Sometimes it was difficult not to resent his mortal confines, try as he might to forgive this body's inherent fallibility. To feel the sweat on his pelt and the grit between his scales made him wonder how one coped with such drudgery on their own. And Nuadha was alone, without even a confidante into whom he might pour his doubts. All attempts to win others to his cause had been met with derision thus far, words hurled at him like stones. Some actually had thrown things, rocks and sticks, and - in one very memorable instance - a teacup with a delicate orange glaze. The objects that struck where his natural armor did not extend had left livid bruises behind, and he'd smarted for days afterward. Still, better to be met with physical pain than enduring those who pitied him, their disbelief heavier than the weight of living as a mortal creature.
The natives had their own gods, false idols and a smattering of spirits upon which they spent their worship. He could not afford to fail, he knew, to leave these people to their own destruction. But what alternative did he have, when they refused to listen? How might he compete with centuries of pseudo-religious tradition? He was one stallion, small and not particularly majestic to look upon. It made sense, he supposed; if he looked the part of a god's avatar, it would have made his trial too simple. But even that felt like a flimsy excuse at times, a way to pardon his inability.
On those days that denial was all he heard, he often took to the sky, a running jump carrying him up into the blue expanse. Nuadha practiced such meditative techniques now, wings batting the air easily while the sun reflected the brassy glint of his scales onto nearby mountain ranges. He leaned into a low hanging cloud, letting his antlers rake its water-laden belly. It left a cool, tingling shock upon his brow, like a kiss from the vault of the heavens. The wind whipping past his ears calmed him, centered him again, his purpose less hopeless when faced with only an immortal skyline. How fortunate that this body had wings, a minor extravagance that permitted him to ascend from the mundane, however briefly. They were thin, transparent slips, similar to those worn by butterflies, and so they lacked the stateliness of feathers or even leathery membrane. But better that than nothing at all.
This must have been how he'd viewed things once, he wagered, the earth below pure and simple in his perception. That had likely served as part of the reason why he'd decided to venture down into the mud with his creations. Removed from them for so long, he would have to reacquaint himself with them, their quirks, their loves and hates, the impulses that drove them forward from one generation to the next. More than that, he needed to save those he could from the false divine they'd constructed to explain their world. In doing so, he aimed to break the habits they had acquired over time. Murder, rape, cannibalism: these were the flavors of violence that scarred their very souls. The wind stole the sigh from his mouth as he breathed out, tired in spite of himself. If only he'd known in advance what an impossible task he'd undertaken, he might have prepared better.