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.
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.
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Messages In This Thread
her wagoner a small gray-coated gnat - by Megara - July 01, 2019, 05:41 PM
RE: her wagoner a small gray-coated gnat - by Titmouse (Ghost) - July 02, 2019, 06:16 PM