Noctisardor Bypass of a leaf, a stone, a door; and of all the forgotten faces

Open to any now. Illidan is no longer in the bypass.

Illidan had wandered some ways from the white wolf and her dark mate. He had caught dark shadows in the sky that seemed to be flocking toward a single location.
 
It had taken the young boy two days to travel there, and when he arrived he was hungry and tired. The sharp yellow of his gaze was turned back to where he had come. Illidan had learned how to use his scent to mark terrain, and he had left a path that would carry him back to the others. Young as he was, the boy was eager to earn his strength. He had ventured before, only this time he had been wiser.
 
There was a large body of water that was stretched out before him. Illidan approached with caution and drank at the edge, quenching some of his hunger and all of his thirst in the single action. When he drew his skull upward, the boy saw the dark birds clattering about against the shoreline. He watched for a short while with curiosity. They were large for birds and they made an awful cawing sound when they were near to each other. It seemed that they had found something of interest.
 
The child was curious too.
 
With a wary couple of steps, Illidan moved to creep closer to where they were. He was frightened that they might turn against him and protect their treasure with the same viciousness as the wolves did. Once he had misplaced his step and scattered several stones out in front of him, the dark birds too did scatter. The shape beneath them was not familiar from where he stood. The stench of death was upon it.
 
Five steps closer and Illidan froze.
 
It was almost as though the shape of the figure fell into focus.
 
The legs of the ghostly shape were snapped and jutting from torn flesh, broken in several places. The jaw of the wolf had been snapped and seemed to dangle at the side, hinged only by a thin thread of skin and pelt. The eyes were… open.
 
Illidan’s lip quivered and he released a soft whine, hoping that his father might answer.
 
“D-dad…?”
 
Another crow flapped down and landed on the shoulder of his father’s wrecked body. It pecked against the ear of the deceased wolf and then ripped away a large chunk of flesh from the ribcage. With dark eyes, the bird turned to look at Illidan and flapped its wings violently. The young boy shuddered at the sight of the deathly creature. It took flight; the large chunk of meat hanging from the side of its beak.
 
Illidan could feel his heart beating in his neck and his skull seemed to thrum with the sound of the war drum.
 
Kierkegaard’s body stared at him, jaw dangling, unmoving and shredded.
 
The child turned and fled. His eyes welled with tears that he could not control, and he ran until his limbs could not carry the weight of all that he felt. Back in the direction he had come from; back away from all of the things that he had seen. Illidan ran so quickly that he had cut his travel time by more than half. When he felt that it was too much, the pup stumbled and fell to the earth with a yelp. The cuesta stretched out before him, open and beaming with life. He remained there, crumbled, and did not move for hours.
 
Illidan’s own two eyes were fixed on the distance, tears flowing without restraint. His side heaved with each ragged breath that passed through his lungs.