Wolf RPG

shaken to her core, the listener had withdrawn into long seclusion; for days she evaded even her beloved children. she fasted and prayed; she spoke to her god. the prophet had built herself high, and in one swift blow had been reminded of her mortal trappings. her mortal failings.

her god had seen fit to cut her down, for she had risen too high and presumed too much. she knew nothing. she knew no more than her fellow druids. she was their prophet, yes, but she was not their god.

@Ingram, her eternal reminder.

though humbled, the prophet emerged from those endless caverns still wreathed in the dark, imperious air that was her birthright. she was a servant subdued, but the highest of servants still. and now, as she had before, she would accept this second bitter gift. this second sweet curse. her husband, as beautiful a chain as the glittering skyrock she kept upon her altar.

she remembered his words. he loved her still. he wished to marry her.

she remembered his eyes on her.

bloodlust, her earliest desire; she felt it in the red edges of this new jagged want, this need. to merge, to rend and twist and carve their own shapes into one another until they fit in bloody jigsaw fashion.

he saw her. he saw the violence in her; the violence in his own soul.

and so the hunt began.

a test; a courtship. he would know that his soul's own mirror was worthy of him still, as she would know his worth. their savage courtship would stretch over days and nights, perhaps many.

the prophet, reduced to a feral and voidsent creature in the throes of this primal dance, thrummed with anticipation.

ever a creature of silence and darkness, she latched to his trail like some blood-maddened beast and kept to the darkest shadows. she would find him, and watch. he would feel her presence, but at every turn she would evade him. a battle of wills, until their physical forms met and were tested in turn.

so began their ancient dance, their courtship of blood and wild magick.

the dreadfather moves like the commanding shadow the've always been; unhindered by the mortal flesh that is now theirs. it was strange, at first; and there are many moments in which the fog, the yearning for the spirit realm for the void whose song thrums in the marrow of their bones.

the part that had ached to return to the other realm after their awakening had vanished; sucked from them like air from their lungs as ingram and they had merged into one. on the outside, it had been peaceful but the inside had been violent — despite the acceptance of their presence.

the butchering and harsh sewing of memories had been an ugly affair.

their path takes them along the sandy debris strewn shores of the islands their nightwife has claimed; though the dreadfather finds themselves wondering who'd be brave enough to cross the churning and dark depths of the sea.

a shudder slithers down their spine and many times, they stop and peer over a shadowed iron clad shoulder to peer at the darkness. a creeping suspicion; a clear feeling of being watched. stalked. it feels familiar, this.

the last time, they turn and prowl towards the shadows of the trees; seeking.

in these dark woods she ruled, mother of the night-magick and the druids of the wilds; in these holy lands, she was the hunter, and this dark creature her prey.

voidfire sparked and sputtered between them as the beasts danced like shades of dragons in the night.

then the dreadfather turned to meet the mother of night, and she became the hunted.

she descended on him in dark fury, the words of harka crooning in her ears.

sithis, the beast hissed in unison with the echoed memory. a calling; a challenge. she met him with teeth and lust and rage.

these sands, the altar of their marriage; this blood, the symbol of their pact.

the creatures would tangle in violence and desire, their meeting as ephemeral as it was brutal. a fight to the death, perhaps, if death held any power over creatures such as these.

the beast with eyes of night and day broke from their clash and took flight. she would lead her soul's kin across the sands, into the waters where they belonged.

the roles of their courtship reverse; the nightmother becoming the dreadfather's quarry. the hunted. they enjoy the challenges presented before them. the chase; knowing that the victory of their union would be all the sweeter for it. dark and bittersweet and addictive like the world's most delectable vintage wine.

a quiet rumble rejoinders the hiss of their name; one of many but perhaps the one they are most known by. sithis. it has been so long since they have heard it uttered like that: with her teeth, lust and rage. mephala — they croon to her; voice low and rumbling with their desire even as they clash. my love. they croon into her ear as their teeth graze close.

too long. or so it felt like it has been too long. time was different in the spirit realm. days could be centuries. hours, hundreds of years. time was easier ignored there, unimportant for creatures that were ageless. untouched by time.

they, the two of them, are wildings in the short heat of their battle; and as she breaks away the dreadfather gives chase, across the sands and into the cold churning, frothing waves. the salt stings at their shallow wounds but the pain numbs; easily ignored in the face of the ongoing ritual of their courtship.