Blackfeather Woods | old |

When had she become so old? Childhood seemed naught but a blink away.

Time stretched out before her like a road, memories shimmering in the dark. Or perhaps that was just. . . No, there was no light here. No light to glint off the tears she shed. They'd stopped eventually, no fluids left to spare. Her mouth was dry. She felt—

Maegi.

The Melonii found herself flanked by the voices and presence of Hermaeus and of Hircine, one of knowledge, one of the hunt. Except when she turned to glance at the daedra, she found the gray of that godsawful scout on her right and on her left. . .

Redsang, she hissed, she growled, remembering the intruder from before. Tasting his blood in her mouth. Tasting Mou's. . . Oh, God, she managed to choke out, and the pair disappeared, leaving her alone once more.

When had she become so old?! Perhaps not old by any sane measurement, but in the darkness she fancied her bones creaked and her body ached. An old crone in a young shell. A baby in a crooked skeleton. A fucked-up—

The shadow of Clavicus Vile bowled her over, sending her stumbling to the ground. It struck, struck, struck—STOP! she begged—and she caught the flash of baleful orange eyes. The Redhawk woman, she thought briefly, and then resigned herself to death. She had escaped it once at the plateau, but now. . .

Maegi.

The assault ceased as abruptly as it had begun. All was quiet, save for the hammering of her heart, the ragged gasps of breath she managed to take. Her lips parted, trembling, a question on her tongue, and then Malacath spoke in Parvati's voice.

Sayidi aleaziz al'akhdar,
'Arhab bikum wa'atawsal 'iilaykum,
wa'atlib minkum hdha bi'adhrae maftawhatin.

SHUT UP! Maegi screamed at the shadow of the wretch, rising to her paws and lunging at a curve that could be throat. SHUT THE FUCK UP!! She stumbled into empty air, wheeling around like a pup trying to chase its tail. Except Maegi was no pup, and she was chasing ghosts.

She was old

Your gods are nothing, a voice chimed merrily in her ear, jesting, pleased as punch. The hair along her spine lifted, a sight that would be magic were it not simply nature. Your gods are your own creation.

Shut up, she whispered, but fainter, weaker, this time. This voice was hers,

And how could she refute herself?

set Oct. 2, still within Mephala's Web