He barely feels the monsters, if he’s being honest.
He does not feel the way that the claw around them. Does not hear the way that they breathe and drag against the ground. Does not understand the danger that they bring with them. He is too focused on the way she draws him in like moth to flame—the way that he cannot stop himself from trying to find her in the dark, trying to piece himself together so he can come crawling back to kneel at her feet once more.
“Something—,” he begins to say. Begins to try and ask her what something could be, when he feels the brush of something ice cold in his lungs. The poison that has always existed beneath his flesh begins to twist through him as the monsters find him, as they manipulate the very fiber of his being.
A sharp exhale as he tries to blink it away.
But the feeling remains.
“Altar,” her name is the first thing that comes to his lips, like a prayer, and he wants to reach for her but he stumbles away instead. Something like agony in his gut and then relief. Something that feels both wholly right and entirely wrong. He spits and the poison burns on the ground, sizzling on contact. His head falls back and then, as quickly as it started, it’s over, and he’s left shaking, trembling all over.
His impossibly dark eyes remain closed, his horned head hanging.
“Altar,” her name again and then silence.
How could he possibly explain to her what just happened?
turn your head toward the storm that’s surely coming along
@[altar]