Otter Creek her wagoner a small gray-coated gnat

In her delirium, Megara has wandered from her family's new claim. As she grows more and more detached from the world around her, she prowls in wide circles around Blackfeather Woods—yet the spirits that dwell within that dark forest are vicious, unwelcoming. Certainly not the gods that Meldresi had worshipped, that Megara had been brought up to love.

Whatever magic once lay in that forest is now surely tainted. Megara is sad to know it.

The ticks that have lodged themselves in her ears, in the warm spaces between legs and belly, beneath her tail. . .they are an annoyance. But more sinister than the itching is the disease they carry; she scratches and scratches, and some fall to the ground with effort, but there is no stopping the poison in her blood. Megara grows frail and hot, out of her mind with fever.

Perhaps if she were a younger wolf, she could effectively fight off the virus. As it is, the crone staggers along, walking with no particular destination, seeking out old faces. Meldresi. Miraak.

She sometimes sees their indigo eyes among the fireflies, blinking back at her.

The old rogue collapses by the creek, incredibly thirsty yet too weak to slake that thirst. Her muzzle dips toward the water, skimming the surface. She laps, slowly, savoring the coolness on her burning tongue. It is the last concrete thing she will remember.

Megara Melonii dies, quietly and peacefully, on the banks of the stream so near her sister's legacy, with only a fleeting thought on the wolves she leaves behind. The Void welcomes her, as does her brother, and all the rest she has lost over the years.

It has been a long and enjoyable life in service of Mephala. Megara leaves with no regrets.

Mature Content Warning

This thread has been marked as mature. By reading and/or participating in this thread, you acknowledge that you are of age or have permission from your parents to do so.

The participants have indicated the following reason(s) for this warning: Cannibalism / Recycling (depends on your point of view)

He'd awoken by the river in a mental fog unlike his usual poppy-fueled fugue, like he'd been sleeping for weeks. His memory of the black bird came in erratic waves. The flickering of a shadow, or the deep boom of a tree scraping against its neighbor, or even that sweet smell, caused images to flash to the forefront of his mind; a void-like blackness seeping in to the world around him, the wsk-wsk-wsk of beating wings, the roaring of a dragon; he couldn't have made sense of it then, and the flood of disjointed memories did not clarify in any real sense now. But that scent remained familiar enough. He could recall eating sparingly from corpses without bones; they held a mineral scent that made him wary, and a musk which prevailed across much of the expanse where he'd been penned-in. Mou had no knowledge of humans or their practices and did not think too hard on the subject, but now he was home - or close enough to it - and the world seemed different.

The sweet smell was like the fresh scent of a newborn except it was twisted, there was something foul underlining the aroma which sort-of reminded him of meat left for too long - or the meals he'd discovered during his time away. A sour quality. But the ghost could not resist drawing closer to investigate. He'd learned to trust his instincts more than his senses, and while he had been relentlessly questioning of the meat in his enclosure, he had learned to look beyond the sight or smell. Meat was meat. Mou was not picky, and as he came upon the shadow-cloaked body by the riverside he felt the familiar pang of hunger without any of the guilt as he closed-in and inspected the lone stranger. Their breathing was shallow for a few minutes longer, but as a final breath erupted from them Mou felt a thrill pass through his body.

He sniffed at the stranger's face, the drying saliva that dribbled from their gaping mouth. The sweet scent was there - an illness, perhaps. The body itself was well structured, though their coat hung in dregs and looked thin in places. Old age could have taken its toll on this creature; he thought that they looked peaceful in their death, but perhaps in life - and in youth - they could've been pretty. There was nothing about the body that hinted at affiliation but Mou was not thinking of politics or pack claims, only that he was hungry, so he could've easily overlooked something. He inspected for a few more minutes before finally succumbing to his need.

The ghostly creature descended upon the body in silence. The wheezing of his breath was all that foretold of the effort Mou put forth, cutting with his incisors, plucking at the deceased creature's coat, peeling back muscle — he sought out the softest meat first, savoring the warmth as piece by piece went down his throat. It took some time; he would not eat much to start off, hungry as he was. Some of the pieces he'd bury for later - but soon enough, Mou was flanked by curious crows who had taken notice of the feasting ghost. He watched them for a moment as he cleaned the vibrant red from his snout-tip; his cheeks were stained crimson.

When he finished, he moved on.