It was one of those days when Sivain found himself prowling the edges of the estate, home but restless. If he was inclined to be humorous, he might have found it funny; he had precious little to be restless about these days, and one would think someone who has lived as long as he would not feel the passing of time so acutely. But the peace of the house and of the girl's companionship did not always sit well with someone so used to grief or purpose, and so he often took walks at the edge of the property, where the snowy reaches of December's lands gave way to the other oddities within the shelter of Roraldi's canopy. He didn't quite dare to leave, not without a purpose, but he was alone here and he was pacing and he thought to himself that he might be on patrol; sometimes that helped.
The tracks he left were extremely strange. Normal beings had small habits when they were disquiet, perhaps a lashing of the tail or a fidgettiness to their movements; Sivain's happened to be changing his shape. He did it almost without thought, morphing from one thing to another but never quite staying in one solid idea of a shape, and never venturing into any of his three favored forms. The whole process was a little sickening to watch, but nobody was here to see, and aside from his rather irregular tracks there was no evidence.
At length he grew tired or frustrated, and realized what he was doing. Giving himself a last thorough shake, he settled his body into the familiar contours of his human guise, a tall pale man with his dark hair gathered into a ponytail at the nape of his neck. After some thought, he settled for a long gray jacket and dark jeans, these being the most suitable of the human garb he was acquainted with now. Idly he blew a breath, watching it curl up whitely into the air before dissipating, and sighed a little. It occured to him that he should head back, but he dismissed the thought for now. It wouldn't make a difference either way.
