11-20-2021, 07:17 AM
The trickles of blood have stopped, each artery and vein sewn back together by that magic makes him ageless and untiring, and the stains left behind are hidden by the darkness of his skin. The whine in his ears subsides in Carnage's presence, and it's impossible to say if that is because of him or if it is Wherewolf's own magic healing the damage done to him by the Mountain, but he listens to the Dark God speak with his mother's scowl etched onto his lips. What Wherewolf knows of Beqanna's past is a patchwork, he might learn more by listening to those who were there, but he does not care much about what the past holds except for where it touches him directly. No matter how many of his sire's people may have struggled in the margins of Carnage's tale, he finds little interest and less sympathy. They weren't him, and so he has nothing in his heart for them.
The earth gives way beneath the god's feet and Wherewolf, who has never been very good at following directions, does not dig but watches the red-eyed magician darkly even as the others make their own progress, widening the indentation he created into a gaping maw. Some, Reave, others he doesn't know, make requests and gain devilish boons, but it is not in his own nature to ask for things any more than it is to follow directions, and so he makes a few paltry scrapes but quickly decides against working any harder than he needs. Instead, he sets to deepening the holes that others have already made. Not him, exactly, but six duplicates each full of that healing magic to heal the hooves worn to nubs and the skin torn and the muscles aching from their impossible task. The dappled Lord stands back to watch their progress, riding high on the seconds and minutes that tick by and the Mortality that creeps over him like chill fingers.
Stone and bone and ancient magic should not bend to them so easily, yet it does and the Duplicates are swallowed by the wide rictus, winking out of existence the instant the magic that forms its bones meets the magic in that darkness. Not all yet, but several others who answered the Call have already fallen into this nameless void, but he does not hear them or see them. There is no sound of screaming, nor the sound of bodies breaking on rocks far below (and Wherewolf is intimately familiar with the sound of a body breaking on stone, though perhaps it sounds different on someone else.)
He lingers at the edge of the precipice, surefooted and confident, even as the broken earth shudders under his feet. He is not a child of Nerine for nothing, playing mountain goat games upon the cliffs. Sheer edges hold no fear for him. The breath of that hollow vein into the Mountain's Heart feels like falling even though his hooves are still planted on the bucking ground and lures him in.
What would happen if you jumped?
The whisper in the back of his mind sounds like him, and perhaps it is. It would hardly be the first time it led him here, scowling at cliff-edges and so he does what he should not, that scowl melting into a smirk, and stamps a hoof against the cracked and shivering earth. The ledge he stands on crumbles beneath him and he falls, weightless, into the Nothing and the pressure of the Fairies' invisible well.
The earth gives way beneath the god's feet and Wherewolf, who has never been very good at following directions, does not dig but watches the red-eyed magician darkly even as the others make their own progress, widening the indentation he created into a gaping maw. Some, Reave, others he doesn't know, make requests and gain devilish boons, but it is not in his own nature to ask for things any more than it is to follow directions, and so he makes a few paltry scrapes but quickly decides against working any harder than he needs. Instead, he sets to deepening the holes that others have already made. Not him, exactly, but six duplicates each full of that healing magic to heal the hooves worn to nubs and the skin torn and the muscles aching from their impossible task. The dappled Lord stands back to watch their progress, riding high on the seconds and minutes that tick by and the Mortality that creeps over him like chill fingers.
Stone and bone and ancient magic should not bend to them so easily, yet it does and the Duplicates are swallowed by the wide rictus, winking out of existence the instant the magic that forms its bones meets the magic in that darkness. Not all yet, but several others who answered the Call have already fallen into this nameless void, but he does not hear them or see them. There is no sound of screaming, nor the sound of bodies breaking on rocks far below (and Wherewolf is intimately familiar with the sound of a body breaking on stone, though perhaps it sounds different on someone else.)
He lingers at the edge of the precipice, surefooted and confident, even as the broken earth shudders under his feet. He is not a child of Nerine for nothing, playing mountain goat games upon the cliffs. Sheer edges hold no fear for him. The breath of that hollow vein into the Mountain's Heart feels like falling even though his hooves are still planted on the bucking ground and lures him in.
What would happen if you jumped?
The whisper in the back of his mind sounds like him, and perhaps it is. It would hardly be the first time it led him here, scowling at cliff-edges and so he does what he should not, that scowl melting into a smirk, and stamps a hoof against the cracked and shivering earth. The ledge he stands on crumbles beneath him and he falls, weightless, into the Nothing and the pressure of the Fairies' invisible well.
