Nyra dragged the unconscious Skalda through the islands, through the underbrush and trails. A woman as tall but not as heavy as she, but a bit of a chore, and Nyra gripping the scruff of the to-be sacrifice with ambition and embers of hell helping aid her strength. 
Eldritch berries pulsed her system, alighting the Islands in vibrant colors and the mutterings of spirits.

She felt it in her core. The will of the unnamed god, yes, this russet bitch was the wolf to offer upon the altar. 
She didn't know why. 
She didn't question it.

Coming into the designated ritual room, Nyra watches for The Listener with eager, hungry eyes. If she found the prophet in her sights, she would drip Skalda's knocked out form upon the earth before the Prophet. 
If not, then she would wait for her, and then present her captive, and speak.

"This woman, my sacrifice." She rumbled, a firm paw placed upon the neck of Skalda. 

A feather-soft grunt escaped the red woman's lips, not quite waking up just yet, but showing signs of coming out of her forced slumber.

war. betrayal. death.

blood curling among the seafoam.

the listener rose from the altar, the skyrock glistening at the center. the fey chamber was cast in a dull golden haze of sunlight and sea-mist. in the silence, the prophet could hear the thrum of life from the world outside.

the waves. the wind. the distant song of birds. everything, as one.

the queen came to her through the water, her sacrifice laid upon the wet sands. nyra stood pale and elegant as the moon, fierce as the lashing white-laced waters. and at her feet... sin itself, languishing. faltering.

red, the listener rumbled, a contemptuous curl to her lips. she thought of merrick, then. the color of temptation. sin. betrayal. you have chosen well, my queen. wolves stained by betrayal and sin could not be trusted.

the unnamed god does not allow the stains of past lives to wash away into the next. we are marked forever. do you know what your white fur tells of you, queen?

The Warmaiden looked to the Listener as she spoke. First, words about the sacrifice's color. Red, the color of temptation, of betrayal and sins. 

And a beat of praise before the Prophet asked what Nyra's own fur told of.
Brows knit slightly before she shook her head.
"I would like to know." She added after, looking upon her Listener with eyes hungry for Knowledge and new beginnings.

daywalker. one who lives in the light. but you are meant for more.

a queen, as fierce and beautiful as the sea. as terrible as the sun itself come to devour the land in blinding light and blistering heat.

you are the light. the dawn that brings hope to the lost. the flame that burns the sinners to ash. the lady of life and light. the sunfire.

the prophet beckoned her forth. bring the sacrifice to the altar. bleed her upon it, but do not kill her.

she will know the truth in her final moments. she will know terror.

Nyra's ears held forward as the Listener spoke of her fur's meaning. 

Daywalker. 
One who lives in the light.

But The Listener had more to say.

She was the light itself. The Sunfire, the dawn of hope for the lost and the obliterator of the sinful.

Nyra moved at the beckoning, and grabbed Skalda by the scruff again, dragging and hoisting the unknown priestess upon the slab of rock, where a vague groan gurgled from the red maw. 

The Wardog decided upon an artery, one that would take about enough time to drain as this ritual might.

And she clipped it hard with a snip of practiced teeth, where vivid blood began to sprout and bloom, then trickle to the stone she lay upon a the signal of a timer.

The countdown to the sacrifice's demise.

as the queen obeyed the command set forth for her by god, the spirits gathered. they whispered their hunger, their lust, sang praise in the name of the prophet and her promised queen.

the listener leaned close, thin muzzle brushing the scarlet fur at the cheek of the queen's votive. in a flurry of teeth and blood she lashed out, shredding one delicate ear in spite of the pain that lanced through her own skull. a low hum rang out from beyond the otherworld; the unnamed god's murmur of disapproval. but there was love in it. love, and understanding.

for it was her god who had cursed her so, to suffer forever under this bloodlust she could never sate.

wake, sinner. wake and know your true god, the prophet hissed, and withdrew. her eyes found the sunfire, glittering with dark magick.

listen. do you hear them? do you hear the spirits? they are singing your name, queen. your true name, given to you by the unnamed god.

could she hear it?

