Blackwater Islands the destroyer of nations

the dreadfather paces along the islands that they refuse to give up despite the dispersal of what had been left of the druids. it was still their home, their land — theirs.

the mid-morning is sunny, warming upon their back as they pace along the shoreline, ignoring the cold froth of seafoam that licks at their paws as they make their patrol. so the first batch of druids did not work out — such things happened, they reasoned. there was no reason to abandon their home when it could be rebuilt. recrafted.

seaglass gaze glares out at the mainland for a moment, letting the seabreeze whip at their fur for a moment before they continue on with their vigiliant patrol.

Will gladly delete if you want to recruit rather than just have a conversation.

Thistle finally she made it on weakened paws. Barely able to stand, she swayed with the breeze. She couldn't remember where Ragnar's new grave was, but she was certain she could at least die where she had reared her children. Though the grave would be more fitting, she felt. Since she had died the day he had. Something dark had taken hold of the tiny healer, and it had never released her

She could smell a border, but she couldn't force herself to move. Too Tired and too weak. So she simply sat for the time being. Hopefully she wouldn't get attacked, before she could gather her bearings and figure out where she was. Her mind had been a strong one, and even now the knoweledge of where she was going was there, but she couldn't make herself bring it to the surface. She needed a few moments.

Small paws took up little room, while tawny tail curled about her paws. She lifted her nose to sniff.

she is drawing nearer to the void; this the dreadfather can sense as they come upon her. an unmistakeable elder of whom had lived a long life.

their seaglass eyes take her in a second time upon their approach; feeling the familiar prickle of wanting to defend their home despite that they remain the ever patient and sentinel of it. the druids would return ...or they would find new ones.

either way, the dreadfather awaits all the same.

closer and closer they draw to her, not inclined to chase her off. they are the voidwalker, communer of the dead ...the daedric's version of the ferryman.

they give a low chuff in the hopes of grabbing her attention.

She was no longer alone. The a chuff sounded. Eyes snapped to the male approaching. Azure eyes took in his face. She remained neutral, but her fur rose slightly.

The wolf had sea colored eyes. They were pretty. Reminded her of better times. Had they been born here were they e related to someone. She briefly thought of her children adopted and non. Any of them could've had children. Though, that was neither here nor there.

Hello. I apologize if I'm near your claim. Unfortunately time is not my friend and i had to rest.


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a soft, noncommital noise leaves them as she first apologizes and then speaks what they suspect. time is not my friend. ah, but life is eternal, speaks the dreadfather. even in the void where they reigned as the supreme power there was still life. still memories, loves and pains. bodies decay but souls do not. they offer, as if their words could be some beacon of solace. either way, she does not come off as being afraid of her end: merely that it was invetible. and it was. the void came for them all.

eventually.

you may rest here, the dreadfather allows, reclining upon their haunches. she is elderly and they have not had company since ...well they spoke to their hosts' estranged sister. this is blackwater. once and perhaps will be again, home of the druids. she hadn't asked but they feel a sort of unspoken kinship with those close to death: the only time that they display any sort of emotions that could be considered close to kindness.

borne out of their fondness for death itself.

She smiled. This is true. My soul is for Valhalla. I was a shield maiden and a healer in my time.

Thistle was not fearful of death. She had many years to come to terms. And simply put she was tired. Had been tired for years. She wasn't strong as they thought heart wise.

Thistle eased into a more comfortable position at his leave. Thank you. she sighed.

She blinked at him. My mother used to tell me of druids, and gods Atka and Sos.

She looked around. It is beautiful here. They will return. She nodded in affirmation, as if speaking it aloud would make it so.

She motioned a bit away. I raised and bore children on the rise and the bay. I've come home, to where my life began, for it to end. It seems fitting.

She dipped her head. I am Thistle Cloud Lodbruk, but you may call me Thistle.

He didn't need her name and she did not need his. Perhaps a small part of her, wanted someone to remember her name. At least for a little while. Because she had no one and nothing left.

the word 'valhalla' means nothing to them, though they assume by the context that it is her form of the void; and the names she gives. atka and sos — strange names. neither of them draw any form of recognition from the dreadfather. still, they offer a soft nod of their head; content to listen.

to draw in the tangy seabreeze on each breath, the soft whip of it thru his fur like salt dusted fingers.

the voidmagick will call them home, they murmur in return, agreeing with her assessment. it is normal, i think, to wish to draw your last breath where you hold your happiest memories. they have lived many different lives in many different bodies: and this appears to hold true as far as they are concerned.

thistle, they drawl in a low rumble. i am the dreadfather. keeper of this isle.

Thistle had not been a follower of Atka and Sos, though her mother had been of Atka if memory served, but she was old and it was long ago.

