Noctisardor Bypass of a leaf, a stone, a door; and of all the forgotten faces

Please do not join until Illidan has posted. Set three days from today.

Goodbye, buddy... you will always be my favorite character.

The storms had echoed thunder overhead for several days. They had risen the waters of the rivers and drenched the earth in showers. Through this, the scents of his children had grown faint and vanished altogether. Still, the ghost searched for them.

Ephraim’s trail had led him through a slew of territories until he had lost it. He had wandered for hours in hopes that he could find it again. The scent of his sandy son had almost been forgotten by the time he had been forced to give up. The burning of defeat had settled in the pits of his belly and smoldered there like a dimly lit fire. Starlight had glimmered overhead, fixing him on a path back to where his mate was waiting for news of their pups. Rhakios, Illidan, and Ephraim were gone.

Kierkegaard was never supposed to have been a parent. He had never carried in him the abilities that most possessed to tend to the needs of children. When they had been forced from their home in the grotto, he had withered. When they had been turned away from the borders of Easthollow, he had diminished once more. There was nothing left to the hollow body but an innate need to move forward – onward – so that he might serve the woman he loved. Though he knew that he was returning with empty arms, he hoped that she would forgive him. Although he lacked the parental skills to tend to his pups, Kierkegaard would have been glad to return to his daughter so that he might lay beneath the summer skies with her close to his haggard frame. Were that his fate, he would have done it, but the stars glimmered overhead with a malicious intent and it was when he had nearly made his way to the makeshift home of Caiaphas and the remaining pups that he caught a faint trail of Illidan.

The brute had turned sharply, running toward the washing rivers with embers in his gaze. The power that drove him seemed to ignore the pain of his frame and the ragged way his limbs seemed to shake as he moved. The moon laughed from overhead, carrying the voice of his boy. The ghost looked, searching with a feverish intent to seek and return, but he could not see his son. A mournful howl broke the air, hoping that Illidan would hear it and would flee from the lands he had found to return to his family. Kierkegaard waited on the edge of the river with a thrumming heart.

It was said that the night was a time for thieves and scoundrels.

Ghosts lingered in the darkest reaches of the world in wait for the skies to turn dark and fade into black.

Overhead, an owl carried an ominous cry that stretched over the trees and rivers, lingering only in the ears that cared to hear it.

The Trickster had been waiting for many years for this moment.

The ghostly figure of the stalwart hound stood by the river with a watchful expression. The Trickster watched from the opposite bank with gleaming eyes. His dark lips were curled in a devious expression as he peered, unblinking, toward the elder wolf. Laughing softly, the Trickster took to the wind and drifted closer to the bank. It was then that he took the shape of a young pup – frightened and weary – ready to take the life of the one he had coveted for so long.

The Trickster enveloped himself in a dark hood, ashen frame, and watched with glimmering yellow eyes as the ghostly hound stood searching. When his form became known, he cried out in a fearful yip that struck the air over the rushing waters.

Kierkegaard whirled and saw the pup.

Something in his heart seemed to come alive with the prospect that he had found his child; he had found Illidan and he did not have to return to his mate without the body of at least one of the boys. The cool rainy air washed over his frame as he neared the edge of the water.

The river had washed far too high with the rainfall. It tore against stone and reed with a vicious and wicked speed. Any child that would cross would surely have found demise, and Kierkegaard knew this in his heart. He wanted his boy to stay there, to hold to the ground so that he might find a way to cross and help him.

The Trickster whimpered, taking delight in the games.

Then, the Trickster seemed to take a tentative step toward the waters. The illusion of Illidan moved and his paw touched against the frigid lashing of the stream.

Kierkegaard barked in warning.

The Trickster did not listen.

The illusion of the pup stepped into the rushing waters and was swept away. One last pleading cry sounded before it was drowned by the pull of the river.

There was no thought in what happened.

Kierkegaard dove forward.

The chill of the water was surprising against his flesh. The burning of his failure was heightened at the thought of his child washing downstream with no means to escape. Try as he might, the river forced him downward and beat his ashen body against every rock – every jagged stone – that rested beneath the churning river water. Kierkegaard lasted longer than he should have. His legs kicked him back to the surface where he gasped for air before being forced beneath the swell once more. Once, his brutish form would have allowed him to fight for a chance; even the body of a younger wolf would have failed against the fiendish tossing of the stream. Even the most skilled of swimmers would have struggled against the flooded rivulet. As it was, Kierkegaard was neither of these things.

It took him one hundred and thirty-two minutes to die.

Each moment had been a desperate struggle, until he had been washed against every bank and forced against each stone beneath the river water. The life had been beaten from his limbs. And just before he had succumbed to the darkness that threatened to overtake him, he had been pulled back beneath the waters again until his lungs could not withstand, and he inhaled sharply.

Water filled his lungs like lava seeping into his innards. He choked and sputtered, body trembling, but he had nothing left.

A day later, his battered body was washed down into the open lake of the bypass.

The water was gentle here and pulled him to the edge of the shore with careful hands, resting his empty frame against the hard rocks on the side of the lake. By this time, morning had struck out with new light over the beautiful territories. Even the beaten frame of the ghostly figure did nothing to dampen the new sun that touched down on everything beneath her.

Somewhere in the distant wood, the Trickster laughed.

For most, the subject of death was disheartening and full of fear.

Those who were loved were surrounded by their families, begging them not to go, pleading with whoever might listen to such despairing cries that their beloved might remain. Even after their passing, some would mourn, and others would carry a piece of their loved one inside of their heart for ages. Those who were loved were blessed to die so near to the beating hearts of those who were dearest to them. But there were no mourning figures to cry over the battered frame of the winter ghost. His body had washed to shore in the same way that he had been born; alone.

Birds chattered overhead and flew over his still form.

No one to beg; no one to plead for his life to be returned.

As the sun reached the highest peak in the sky and burned down against his river-washed body, the crows began to form. They darted down and landed against his frame, pecking at a few pieces of his tattered skin before flying away.

The empty fire of his molten stare was fixed on a distant tree, unblinking.

old enough to know i'll end up dying, not young enough to forget again