You don
You know this man for your jailer, and a hatred as wild as howling spills through you as you recall some of what was. Yes- you, imprisoned for steering dappled yearling goats and soft-headed sheep from the fringes of their pasture as wolf, sometimes cattle as bear or lioness- burnt from your manse in the high grasses by one-skinned men with silver shackles to seize you as you bellowed and flickered between shapes, searching, searching in the ruins of your thousand-year home.
After that, there is no thought.
“Sir, sir- I am not well-“you say, dredging a scattering of the human tongue from the same place that lets you converse with beings of air and sea- to you, the humans are the only beasts in the world, their civilisation a thong that lashes your back, sometimes the yoke that shackles your tribe.
He comes closer, his coarse human face bored even searching for signs of alien disease.
Your weak tail swings out, the vertebrae cracking together in a sheet of pure kinetics, momentum that flickers across the kneecaps of the manling and brings him down. You snap his neck neatly on the backswing, just as his red human mouth asks “Wha-?”
The tail threads clumsily through his keyring. Those fat fools: a chimera can always find one more limb.
What next?
Written by ouroboros666 on 24 July 2016
The end (for now)