01-06-2018, 11:44 AM
Balto alludes to his gift - this magic - and it is enough for Faulkor to understand what he has to show him. The thrum within him has set his soul alight - he had felt stronger, impervious, the moment he left the mountain’s cave. But it also had been heavy; a constant reminder of the flesh torn from his own breast, and the bones he had broken and the blood he had spilled to receive it. He had killed them, his family (or what he had dreamed was his family), and the burden of it still haunts him to his very core, and the magic gifted to him from the angel seems unwarranted. He did not deserve such a gift, he deserved to die in that place, and he knows that one day soon death will come to find him again, and he will not come back from it. However, as his blue eyes trace the lines of the familiar face of Faulkor, aged and brittle beneath the cave’s dusty shadows, he can think of no other way to thank the black stallion for caring for him all these years within the darkness. Faulkor turns away, his eyes falling downcast as something much like agitation flutters through his very being. He wonders if Faulkor can smell the death on him, the tinge of spilled demon blood that courses through his veins. He wonders if his companion knows that he is not right, that something is amiss beneath the muscle of his shoulders and chest. It did not matter - the gift given to him by the angel now thrums and pulses visibly, creating an aura of light that is both magnificent and terrifying. It paints the darkest depths of the cave with a white glow, reminiscent of the white-world Balto had entered in his purgatory. It causes him to fester at the remembrance of it, his breath ragged and quick as flashes of his brutal killings flash before his eyes. He wants nothing to do with it. Faulkor is searching Balto’s eyes, confused beneath a furrowed brow, and though he can see the reservation beneath his friend’s stare, the blue roan reaches forward with a curve of his neck to touch his muzzle to the black of Faulkor’s shoulder. The light of immortality intensifies, nearly burning within Balto’s chest, fighting to remain where it was told to go, but after a few moments it begins to waver, unhitching itself and latching onto its new master - Faulkor. The light makes a slight hissing sound as it seeps into Faulkor’s chest, wavering like a flame as it absorbs into his essence. Balto feels the difference - he feels the weakness now, the terrible mortality that grips his heart tight, and his legs quiver as he tries to remain upright. “It is yours, Faulkor. Can you feel it now?” once the king of beasts but now they feast on thoughts beneath his vacant crown. |
@[Faulkor]