The omens, both good and bad, had been slipping past him as of late. Keeping to the day had thrown Phocion off-balance, for now he was awake most hours, watching the stars and recruiting under the sun. He had become an insomniac, constantly wandering, muttering prayers. Like one crazed, eyes staring wildly. So obsessed he was with his quest for followers that he'd even stopped grooming himself, his usually immaculate pale fur disheveled and slightly matted.
Today, the white priest wandered the coast, up and down, looking for faces to charm. At Silvertip, he'd lovingly left @Cortland and @Poet, the former healing--praise Fengari!--and the latter holding down the fort with aplomb. He had no adequate words for how thankful he was for the pair of them; he couldn't have chosen better first disciples. . .but beyond their loyalty, their friendship was what he valued most. He smiled as he thought of them, winding his merry way beside the sea.
There were caverns nestled in these cliffs, black and glistening with sea spray. After taking a short rest in one of them--constantly fighting slumber--Phocion rose and continued his journey, keeping to the cliffs rather than the sandy mainland above. Seabirds flew above his head, occasionally diving, but none brave enough to get close to him. His cerulean eyes scanned the flat line of the sea, glittering in the sunlight.
For all the tribe scorned the sun, it was quite beautiful. Gold, like Cortland's pelt. Perhaps it was a bad omen that he'd chosen a boy with such a color to be his best friend, but Phocion found it nothing less than fortuitous--Cortland didn't choose his fur, after all. And now, as he walked along the cliffs, basking in a warm summer's day, the priest began to wonder whether there was really anything to this whole "sun is evil" concept. Maybe they were wrong.
Phocion laughed out loud at these errant thoughts, this inner blasphemy. They said Fengari heard all, even what you kept silent. To speak against him was a grievous crime. And imagine what the tribe would say if-----
The rocks gave sudden way under his paws and he scrabbled, trying to regain his footing and found no purchase. He plunged down, down, into the crashing waves below, spearing into the icy water. His head broke the surface and he gasped, sucking in a hasty breath of air before he was pulled under again.
This dance with death continued for a few more minutes until--exhausted from the struggle and from staying awake for so long--his pale body went limp, unconscious, eventually pulled out to sea by the tide, like a white plastic bag in the already-polluted ocean. Was it Fengari, jealous of his traitorous thoughts? Or had Iliana claimed one of the greatest warriors against her, dealing a serious blow to the children of the night?
Whether he was found by anyone or not remains to be seen; whatever beach he washed up on was not one in the Teekons. Some would say he floated forever. Others would say he sank like a stone to the bottom, eyes glittering like gemstones in the murky water. . .
. . .And still others would say they saw a salt-drenched wretch of a wolf, pacing the southern shores, muttering nonsense in a garbled, broken tongue. Lost.
Today, the white priest wandered the coast, up and down, looking for faces to charm. At Silvertip, he'd lovingly left @Cortland and @Poet, the former healing--praise Fengari!--and the latter holding down the fort with aplomb. He had no adequate words for how thankful he was for the pair of them; he couldn't have chosen better first disciples. . .but beyond their loyalty, their friendship was what he valued most. He smiled as he thought of them, winding his merry way beside the sea.
There were caverns nestled in these cliffs, black and glistening with sea spray. After taking a short rest in one of them--constantly fighting slumber--Phocion rose and continued his journey, keeping to the cliffs rather than the sandy mainland above. Seabirds flew above his head, occasionally diving, but none brave enough to get close to him. His cerulean eyes scanned the flat line of the sea, glittering in the sunlight.
For all the tribe scorned the sun, it was quite beautiful. Gold, like Cortland's pelt. Perhaps it was a bad omen that he'd chosen a boy with such a color to be his best friend, but Phocion found it nothing less than fortuitous--Cortland didn't choose his fur, after all. And now, as he walked along the cliffs, basking in a warm summer's day, the priest began to wonder whether there was really anything to this whole "sun is evil" concept. Maybe they were wrong.
Phocion laughed out loud at these errant thoughts, this inner blasphemy. They said Fengari heard all, even what you kept silent. To speak against him was a grievous crime. And imagine what the tribe would say if-----
The rocks gave sudden way under his paws and he scrabbled, trying to regain his footing and found no purchase. He plunged down, down, into the crashing waves below, spearing into the icy water. His head broke the surface and he gasped, sucking in a hasty breath of air before he was pulled under again.
This dance with death continued for a few more minutes until--exhausted from the struggle and from staying awake for so long--his pale body went limp, unconscious, eventually pulled out to sea by the tide, like a white plastic bag in the already-polluted ocean. Was it Fengari, jealous of his traitorous thoughts? Or had Iliana claimed one of the greatest warriors against her, dealing a serious blow to the children of the night?
Whether he was found by anyone or not remains to be seen; whatever beach he washed up on was not one in the Teekons. Some would say he floated forever. Others would say he sank like a stone to the bottom, eyes glittering like gemstones in the murky water. . .
. . .And still others would say they saw a salt-drenched wretch of a wolf, pacing the southern shores, muttering nonsense in a garbled, broken tongue. Lost.
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