 


Nyra watches with fervent gaze as The Listener rips into the red woman's ear.

Skalda jolts awake, and begins to try and thrash. The Sunfire is quick to pin her, holding a paw on the woman's throat and pressing, cutting off air.

All around her, as berries truly begin their thrum in her system, she focuses upon the murmurs and whispers of the otherworld, the spirits. 

Yes, chanting. 

Chanting.

Fury. Fury. Fury. Fury. Fury. It grew more intense with the addition of another name into the mix. One she might've realistically heard in her years before the Teekons and forgotten, but a name that still surfaced with the chanting of Fury 

"Fury Brunhilde." The Daywalker breathed with a grin, looking upon her Prophet as the red woman tried to thrash some more, fighting to breathe. 
The Sunfire glanced to Skalda before looking to The Listener again, asking silently what to do with the sacrifice now.

fury. the fury of the sun. the fury of the unnamed god.

the listener knew, then, the nature of the queen sent to the druids. but it mattered not what the prophet knew.

fury would see the truth within herself.

the listener turned once again on the queen's offering. you go now to the unnamed god. you will burn forever in the voidfire. the druids pity you.

a slow and wicked smile blossomed upon her visage like a rose blooming rotten from the core.

and we rejoice your passing.

the prophet's smile withered and fell away as she looked to the queen, god's fury, and spoke her command. kill her. give her to the unnamed god, and receive your gift; the future. your path. your purpose.

the unnamed god gave freely to those who possessed the will to walk their path. one only needed to reach out and take what was offered.

Nyra, now Fury, watched the Prophet as she took everything in. Watching her mismatched stare turn downward to the russet woman who stopped thrashing against the weight holding her down, if only to hear the words spoken to her by the Unchild.

As The Listener's smile withered, Skalda's ruby gaze glowered up to Fury as the command was given.

Kill her.

Fury didn't waste a second, withdrawing her paw only to drive her fangs into Skalda's jugular deep, with precise, practiced fangs. 

The red priestess gurgled and choked, trying to fight further till the end, as Fury put a paw to the woman's jaws, pinning them open painfully with a small cracking noise as she ripped out the windpipe of the russet lady. Blood spattered and flowed freely, and Fury watched with fevered, feral eyes as the life and light left Skalda's eyes, leaving the body to twitch and jerk at random as the last signals fired within the brain.

Fury spat aside the flesh and looked to The Listener, inquisitive as to what would happen now.

the spirits shrieked. blood, so much blood, yet they called for more. screamed for it. they lashed out with cold phantom teeth and claws of aether. in silence the listener bore their fury.

fury.

the woman faltered. the screams died, and the song rose.

fury.

listen, the prophet urged. hear your story. the path you must walk.

the listener lifted one trembling paw and pressed it to the scarlet stone. it came away dark and glistening. she pressed it to the queen's pale cheek, painting her with the blood of her sacrifice.

this is your beginning, fury brunhilde. this is the first day.

Fury watched the Listener, observed her as she took whatever the spirits did to her in silence.
But to Fury, it was not silent. Though she saw nothing that the Prophet did, she heard the murmurs and fevered purrs alongside vivid visions. 

Rise to lead the Saints again
Rise to lead the Saints again.

Saints.
Saints.
Saints.
Saints.

Her vision was of her with many wolves, a strong pack that dominated at both seaside and inland. 
At the head of it all, sat herself. 
The Sunfire.
The Daywalker.

Fury absently felt the press of blood, though in a jerk of movement from the vision, the press of bloodied paw landed on her forehead instead..

"I must rise to lead the Saints again. They keep chanting Saints; the name of my old pack." Fury breathed, brows knit slightly as she looked to The Listener. What would she take of this message?