Blackwater Islands doing something unholy [ ritual ]

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The participants have indicated the following reason(s) for this warning: potential trigger warnings of gore, mushroom induced high, death of npc

with the sugary sweet moonbeams of the new moon to lead them — though they need no guide — the dreadfather leads their sacrifice across the sandbar to the islands. it thrums with new magic, as if the void and voidwraiths were as eager for the spill of blood as well.

ingram lets out a low, throaty laugh, peering over their shoulder in a manner that could be described as seductive as the poor wolf: an beast of unfortunate circumstance, very much following the thread of in the wrong place at the wrong time follows.

it is willing enough, even if the dreadfather has spun honey coated lies of seduction.

it was almost too easy...but the threadbones have shown them that this was the first stepping stone to their ascension. to power. and they craved it.

eat. ingram croons the command to their sacrifice, gesturing to the 'shrooms that they've dug out and set out on a stump in preparation with scarred muzzle.

a sweep of their salmon pink tongue, a pause, before they take their own share of the mushrooms and devour them. they taste like sweet poison, lingering upon their tongue. as they wait for the effect to set in, their seaglass gaze trails lazily upon their sacrifice: pale pelage reminding them with a sick twist to their belly and a low blaze of hate of praimfaya.

the voidwraiths manifest from the writhing shadows of the islands, lingering outside of where the moonlight touches, which is the dreadfather's cue.

they stalk forth and circle close, teasing the stranger with nips and touches, trying to hold back their disgust at the praimfaya look-alike. even now more than previously, his mother's features taking sloppy form in the shadowveiled and fogged world.

the last nip draws blood and once the metallic tang lingers upon ingram's tongue they go for the kill, seeing no need in drawing it out unnecessarily.

relief and euphoria surge through him as the sands stain red with crimson. drink, my daedra. take from this body what you crave and leave what does not suit you for the crows. for the dreadfather, it is power, the bloodlust high that comes from killing and they linger in it even as they let the sea wash away the blood and the smell; a salty cleansing before they make their way back to the ravensblood forest.