Wheeling Gull Isle a melody; a battle cry; a symphony;
Read Only  July 18, 2020, 02:45 PM
Hela
Saints Of The Dying Light
Blades
timeless, she drifts. darkness envelopes, enfolds the warlord, and in sleep at last is she peaceful. and then—

that sharp tug in her gut, whatever exists to hold her here and together falls away. boundless, unravelling, spinning out of control and ever unwinding. tensing, struggling to hold tight whatever part of her is yet to be lost; it is only futile. spinning, floating, the static crack of electricity all around, and then—

This is where we honor the gods—where we leave them offerings and where their voices are loudest. from the edges, something surges, sending shockwaves through the static. smoke condenses, takes form, and here among the dark is the glow of bi-coloured gaze. maegi. the warlord locks gaze with the woman, who's features shift and meld together. silence, and then her mouth opens to speak once more; one side yawns, rips, along her cheek, the side of her face, cracks along the whole of her; yawning dark that engulfs the smoke-made. static cracks in her ear, but the words find her still. 

Do you hear them?
Do you hear them?
Do you hear them?

a crescendo of noise, inexorable, indescribable, wordless. her own voice among it, torn apart note by note and distorted into the noise. the static grows louder, more poignant, the taste of electricity tangeble, every shift of energy tearing into the foundation of the melonii. sparks, white light in her eyes, burning as they settle there. blinding as the darkness sucks at them, pulling them back into itself. the static roars, and then—

something collides, heavy. they are entwined, she bleeds. it is suddenly, starkly without sound, a quiet the likes of which she'd never before lived. even the thrum of her own heart is absent, there is only this struggle. the give, the take, the feeling of something giving beneath her. this is familiar; this moment she has dreamt oft. the feel of the warlord fading, faltering beneath her fangs, the pounding of her heart, of his, and then only hers. 

it takes form, a darkness that is void, heavy. fangs to her throat, bleeding, fading. eyes on hers, empty, everything. she does not move to avoid them, can not do anything but stare into them as the darkness becomes stagnant, fixed. an overwhelming pressure, one that takes all that is her and forms it again into a wolf. jaws part, she falls headlong into the eyes. 
can you hear us now?