The Wall i put my fears inside

the wall is a constant looming earthen titan, pressed against the plateau the wolves of basilica call home. it is in the early throes of the misty morning that ingram follows the easy path down from the plateau, where the whitefish river curves along the rockface of his own home towards ravenblood forest and begins the trek up the wall.

though the path is wide and relatively easy to follow: not appearing to be too treacherous ( to his relief ) the loose rocks along it are slick with damp. it makes his climb slow and gradual to where the path leads to level rock which heightens the sense of relief he feels at having reached it.

he is reminded of arrow lake, though minus it's most defining features: the lake itself and the giant boulder that served as a massive family grave. a low rumble vibrates in his throat as he explores, mindful of his steps.

all around was frost, was frigid ground and biting air. each breath brought primal hurt, each step froze paw from claw root to toughened pad. thin fur of face was cradled by a wind that kissed with barbed tongue.

it felt like life. like living, the purest kind of it. the heart beat on despite how the world wished to stifle it it's rhythm.

breathing was and act of defiance. the body followed a goat's path hugging the cliffs, eons old rock crumbling beneath its step.

oi! could we foredate this thread to at least the 19th? a-okay if it should stay on the 14th ^^'

absolutely, it's not time locked! <3

the beast whose footfalls follow ingram's path is not immediately recognized as canine. the massive amounts of fur that overshadow it's face, at first and then second glimpse, remind him immediately of a bear. a spike in his heart rate and then a third look, closer this time, dissuades that thought. there is something canine about the muzzle but not enough for ingram to discern either way.

still, he remains despite his trepidition.

a low chuff breaks the otherwise quiet: a garner for the beasts' attention.

warmth was needed by the pulsating core. so it was that the parts which stuck out - the paws, the ears, the snout, - had gone numb with ever-present cold. them deemed useless beyond the basic function of guiding the walk along this specific path, the brain had reason to disbelieve them. winter had a way of creeping into the skull.

the blurred shape was most certainly not wolf. neither was the musky odor of a well-fed animal. large tracks in the cracked ice weren't there either. the chuff...

...the chuff was a joke played by a dimming mind.

and yet the walk was stopped. not by belief that something indeed stood there, but by wish to explore the make of this mirage.

in reply, there was a muffled half-bark, the best that throat could approximate to a wolf's way of greeting.

a muffled half bark follows in the wake of his low chuff and ingram studies the beast further. canine enough to sort of bark, ingram deduces — though it does little to soothe him. he still is not sure what halfbeast is that stands before him.

a glimpse below offers a map of the plateau, stretching out before him — before them; before seaglass gaze cuts back to the halfbeast.

what are you? demands the dreadfather.

when the reply was heard, the flews pushed back. the edges curled like old parchment set afire.

"a body." the statement given; voice gruff and quivering, speech akin a lazy river. "tis newborn... like godly son was... not too far of this date."

thin ice crunched beneath pads, as the sedate march continued.

"ah... and i do know thy make. thy soul, it doth barely quiver afore winter's breath."

the answer the half-beast offers to his question is a literal one; drawing a small disdainful frown upon ingram's lips. the half-beast calls herself newborn and mentions something she calls a godly son. an actual child or something else?

though ingram could draw a rough line between the dots of information the half-beast offers him, he ceases being able to do so as she keeps speaking, ice cracking beneath her large paws.

a soul? her's? and winter's breath. the months of hoarfrost hold tight, kicking up the soft wind that breathes down his spine, more notable here upon the wall that overlooks his kingdom.

speak plainly, halfbeast. commands the daedra prince, as if his authority reached up here in the wilds of the wall.

"the halfbeast... has done so." came the reply. rimmed with hollow laugh ascending as mist. 

"thou art... a strong spirit. but flesh tires. if thou an't a guide... disperse. this halfbeast has... much left to study."

the path leveled itself to where the apparition stood, deceivingly solid. the walk was to come nearer, or past it, to watch it turn vaporous, or conserve the mind's frail sanity.

to ingram's amusement she uses the name he calls her for herself. there is a small rise of satisfaction, cruel in it's nature that nestles in his throat. almost like laughter caged there. have you? challenges the dreadfather, churlish smirk tugging at the edges of his lips.

ah, but i am no spirit. ingram informs her grimly. not anymore. i am flesh and bone, like you, halfbeast.

mild curiosity grips him, nesting beside the uncertainty that has taken root within him the moment he set seaglass gaze upon her. study what?

the walk did not at any point slow. not until the deep-buried eyes could give the spectre - claiming solidity - a proper appraisal

( it required the neck to bend, as the difference in height was too great ).

long marred muzzle. face masked, two charcoal lines making a cross.

and the eyes. they stirred one memory; a dead child. it was the last sacrifice bernadette made. she had believed sweethabor the answer, and would have been by this sight made to rethink it -

but bernadette was long dead and rotted.

thick, black lips slid back, revealing yellow-stained grin.

