Blackwater Islands magisterial

would his limbs not have felt so heavy: like lead appendages instead of moveable limbs, the voidwalker would've went to her as she sinks to the cavern floor. the cavern he was summoned to, this flesh and bone body vigorous and willing to succumb to him, his will, his power, his life spark. but the haze of the drugs hold him immobile.

softness is not something the dreadfather knows; not in truth, but there is some sort of twisted and dark affection for his nightwife all the same; though it is perhaps not the affection that ingram had previously known. it is older. deeper. a rough sort of affection that was written in the sky and bones of the earth.

husband.

all feels then as it should be.

well, almost.

he is hungry and this body feels strange ( after affects of the berries ), his head still hums and his limbs now feel less like lead and more like jelly as he tests them slowly. the cavern wall is rough and biting against his shoulder as his weight presses tightly against it as he tries ( and fails ) to stand. on unsteady legs he settles back down into a sphinx-like position.

do not despair nightwife, the voidwalker croons. we are stronger together, as we have always been. as we always be. not directly an answer to her question, for it is hard, presently, to focus on one thing for so long when the hum in his ears grows demanding.

soon, the fog in his head would clear, his legs would become steady beneath him and he would require substance. food, blood, death.