04-21-2019, 12:41 AM
Nocturne only had a few moments to pull himself together and catch his breath before the Mountain began to quake beneath him. He dragged himself to his unsteady feet, panting and wheezing from the effort as fire swept through his body again and chased away the chill. His silver eyes widened as the fog rolled out from the base of the Mountain and spread as far as he could see, swallowing the rest of Beqanna right up, even the places that used to be safe. Shit. He was really in it now, huh? No way out but through, fate of the world resting on his little shoulders and all.
Adrenaline spiked as the mountain rumbled and shook, an addictive little thrill that lit him up, made him feel alive despite the sickness raging in his veins. Everyone in the whole world needed him, and it caught in his chest, something like hope welling up inside him that maybe they’d love him if he saved them. Maybe he wouldn’t be alone forever, maybe someone would look at him and see how good a boy he was, and take him home and cuddle him and love him and--well okay but sure as hell nobody would if they all died, so. That was tomorrow’s problem.
He shook himself and shoved aside all those tempting, useless little thoughts and made himself focus on the task at hand. The Mountain was starting to crack open beneath his feet, the ground splitting and startling an undignified squeak out of him. He scrambled for safe footing, heart racing as the steady, solid Mountain tore itself apart, twisted and trembled and transformed into a pit with magic fire in the center.
That magic fire flared, and his ice went wild in answer, pouring out of him and making the narrow pathway before him slick and slippery, spiking up in crystalline stalagmites and deadly pikes, freezing the world around him and leaving his teeth chattering, his body shivering, his breath coming in gasps. Treacherous thorns and tangling vines sprouted around him, the first unsuspected whispers of plant magic spreading like wild and adding still more danger to the path before him, all of it forming vicious walls along the narrow, winding path that led down, down, down into the fire.
And above and below and through it all, the heart of Beqanna raged. The air thrummed with power, deafening him, vibrating through him until he could feel it in his bones, and he leapt forward to answer. She needed him, needed the cure ingredients that trailed after him, clinging like static, drawn like magnets, bound by unknown magic beyond his understanding. But he didn’t need to understand.
All that mattered was that they came, following as he slipped on his own ice, lost his footing and went careening into a tangle of thorns. They waited patiently as a sharp scream tore from his throat and he struggled free, thorns tearing still more wounds into his shoulder, his neck, catching on his legs and leaving blood trickling down his moonglow baby coat. They trailed along behind him like obedient ducklings bobbing in the water behind their momma as he struggled for footing on the slick surface with every step, nothing dignified in this descent.
He stumbled, slipped, and fell tumbling farther along the narrow pathway, pained cries squeaking out of him as his hip, his shoulder caught on the sharp edges of thorns and spikes of ice. He pulled away, but he pulled too hard and slipped again. Shit! Frantic feet clambered uselessly, desperate for purchase as his stumbling body picked up speed and went careening down the narrow path. He brushed against more spikes and thorns, some just sliding through his fur and startling gasps out of him, others tearing scratches into his skin but not managing to slow him down any. Until the path narrowed further, and he crashed into a too-tight corridor of ice and thorns.
He choked on a whimper as the sharp edges caught him and dragged him to a halt with piercing fingers. Wheezing and dragging in frantic breaths, he paused a moment to look around, to try and find a way through. A coughing fit racked his body, and desperate, exhausted tears welled up in his eyes. The only way forward was through the too narrow tangle of thorns. It wasn’t big enough for him to fit, and neither ice nor plants were listening to him even as he gritted his teeth and tried to push them away with his gift. Nothing.
He ached all the way down to his bones, dull throbbing and sharp pain and the odd feverish fire-chill and the thrum of magic, the tightness in his chest from the cough and the gross ick feeling of snot and blood dripping from his nose, and the thought of having to make all that misery worse by clawing his way through an endless patch of stabby things made him want to curl up and cry and let the whole world just end. What did they matter anyhow? None of them cared about him, none of them even knew he existed. Maybe it would be better, letting the plague wipe them out and letting death claim them all one by one. Maybe they could all go back to being wrapped up and cozy in the dark just like things had been before he was born.
He could just give up and let the fog do its worst.
But he was so close, and the heart of Beqanna flared brighter, reaching out and calling to him, demanding he finish what he’d started on the day he was born. Maybe this was why he’d come into this world, covered in blood and viscera, why he’d woken to life surrounded by death and the still-warm corpse of the father who’d carried him. <i>Finish it,</i> he could almost hear her demand, and he took a steeling breath and pressed on.
The thorns tore into him, snagging in his flesh and catching and piercing, leaving little nicks and punctures and scratches, until his pale coat dripped blood in more places than it didn’t. The world narrowed to sharp points of agony and the ever-growing thrum of the heart of Beqanna as he fought his way closer step by step. Finally, finally he could see an end to the thorns, the magic fire blinding in its intensity as he clambered forward, just one more step! Thorns tangled and gouged and tore at him, fighting to keep him from success he could almost taste, and with another primal scream he tore free.
He fell to his knees, shaking and overwhelmed, but it wasn’t quite finished. The cure ingredients he’d brought with, or maybe just led here, shook right along with him, vibrating and begging for attention. One by one, he took them in his mouth and fed them into the magic fire. Ice, stone, flower, shell. And then he stumbled forward, body dripping and drenched in the blood he’d already shed to get here, open wounds still trickling red and soaking his moonrat baby fluff.
