Whitefish River into your heart, into your soul

though a cough still lingers, ingram no longer feels like he's on the void's doorstep with the grimreaper breathing down his neck.

despite this, he'd dreamed of it's rancid, putrid breath like thousands of rotting corpses; warm like the fires of hell curling upon his face.

startled by this, the dreadfather ignores the desire to consult his threadbones; avoiding them as if they carry the source of the illness that had plagued him.

strength returns as he pushes through the early dawn glow and soft, light snow that collects upon the frozen earth and along his back, following the snaking whitefish river.

he draws in a deep breath, the first time in a while that he can do so without a horrible coughing fit. a small tickle flutters in his throat, but he is able to chase it away with a soft clear of his throat.

As she continued to explore the breadth of the Sunspires, Exousia detoured on a westerly whim, skirting the markings of a pack and eventually coming to travel along the length of a river in the early hours of a snowbound sunrise. The steel virago kept her head bowed beneath the softfall of frozen crystals, all of her senses scanning for the presence of prey.

But, as time and time again would prove, she crossed the scent-trail of another wolf instead. Audacious curiosity drove her forward, seeking the source of the smell until she could see a figure in the dawnlight, their dark coat framed by the pale flakes drifting earthward.

She called out to the wolf, her accent clear on the quiet morning air. Hail, stranger! She kept her distance, waiting to see the other’s mood, their general temperament, before venturing any closer.

a voice calls out.

a blissful distraction from haunting nightmares that refuse to release their clawed hold upon him even in his waking hours.

ingram's head moves towards the silvershadow, seaglass gaze roving her.

unfamiliar. unknown.

hail, rumbles ingram, voice rough with disuse and from the strain of the awful coughing fits he'd endured for the past week.

Exousia examined the fine specimen before her, appraising him for worth both seen and unseen. His turquoise eyes stuck out against the dark of his coat like two pinpricks of light, and his voice rasped as if he had not spoken in weeks. She came nearer, respectful of his boundaries but close enough to hold a level conversation.

Her tail waved idly, low and neutral, as she spoke. I am Exousia. Are you familiar with this area?

exousia. an interesting name, ingram thinks.

i am ingram, there is an aching void in his chest as he lets the name dreadfather go, lingering in the marrow of his bones but not one he is worthy presently to use.

basilica's dwindling numbers had not been pressing while he fought for his life during the height of his sickness.

but now he does not ignore them and what they mean.

familiar enough, ingram replies. what is it that you seek?

Ingram. It was an old name, much like her own, both of them having inherited a verbal power beyond their years.

Exousia tucked the proud name away in the vault of her mind.

I want to know of any packs you are familiar with. The scythe’s answer came readily, without pretense. She would have asked after his own pack, but as things were the handful of scents he might’ve carried with him were faint after his days of isolation. I am dispersed, but solitude does not suit me. I seek for a new camaraderie, and I wish to make an informed decision.

does he speak of basilica?

this question takes it's slow turns 'round his mind for pressing consideration. to attempt to save what is a dying dusk?

or to let night devour it so that a new dawn could be born?

there is akashingo ruled by a pharaoh and his queen, ingram gestures in their direction with scarred muzzle. and my basilica but our numbers are low. we are a dying ember.

he does not see how, even if he managed to bring it back from the edge, they would survive. he suspects they will only face this very issue months down the road; that by trying to save it only staves off the inevitable for another time.

Exousia watched him closely, attentive to every twitch of his contemplative whiskers, every wrinkle upon his marked muzzle. His pause made her wonder if he would reveal anything at all, let alone anything of note.

But he was forthcoming.

Akashingo. Theirs. Basilica. His.

What has reduced the fires of Basilica? she asked, unabashed in her prying.

you get my 500th post!

a small breath of icy air, made cooler by the small chunks of ice that float along the snaking the river, settles into his lungs.

i do not know. there were so many places he could point to: himself primarily. perhaps it is my leadership. perhaps it is basilica's darker, pious nature.

but he could only speculate.

it is impossible to say for sure.

i am blessed!! congrats, mi amor

Exousia braced, too eager for gossip, as Ingram steadied himself with a breath. At first she felt disappointed by his uncertainty, but then clouds of his response parted as he continued, and she could see clearly where his thoughts lay.

Ah, so your pack is a religious one, yes? Light, dark, it hardly made a difference. Reverence and devotion were trickier than natural loyalty, no matter the alignment. I understand it can be a difficult life. The pack of my birth is a sect of ritual and sacrifice, governed by the apostles of Ananke – the Inevitable One. Some would call it a cult.

a sage nod is given to her connection, of connecting the dots ingram gave her.

our many gods coexist, somehow. though, perhaps not as peacefully as ingram had assumed. had he, sithis in mortal flesh, not ignored ash paw's atka and sos? thoroughly. wholly.

daedra are not naturally keen on sharing worshipping spaces: with their own kind, let alone unrelated gods.

perhaps that is the catalyst of it's dying. or perhaps he was just trying to pin the blame upon the bear gods. his reasonings flitted there and away like mischievous will'o'wisps. or perhaps it was a general lack of disinterest, or the unloyal.

it is not for the many. ingram admits; a quiet, contemplative rumble.

