bone dwelling, a femur rattling precariously away as he scrambled fully to its top. He stood, for a moment, surveying this domain (imagining it was his, which--it was not); and then, with a catlike flick of his tail, he let out a bloodcurdling yowl--a leopard's roar, combined with some sort of horrific horse-like scream.

Along with this came a surge of magicka, his scalefeathered wings twitching and the horns at his head glowing brightly with the effort.

To say it started raining was an understatement. It began to pour, an immense downfall of roaring rain, seemingly from nowhere: the dampness of the caves suddenly condensing and soaking the bones below, the rocks, running through the cave in rivulets.

A moment later came Shango's voice, his expression content as he called out: "STOOOOOOOOOOOOORM."

Alastor happened to be visiting Canis when something truly magnificent happened.

A storm, the mightiest he had ever witnessed, fell from the dusty heavens to kiss the coat of the wind prince. Truly, this was a blessing. It's presence had graced this dry, ugly, cave with an abundance of life-giving rain, and its equally, dry, ugly, denizens would soon be rejoicing on their bone piles.

Growing soaked, Alastor raised his head up towards the sea of dark clouds and in the rainfall. The stallion's long, black mane hung down his chiseled neck in dripping wet cords. He gave it a strong shake. It was glorious. However, it could use a little more... Umph!

Some where in the distance, over the clattering of rain, some one shouted "STOOOOOORM."

Alastor threw his head exuberantly and pawed at the bones beneath him. Yessss, a storm! Let's see how mighty a storm this can be!

Spurring the magic in his diamond horn, the wind prince sucked in a lung full of air and blew out mighty gusts of wind that spun around and around until they grew into whirlwinds that danced with the downpour around it. They swirled over the field, scattering rain and stirring the bones around them in a clattering cacophony.

They weren't as big is he liked, but Alastor still played it off and reared, pawing at the air. "STOOORM!!" He bellowed back triumphantly.



"Speech."
Thoughts...

Shango turned, ghostlight eyes darting here and there, trying to pick the voice's owner from the pouring rain.

Ahh! There. Horse? Squinting, he turned and half-leapt, half-glided down toward it, approaching at a horse's trot, himself, his feet clattering like hooves along the stone.

"STORM," he agreed, again--just in case it needed reiterating. "Shango. Stormbringer. You also bring storm?" He turned, admiring the roaring winds with a catlike flick of his feather-bladed tail. He didn't think that'd been him, anyway, unless the storms had literally started to follow him about.

"Canis," Shango explained, looking back to Alastor. "Too DRY. No rain." He then shuffled to face outward again, lifting his face into the cool winds, the pelting downpour. He went still, for a moment, again concentrating on his magicka. It was a storm--but it could be a real storm.

He was cautious, with this spell; it was one that frequently seemed to backfire on him, and he trembled a little with the worry that it might. No sooner did the thought cross his mind than his status as a lightning rod was proven yet again--an arcing slash of blinding white punched down from the air, slamming into him with a reeking stench of ozone, sending him sprawling across the rock and through the bones. An instant later the deafening crack and rumble of thunder came.

No others came--he hadn't imbued the storm with lightning, as he'd hoped, only struck himself.

He lay dazed, yet another charred streak down his spotted pelt. Only gradual experience with electricity had taught him how to keep alive, how to briefly channel the worst of it away, and even so it hurt. And he knew it'd leave a mark.

He lay on his side, though upright from his chest up, and glowered up at the storm with lashing tail.

Once again, he had been betrayed.

A few moments later he stood; dazed, he found it hard to see left from right, up from down, and wasn't sure which way he was going as he departed.

@Alastor

exiting due to inactivity