Moonsong Glacier no more than I deserve

@Kierkegaard - set before Marbas's arrival at Neverwinter. This takes place in the open field below/beside Moonsong Glacier, right above Neverwinter.

His steps grew stronger, but his heart quailed each time he put one paw in front of another. I'm leaving everything I know and forsaking everything I've learned. This is a good thing.

But it didn't feel like a good thing; he couldn't turn what he'd done to Siren into anything less than a monstrosity, and offront to nature and to the sea herself. In a way, this was not just a depature from his old life, but his penitence. Mostly, though, it just felt like running away. What was he losing, after all? Why did he deserve relief and mercy, when he'd never given that unto others?

"Then let it be so: These are my last words, until Siren looks at me with forgiveness in her eyes."

But he was never going to see her again.

Silent once more, now and forever, Marbas plodded on.

The ghost had found her in a state of disrepair. The damage that had been inflicted on her neck and chest had mortified the brute to the point of manic rage. While Kierkegaard was very little good at comfort, he had done his best to tend to Nathimmel and had spoken to her… more than he had spoken to any other soul in a vast expanse of time. He had promised that she would never suffer such violence again. He had ensured it.
 
The pallid creature had done his jobs as a mercenary for countless others. He had completed tasks that most would have turned from – horrid things. When the inky halfling had found him, and he had witnessed the damage that had happened to her body, he had reverted to his old ways instantaneously. The scent of the attacker had still lingered on her dark pelt. Kierkegaard had swallowed that scent and imprinted it so that it thrummed against him with every beat of his heart. He had breathed nothing but the vile stench until the trail had become more than a distant hope. The savage could not simply believe that his trekking had amounted to anything more than a hopeless attempt to fill the chasm inside of him, but when his smoldering vision latched onto a greyscale form with tufts of chocolate about his throat… he nearly wept.
 
Hackles began to rise along his neck and spine, forcing his already jagged coat to appear unkempt and wild. The blistering burn of his orange-gold gaze had suddenly come alive. The ghost’s lengthy limbs seemed to quiver with the fire that burned in his gut, but he darted forward nonetheless. Kierkegaard was already abysmal with words, but he did not feel as though an explanation was necessary for the action he was taking.
 
A guttural noise sounded from inside of his throat as the pallid brute lunged toward the male; his intention was to maim this creature beyond repair. Parting jaws were aimed for the ribs of the russet-eyed bastard. The savage glint in his gaze suggested that he would show no mercy. All that he could see was the red of his anger; this wolf would pay for what he had done to Nathimmel.

Apparently his vow of silence was not enough, or in some way displeasing to whatever god judged him, now. The ghost was upon him before Marbas even knew he was there, and a shocked, pain-filled cry was torn from his lungs without his permission.

But even in his pain, he held on to one promise; he would never fight again.

Forcing himself to be limp, Marbas allowed himself to be caught in the iron jaws of whatever creature now plagued him. He would do his best not to protest the treatment, though every muscle in his body was screaming for reprive, and his wicked heart was even now readying itself for revenge.

No matter what, he thought to himself, gritting his teeth together. No matter what, I must not fight back.

So he did not.

Marbas’ cry fell on deaf ears. The ghostly figure was far too lost in his bloodlust to care for the pain that the other brute might have felt. As he succeeded in sinking his fangs into the neck of the foul man, he found a burning desire to rip and shred every vein – each stretch of sinew – that he could grip between his canines. The pallid beast shook his skull from side to side in hopes of tearing away at the flesh of the wolf.
 
Kierkegaard did not know of the family that the traitor came from, but even if he had heard of the Cairn brood, he would have sought to kill the beast anyway. The Sairensu male could not halt the images of her tattered skin and the tufts of inky fur that had been missing from her body. The fiery-eyed monster did not know how someone could harm her in such a way and continue about their life. He had fought in many wars and had abandoned the lives of countless others, but there had never been a kindness quite like the one shown by Nathimmel. The blue-eyed shadow was a ray of light in their dark world, and her innocence had been raped.
 
Ragged limbs attempted to push Marbas’ body away from his own. It was not only for distance, but for the continued attempt to draw the flesh from his neck and swallow it whole. Another savage growl was emitted from his mouth. Blind with rage, he continued to work against the throat of the bastard before him. Had he attempted to pay more attention to his target, Kierkegaard would have noted that the chocolate-naped male was not fighting back. He had cried out in pain, but his body had gone limp and his limbs did not quiver in an attempt to be released from the ghost's grasp. 

Siren seemed a long way off, now. He would never truly forget her, but despite his trespasses against her, Marbas's mind could not wrap itself around this sort of violence coming into contact with her goodness. The part of his mind where Siren lived walled itself off from the wrath of the ghost, and with that, the last of his strength seeped from his body.

Marbas lost consciouness, and felt no more pain.

Third and final post from me, my dear <33

The ghost did not cease his attack until the bloodlust had faded from his soul. Once he had found his sight again, Kierkegaard stared at the terrible mess that he had created, and shuddered. He did not know if the beast beneath him was still alive, and there was a fraction of him that did not care. If he were to bring death to this cruel beast, it would not sully him in any way. The ghost had already lost every ounce of humanity that had been left. 

With a sickening squelch, he released his grasp on the slate-cloaked male. He removed his ashen form from the body of the beast and took two shaky steps backwards. The pallid brute was attempting to steady himself, but he could feel the rage biting at him once more and he struggled to hold onto his sanity for a moment. He knew - the rational part of him anyway - that running away from the scene would have been a wise decision, but he could not pull his fiery gaze from the slumped figure of the monster. He had not been asked to hunt the sea wolf, but he had done so anyway, and doing so had broken the ways of the mercenary. He'd gotten too close - too attached. 

Drawing his salmon-colored tongue along his dark lips, Kierkegaard breathed heavily through widened nares. Without another word or action against the brute, he turned his tail and disappeared from the ravaged creature. The ghost had accomplished what he had set out to do, and there was no longer a need to remain by the sight of the attack. He vanished from sight, just as he always did.