Our many gods coexist.

The wind picked up as he said this. The sound of it whistled sharply over the water and its force broke off a sheet of ice along the riverbed, sending it downstream several yards before sinking the frozen plank entirely. He was speaking of his pack, but to Exousia it almost seemed like a generalized statement. It certainly applied; regardless of how he had meant it.

Too many gods in one place rarely bodes well for the devout. Too much it divides the attention. No one is ever satisfied. Especially not the gods. It was best to serve just one, if any were going to be served at all. I believe the only way a religion can flourish is to bring up the young in it and pray that they do not stray. But there will always be those who lose faith in the unproven. It is the way of things.

It was not a life for most. Not even for her, not anymore. Exousia had found herself to be more reliable, more knowable than any god she knew. There was no need to abide by a truth other than that. Who are your gods? she asked, curious. Why do you follow them?

to explain his complicated relationship with the daedra was a delicate line to walk. some took to it with understanding, but many played it off as arrogance, as a god complex. it wasn't wrong.

it is not a simple black and white answer, ingram begins; but she had asked: and he would deliver. i was introduced to them by my nightwife, ingram admits, though at some point praimfaya's commanders and the daedra had morphed into one for him. we performed a ritual ...and i became one with them. lord of the void. the dreadfather.

seaglass gaze studies her face for her reaction. i am devout to the void and the voidwraiths. but they are his kingdom beyond the veil.

a soft, wiry smirk. this is the point when many cease to listen and turn away from basilica. but ingram, capable of playing devil's advocate: can understand.

Exousia listened with all the focus of a wolf whose mother-language was not the common tongue. There were terms she recognized individually but not together (nightwife, dreadfather, voidwraiths), and though her brow crinkled, trying to understand, their combinations and implications were not entirely lost on her.

She made a humored sort of snort as he finished with a statement that recognized how ridiculous he sounded to those not already indoctrinated in such faiths, but she did not appear to be laughing at him. To her, there was nothing inherently wrong with anything he said.

You are in leagues with shadows. They are powerful things, Exousia conceded. But we wolves are all gods. That is what I believe. She chose not to elaborate, not without being asked. What has the void given you that cannot be achieved through other means? Do you only follow for the one you call… night-wife? The words come out more separated than she intended, working on the foreignness of it.

in league with shadows, a shadow himself — it is all the same thing, just masquerading as a difference, as far as ingram cares, or could even, see it.

he remembers alduin spewing hateful, jealous words at him; at the silence ingram clung too in the months before sithis. it has given me everything. he rasps, for it his truth, at least.

in truth, it was all home. found confidence that borderlines arrogance; but he was willing to give all of the credit to sithis and the void.

at first, perhaps. ingram admits. she introduced me to the daedra princes, and he'd zeroed in on the dreadfather with unparalleled obsession. the rest was wholly my own decisions.

Everything.

Exousia did not scoff at this, though she felt that it wasn’t true. She wanted to tell him that he had given himself everything, that a wolf had given him life, and that he – a wolf, not a shadow – had the potential to facilitate new life as well as take it. She wanted to say that they, as wolves, were more powerful than any reptile, bird, or ungulate, and that no other predator could stand against them when they came together as a pack…

But she was quiet; a wolf aware that it was best not to try and talk someone out of their own beliefs. They would have to come to that decision on their own, and she was not old or wise enough to articulate her own thoughts without the sound of high-handed self-import.

I see, she said after a contemplative beat. His experiences were his own. She could not dispute them. I do not anticipate such a thing, but should you ever find your faith… less than fulfilling, we should speak more. I see our paths crossing again.

The steel harpy looked out across the river, her eyes drifting with the iceflow. You mentioned another pack. Akashingo? What are you thoughts of this pharaoh and his queen?

ingram does not — cannot even perdict! — that in time very soon, he would find himself cradling embers of doubt; new, brighter embers glowing into life within him in regards to religion.

he had never considered himself a fickle creature but he tended to go where his obsession led him. for so long his nightwife had been the source of: his guiding northstar.

but her own fickle nature and instability in his life was suffocating it.

i spoke with them diplomatically once, he was not so quick to call them friends but they were neighbors, at least. tentative allies, at best. they and akashingo are strong. not wavering on the very brink of being snuffed out as basilica.

they two speak for a while longer before parting ways.