Wapun Meadow What Rough Beast

The feeling hadn't left, even as the sun dragged above and below the horizon another three times. In fact, it had gotten stronger. Mephistopheles had followed the tugging on their soul, desperate to find what had so disquieted them.

And what had was the source of a strange dream.

It had come in shades of blood and fire, senseless but wrong in all ways. Somewhere in their soul, Mephisto knew it was tied to their hunt. There could be no other explanation, they had seen red.

In the dream, the blue of the sky had turned black, but they knew it to be day. The sun had burned with a scarlet flame, thrashing and and screaming in countless voices young and old as it tried to esape the sky. There was a sense of a kind of barrier, elastic and all but see through that kept it from falling to the land below. It had reminded Mephistopheles of the surface of still water.

They hadn't been able to focus on that, however. The screams and the sun's battle to break through had cast the world in forever shifting blackness and burning red light. Strobing like carmine sunlight through leaves to dapple the land in shifting shadows.

Through it all, they had stood rooted in place. Even as a great mass had begun to lurch its way towards him, silhouetted and black as moonless night. Countless forms made one great crowd, filled with endless teeth and eyes. It was the end.

The dream had left them hyperventilating upon awakening, their black fur on edge and their eyes wide to the point of strain. It couldn't be let alone, something was coming. Something terrible and grim, it would tear flesh and break bone. There would be blood.

Red blood. Like the flowers dotted through this meadow, peeking out from their less rubescent brethren.

Mephistopheles came to a stop before one such flower, staring down at it in thought.

Not far from the woods where he met Zsuzsa was a sprawling meadow of many flowers, particularly red ones. It reminded him of the hunting grounds back where he'd come from, and that connection was strong enough to drive the wood colored wolf here in hope of finding prey. His trot was swift and driven, but altogether Hya was very unassuming. Not quite as obvious as say, a black wolf.

@Mephistopheles dark black coat stuck out from the swaths of green around them, instantly drawing Hyacinth's attention as he came to a half. What was he looknig at? Was there prey nearby? Forest hazel eyes darted around the meadow, looking for any sings of a rabbit or deer or maybe something less noticeable. Nothing. Not even a smell on the wind (which, consequently, dashed all his hopes of this being a hunting ground).

Hmm...there was something else going on here.

Trying his best not to startle the other wolf, Hyacinth came up slightly behind him though far enough away where he could react should the meeting prove violent. He cleared his throat gently before angling his head to try and get a glimpse of the black wolf's face for any discernable emotion.

"You alright?"

Still, she lingered here, a weed among the flowers, a thorn among the gentle wisps of grass. Beyond the presence of the herd here, Atropos had no reason to remain within these lands; the meadows were open, vast, and exposed whereas the wraith preferred something darker, closer, and far more intimate than all of this. There was something that she couldn't place her paw on, something that danced on the edges of her vision, though it may as well have been on her bad side.

An easy pace carried her above the flowering grasses, the red of her coat glaring and warm in the sun's gaze. From her observations, the herd here was sizeable and the scavengers were scarce. It would have made for an easy kill if she had been part of a group. Alas, now was not the time, distracted by the scent of others of her kin.

Turning from the trails of prey, Atropos turned to follow the scent of a different sort of prey, weak and unassuming. Untouched and untainted with the words of her gods. Carmine focused then on a pair in the distance and began a steady pace towards them, looking between the two as she closed the distance. Silent as a ghost, the wraith glided to a halt a yet fair distance; close enough to attack if needed, and far enough to flee should they both turn on her.

The fate spoke no words, despite the fact that she could feel her gods loom in closer, whispering, demanding, instructing that she sever the string. Sever the string and hand them over. Were her sisters here, their fate might have been decided as simple as that.