Arrow Lake relict

blood. thick on thistle, wet and gleaming. stag is there blinking,  eyes glazed over and unseeing. he had followed the cries, excited at first -- only something in the back of his head reminded him that this was all wrong. the scent. the color. the overwhelming amount of it, strewn about like macabre gristle in a slaughterhouse.

his legs were unsteady as he came forth, barely noticing his playmate and friend praimfaya. barely registering the inimitable blodreina. hardly seeing the stranger, gilded in gold and hung by the tail by her own demons.

stag only saw his father, his throat slicked and gaping. stag only saw those proud eyes, devoid and staring. unblinking while he blinked in shock. glazed over in a sightless film. teeth exposed and lip curling. and the blood; metallic and strong and ceaseless as it spread out from under stigmata like a horrid shadow.

"papa?" the boy whispered hoarsely -- to no use. no stirring on stigmata's end came. no flick of an ear, or roving of a shrewd but approving eye. stigmata would never look upon his boy again. or bark orders. he would never hunt or feel the wind as it rifled through his fur. he would never know the exalted taste of victory again, nor experience demoralizing defeat. he would never howl, or run with his pack, or see his children grow.

a whimper pressed from stag's throat. somewhere, something was roaring -- an overwhelming and inescapable high drone that piercingly sounded in whirlwind shrieks -- it said to run, to get away, this was not real and was not happening. it was not real, it could not be real, run.

and the boy did run, while the ghost of his father fled this world in withering silence.