Witch's Marsh blight

shifting winds; winter into spring; the magick of her season fading like a breath exhaled. the prophet traveled by night, swift as she cut across the land back to her precious islands.

on the third night, the spirits went silent.

almalexia stood alone in a dark place of turbid waters and tall reeds. eyes closed. breath stilled.

the night came alive with whispers once again.

— for him

stay!

you will stay —

him, him, him

wait...

in a blind fury the prophet staked her claim over the marsh. she tore a path of destruction through the wetland. a warning. a beacon. ever dutiful to the spirits, almalexia tucked herself deep within the marsh and fashioned herself some watchful swamp-witch, some vengeful spirit waiting in the night. here she would wait for @Ingram.

she would not wait forever.

when the moon next disappeared from the sky she would seek the refuge of her islands again. until then... she would see what chaos she might sow among these soft valley wolves.

when morning came, the prophet emerged revitalized. she shook out her dark furs and began a slow prowl along the marsh's perimeter. it was ingram she watched the horizon for, but her thoughts were elsewhere.

her islands. her skyrock. her god.

This wasn’t marked private so I assumed it was open… but lmk if not and I can delete! <3

So the hunt began. 

A dark witch was what he sought—whether one of the druids as his own lineage or one of something darker he did not particularly care—

— what he cared of was the threatening howl that had loomed across the creek like a dark cloud, leaving in its wake fear and distrust. 

And anger. His wolves were not to be trifled with—if anything had been learned from the birth of this pack was that they were not one to simply place aside threats with a shrug or smile. 

So when luck was upon his side and his stocky form found her own weathered one within the marshes, he felt the vicious heat of annoyance press upon him, his snarl echoing his intent quite clearly when his pale champagne eyes lingered upon that of a mismatched gaze. 

And so he would quicken his prowl—as one did when they found the prey they were looking for.

under light of sun she was discovered, not by a daywalker but by one who belonged to night. one wreathed in violent intent and the scent of his creek pack. the prophet watched with sharp eyes as he descended upon her. silent and still, until that very last moment, when the creek wolf might have crossed the last of the space between them.

in a flurry of dark fur she turned away, to lead him further into the marsh. languid, as if in play, to begin; then with a dart she widened the distance again and turned to address him.

choose:

answers, or blood.

he would only have one from her.

thank you for joining <33

Thank you for this. <3 Want to do dice roll?

He did not quicken so fast after her. She lured him to the marsh—a place he believed to be deserted for the most part. In many ways, it worked better for him—spare the slickness of the land and swamp.

She demand he choose something from her—she would give him answers, or blood. It was an interesting wrench on the problem she had proposed—for while he liked Reverie, he trusted her about as far as he could throw her. Her narrative was often flighty—whimsical, and, at best, she was a wisp in a daydream.

That still wasn’t enough to tempt him for whatever reasoning she felt she had—she had come to his lands, threatened his pack mate and saw fit to leave before addressing anyone. It wasn’t hard for him to determine which one was more damned in his mind—“Blood,” he spat instantly, and then he lunged.

Blood might not have been his true intent—chasing her from the valley was. But what would be would be—

—and so when he closed the distance between them, it was with a rushing snarl and a snap of his jaws to seek her out—make her submit, if he could grasp the snaky creature.

blood.

perhaps these valley wolves were not so soft as she'd thought. she delighted in the violent nature of him, the thrill of the hunt. was she hunter, or hunted?

the prophet made her own choice. she turned to lead him further into swampland.

blood he would have, but not without first earning every drop.

she took him through brackish waters, further from his pack with each step. the forest to the east: there she would slip away from her pursuer and back into shadows. almalexia whipped around with a lash of her tail to send water flying at his face. she sought only to taunt and evade for now, anticipating that he would strike at her.

let's write it out <33 almalexia won't stick around for much of a fight but is open to any damage aside from facial wounds for the next couple rounds

Akavir is also good for some damage/scars that aren't life-threatening.

She lured him further—he was aware of this—he did not care. The woman had sights on his own clan and posed a threat—the spray of water was nothing but a game.

Born of water and living by water—the swamp lands could sluice against him and it would not deter him. Blinking against the brackish water, he was swift in his attack as he closed in upon her. Low to the ground, ears back and teeth on feral display—he used his size to barrel her, fangs slicing to her haunch, keeping his own face from hers, his anger palpable. “Swamp lands call to witches like you?”

In turn—the Mayfair’s were a divine culture of themselves. But never this dark. They turned to the oceans and the fresh water—not to the dirty bracken of the swamps.

it was her islands which called to her.

but the spirits demanded that she stay, demanded that she bleed, and so the prophet merely twisted away with a scoring of teeth across the dark flank of her assailant. aware of the warm trickle of her own blood into cool waters, she took to her path once again. in truth she cared little for the golden woman and her abomination of a child. the wrongness of them appealed to her, yes,

but it was chaos she truly desired.

curses and abominations call to witches like me, the prophet sang out, and led him through the waters once more.

perhaps he would begin to doubt.

Sharp teeth found purchase to his own flesh and drew blood—his snarl thickened, and where she tried to lure them deeper, he bound forward now, a dive to her side, moving to herd her back the way they came. Whatever game she felt she was doing bringing him further into the swamp would end—

—She offered nonsense in return—of course it drew his own questions. “Leave this valley and find your chaos elsewhere,” he demanded before another lunge, this time, to roll a shoulder forward and knock her to the muck and dirt, teeth following suit to pin her with the intent to sheer at her back and spine.

if there was doubt in him he hid it well. almalexia tried to evade his rush and was thrown into water rather than dirt. for a blink in time she knew nothing but water and her own blood. the whispers of spirits. she would not die here.

the prophet twisted and found purchase somehow below the water. she tore herself away and surrended her game in favor of flight. east, to the forest. almalexia was a darting shadow in the water, never once looking back. she left blood in her wake, the blood she had offered him.

let him think her gone.

she would return.

thank you for the thread <333

She went to the swamp waters—under a deeper part, and when he dove in after her, teeth thrashing to the waters, they come upon nothing but a mouthful of the dark waters.

She found her purchase once more, and his eyes shot up, following her darting form as she went east instead of south or west—further into the lands rather than away. He snarled—eyes sharp upon her as he watched. “I’ll find you,” he called after her—a booming promise. And this time, it would be more than him.

If she wanted to play stupid games, then she was surely after a prize that would be in far over her head. She would find no allies in this valley—and he would be certain to inform their own to be on the lookout for the witch.

Thank YOU for the thread. <3