"what maketh one more... than flesh and bone."

a glint in the gaze now tilted towards greying light.

"thou sayeth... thou's become corporeal. that so... pray tell, how spirit did achieve so?"

she poses a question instead of answering ingram's own. though he feels a slight rise of annoyance at his question going unanswered, he decides to humor her. magick. he replies with a coy tug of his lips. a tether to the void.

but for each daedric prince, it is different. he is tied to the void, to the realm of the dead. of the wraiths of the past.

a willing host. a violent and passionate ritual. a sacrifice.

"ah. these ears... doth hear. compelling." the great head twisted to the side, watching the mist escape the wolf's black nostrils.

how convincing.

"and what use... is thine flesh and bone? why choose... fallible... anatomy?"

what ground a spirit to fickle mortality?

she seems, to ingram, to possess an inquisitive nature. he assumes this because of her peppering of questions. true, his desire to take flesh and blood was not one his deadra kin would share in. a bargain of morality unwillingly taken.

because of my nightwife. it is the most truth ingram feels like sharing. can share. their relationship was tumultuous and unusual. full of obsession and dark magick that played upon every deadly sin. it was not easily understood by many other than themselves.

black lips curled again.

the thoughts were; that will end in tragedy. that will end in regret.

the thought was; that would be wonderful to watch.

"do say... spirit... that's abandoned void." and the spine arched downward, head tilted back, grey light seeped into eyes. 

"wherefore couldst... this halfbeast go... to learn what thou know?"

would this be a walk much longer than predicted? would these paws carry brain seeking stimulus far past the boundaries of these wilds?

to learn what he knows... an impossible task, surely!

knowledge gained and knowledge kept and knowledge slipped in the space between the void and this fleshbone body.

but he could teach her what he knows now ...if she was receptive to it. if she showed promise with the threadbones ...if she was willing to join basilica.

i could teach you, the dreadfather replies, seaglass gaze contemplative, studious as he takes her in again. but not here. not outside of the ranks of my kingdom, basilica. how deep did her pursuit of knowledge root, he cannot help but wonder.

would she joins his ranks, become his student? or would she seek the knowledge to learn elsewhere? questions that ingram does not have the answer to.

basilica.

eyes widened. clear whites framed black circle of iris and pupil.

"basilica..." finally, the undisturbed stare upon this specter-faking-life broke; ground encased in opaque ice was its next target.

curves of brain distended with fat memory of a corpse. 

"one thing." the head rose again, quickest movement so far displayed. the voidwolf seemed as frigid as air so high above.

"permit... a touch." and the left paw rose, but dared not move further just yet.

fear was; this was that old madness again.

ingram takes her request as acceptance of the offer, even if he hesitates for a moment ...unsure where halfbeast's desire for a touch stems from. it is an odd request, but perhaps, he considers, not so strange when he considers that she may think he was still incorporeal.

she gives him the option to refuse and for a long moment the daedra prince considers it: the only touch he was not inclined to shy from was his nightwife's.

but despite his hairsbreadth moment of deliberation, ingram moves towards her, pressing a shoulder against her upheld paw. i am fleshbone, halfbeast. he rumbles in what he means to be reassurance.

beneath the pressure of pads; thick fur. cooled coat. firm muscle. warm meat.

it was the fleshbone wolf that moved, not the paw, left hovering in air as rigid as the face, irises still white-rimmed.

the paw was set, the head tilted. peaks of folded skin shadowed the face again.

the laugh built from a stuttering, heaving sound. released in full, rattling frame like a bad cough, it wasn't too far off from bereaved sobs.

and it was the sound of utter, defeating relief.

"...ah. this halfbeast, shalt follow thee, fleshbone saint." curled tail swept the backside in light wags. "speaketh thy wisdom; guide these thoughts."

last post for me. feel free to archive as is or archive with your reply. <3

fleshbone saint.

a title that ingram finds himself preening over, despite that saints were meant to be paragons of good and he, decidedly, was not.

saint.

something about it makes him latch onto it, though. a familiar obsession that he feels far too often.

come, ingram tells halfbeast with a gesture of his scarred muzzle. i will show you the way.