“Take what you need of me,” he said, his voice hoarse and gravelly as his blood dripped into the heart of Beqanna. He had given her everything else, would give her anything he had in him to give. What was a little more pain, a little more blood, in the face of so much suffering? She could have it all if she needed. Lucky for him, it didn't seem like she'd demand so high a price this time around.
Adrenaline spiked as the mountain rumbled and shook, an addictive little thrill that lit him up, made him feel alive despite the sickness raging in his veins. Everyone in the whole world needed him, and it caught in his chest, something like hope welling up inside him that maybe they’d love him if he saved them. Maybe he wouldn’t be alone forever, maybe someone would look at him and see how good a boy he was, and take him home and cuddle him and love him and--well okay but sure as hell nobody would if they all died, so. That was tomorrow’s problem.
He shook himself and shoved aside all those tempting, useless little thoughts and made himself focus on the task at hand. The Mountain was starting to crack open beneath his feet, the ground splitting and startling an undignified squeak out of him. He scrambled for safe footing, heart racing as the steady, solid Mountain tore itself apart, twisted and trembled and transformed into a pit with magic fire in the center.
That magic fire flared, and his ice went wild in answer, pouring out of him and making the narrow pathway before him slick and slippery, spiking up in crystalline stalagmites and deadly pikes, freezing the world around him and leaving his teeth chattering, his body shivering, his breath coming in gasps. Treacherous thorns and tangling vines sprouted around him, the first unsuspected whispers of plant magic spreading like wild and adding still more danger to the path before him, all of it forming vicious walls along the narrow, winding path that led down, down, down into the fire.
And above and below and through it all, the heart of Beqanna raged. The air thrummed with power, deafening him, vibrating through him until he could feel it in his bones, and he leapt forward to answer. She needed him, needed the cure ingredients that trailed after him, clinging like static, drawn like magnets, bound by unknown magic beyond his understanding. But he didn’t need to understand.
All that mattered was that they came, following as he slipped on his own ice, lost his footing and went careening into a tangle of thorns. They waited patiently as a sharp scream tore from his throat and he struggled free, thorns tearing still more wounds into his shoulder, his neck, catching on his legs and leaving blood trickling down his moonglow baby coat. They trailed along behind him like obedient ducklings bobbing in the water behind their momma as he struggled for footing on the slick surface with every step, nothing dignified in this descent.
He stumbled, slipped, and fell tumbling farther along the narrow pathway, pained cries squeaking out of him as his hip, his shoulder caught on the sharp edges of thorns and spikes of ice. He pulled away, but he pulled too hard and slipped again. Shit! Frantic feet clambered uselessly, desperate for purchase as his stumbling body picked up speed and went careening down the narrow path. He brushed against more spikes and thorns, some just sliding through his fur and startling gasps out of him, others tearing scratches into his skin but not managing to slow him down any. Until the path narrowed further, and he crashed into a too-tight corridor of ice and thorns.
He choked on a whimper as the sharp edges caught him and dragged him to a halt with piercing fingers. Wheezing and dragging in frantic breaths, he paused a moment to look around, to try and find a way through. A coughing fit racked his body, and desperate, exhausted tears welled up in his eyes. The only way forward was through the too narrow tangle of thorns. It wasn’t big enough for him to fit, and neither ice nor plants were listening to him even as he gritted his teeth and tried to push them away with his gift. Nothing.
He ached all the way down to his bones, dull throbbing and sharp pain and the odd feverish fire-chill and the thrum of magic, the tightness in his chest from the cough and the gross ick feeling of snot and blood dripping from his nose, and the thought of having to make all that misery worse by clawing his way through an endless patch of stabby things made him want to curl up and cry and let the whole world just end. What did they matter anyhow? None of them cared about him, none of them even knew he existed. Maybe it would be better, letting the plague wipe them out and letting death claim them all one by one. Maybe they could all go back to being wrapped up and cozy in the dark just like things had been before he was born.
He could just give up and let the fog do its worst.
But he was so close, and the heart of Beqanna flared brighter, reaching out and calling to him, demanding he finish what he’d started on the day he was born. Maybe this was why he’d come into this world, covered in blood and viscera, why he’d woken to life surrounded by death and the still-warm corpse of the father who’d carried him. <i>Finish it,</i> he could almost hear her demand, and he took a steeling breath and pressed on.
The thorns tore into him, snagging in his flesh and catching and piercing, leaving little nicks and punctures and scratches, until his pale coat dripped blood in more places than it didn’t. The world narrowed to sharp points of agony and the ever-growing thrum of the heart of Beqanna as he fought his way closer step by step. Finally, finally he could see an end to the thorns, the magic fire blinding in its intensity as he clambered forward, just one more step! Thorns tangled and gouged and tore at him, fighting to keep him from success he could almost taste, and with another primal scream he tore free.
He fell to his knees, shaking and overwhelmed, but it wasn’t quite finished. The cure ingredients he’d brought with, or maybe just led here, shook right along with him, vibrating and begging for attention. One by one, he took them in his mouth and fed them into the magic fire. Ice, stone, flower, shell. And then he stumbled forward, body dripping and drenched in the blood he’d already shed to get here, open wounds still trickling red and soaking his moonrat baby fluff.
“Take what you need of me,” he said, his voice hoarse and gravelly as his blood dripped into the heart of Beqanna. He had given her everything else, would give her anything he had in him to give. What was a little more pain, a little more blood, in the face of so much suffering? She could have it all if she needed. Lucky for him, it didn't seem like she'd demand so high a price this time around.