Thistle enjoyed this wolf at least for a time. He listened well. And she found she wished to say much but nothing came to her tongue. She allowed the silence to grow to swell, and yet it felt perfect for the two passing a moment in time.

Thistle lifted her head to feel the breeze, closing her eyes in ecstasy.

She spoke in a whisper, afraid to stir the air. I had never been to the sea before I came here and after i left i yearned for her greatly.

Thistle opened her eyes to meet his sea green ones. Well met dreadfather.

they listen as she speaks; contented to let her tell whatever she so desires, without feeling any sort of need to interject. the dreadfather is quiet for a beat and then another before they break their silence; lips parting to finally speak in their familiar rumble.

nor have i, a soft sort of familiarity is found in the sharing of this. my nightwife chose this place ...and even now with the dispersal of the druids i cannot bring myself to leave. for a returnal would happen. they can feel this in their bones.

There was a soft sadness tinged in his words or so she felt. To hold vigil over that was what left. Yet it proved a strength of spirit too.

Thistle nodded. There's something about the sea. My dearheart, was a northern wolf, but he loved the sea. Never went far from it after coming here. I'll see hom again soon. 

A soft smile lit up her gaze. She shifted. Her body beginning to ache as it so often did.

it appears to the dreadfather that she is content with her coming passing: she has, at the very least, come to terms with it; though her words leave them to believe she is ready. the dreadfather assumes that her 'dearheart' might be the equivilent of their nightwife. a soft pang of yearning resonates within their chest.

their thoughts flicker to the void, a different sort of yearning swelling within their chest.

the sea reminds me of the void. wild, mercurical. dark. like home.

Thistle closed her eyes again. Salty sea breeze tickling her nose. Sand shifting and ever moving beneath her paws. How she had missed the sea. But more than that she missed how she used to belong somewhere. She had been adrift for so long now.

Thistle opened and stared out at the sea. I can see that. It claims souls as the Void does. She could only assume that he was talking about the veil after death.

the quiet yawns between them: the dreadfather and thistle cloud. it is comfortable and the voidwalker feels no need to fill it; and though their silence lingers a few moments after she speaks, they eventually part their lips to break it.

i was thinking more of it's mercurial nature. a wiry smile tugs at their lips; a ghosting thing that does not linger long.

Thistle looked out at the depths eyes on the darkness beneath the waves and she nodded her head. A bit like your fur. A mix of different colors. I like to believe there'd be color there. And the sea. Well there are many mysteries there, perhaps.

She said no more. Her thought not complete, because she wasn't even sure what she had been trying to say. She sighed and lowered her head . 

The worst part of dying at my age. Is losing the memories that used to drive you and unable to form coherent thought.

She felt fine spilling her truths to a wolf, she would never see again. Her death was close now, she could feel it. But she couldn't ever explain how she knew it. It was just one of those innate things.

the way she puts it: that their pelage is like the void is not a way they have ever thought of. but it makes sense in the dreadfather's mind that their physical appearance should reflect the sworling darks of their true home. many, they murmur in quiet agreement. if one is brave enough to look and try to unravel them. not even the dreadfather knew every secret that the void held; and perhaps that was apart of the fever spell it held upon them. that even their creation covets its secrets and mysteries from them.

a soft noise of contemplation is given though it might've been swallowed greedily by the ebb and flow of the tide as it crashes upon the shore.

still, a long life is a blessing few get. which was their way of saying that it was, in their opinion, worth it.

Thistle gives a soft smile at his words. Realizing she can no longer stay in this position, the pain is becoming unbearable. She slowly, achingly stands and studies him. She touches his pelt with her nose and gives him a gentle lick to his muzzle if he will allow. Honestly, just craving that one physical touch before the end.

She peers up at him and smiled. Thank you for listening to an old she wolf prattle. Your druids will come back. I am sure.

She backed up and began a slow pace towards Shield Maiden's sorrow in the bay. She felt it a fitting place to die, given that she couldn't remember where her husband's grave was.

She had no one to bury her, her body would feed the creatures of the wild. She thought about briefly saying where she was heading, but no. It was not his responsibility to take care of her body, besides why would it matter if scavengers picked at her corpse, she wouldn't be in it.

normally, they'd have balked at the gentle touch of a stranger's tongue to their muzzle. only their nightwife could touch them — but thistle cloud was soon for their realm ...though they remind themselves she did not call it the void. valhalla. the void. to the voidwalker, it was one and the same. if it offered her a small comfort before her next journey than the dreadfather endured it.

kindness was not normally in their repertoire but death could be frightening for many and as the reigning prince over the realm after death there was a strange sort of want to comfort those close to death.

go tall to valhalla, thistle cloud. the void awaits you goes unsaid as they watch her depart the islands, to, they are left to assume: her final resting place.