KellySchot

She sat perched upon the threshold of the palace when he arrived. A storm of white and feathers settling upon the ground rich with green before an old crone, the world silent beneath Nyx’s outstretched cloak. The swan, rather large even for such a hefty bird, first seemed to appraise her with its black beady eyes. The crone only gave a noise of knowing disapproval. Once dense and jet black coils, loosened and bleached as white as the sawn itself with age, dusted across her shoulder as she tiled her head. Eyes blacker than night yet sparkled with the clarity of a girl, surrounded by lines, of laughter, of the crinkling of eyes with a smile, of brows furrowed. “A great deal of nerve you have,” she remarked, a rich alto now adorned with a crackling quality. “Coming to the home of a man you cuckolded.” The swan had scarcely narrowed its eyes before it was consumed by a flurry of feathers. Growing and expanding until it held the shape of a towering man, muscled and powerfully built.