Ankyra Sound kotor
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Ooc — Bees
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#1
All Welcome 
with a longer coat came a kind of disability for the komondor, his mesmerising tassels trapping heat debilitatingly near his body, forcing him to conserve energy during the day so he could look for food and a new location by night.

this place would do until the sun sank past the horizon. great, living forest of thick canopies. beautiful.

he was sprawled over the roots of a crooked and mossy tree, belly exposed and tongue loling out, tasting the moss.

he neared sleep, or was just leaving it. it was difficult to tell even for him.
[Image: MOP6.png]
godkiller; bleeding golden ichor
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Ooc — delaney
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#2
hope you don't mind me! <3

the dreadfather does not stray too far from the blackwater islands that the druids call home; but they do venture out — more than ingram had, at any rate. they do not feel the need to be a homebody, especially as they were looking to involve themselves in so much more than ingram had.

they pace the length of the sound, pausing to peer over their shoulder at the outline of the islands across the small stretch of sea that seperates the mainland and island; cast in an outline of shimmering gold of the setting sun. it is beautiful and for a moment, the dreadfather soaks in it before ultimately scoffing. what a mortal thing: to admire the beauty of something as simple and trivial as the setting sun.

their attention refocuses back upon their task, deviating only when they cross an unfamiliar scent trail. following it out of little more than their own curiousity, the dreadfather lets out a low chuff at the presumably slumbering beast — hard to discern entirely what he was though scent told the dreadfather it was at least canine.

magick, threadbone reading & 'godhood' is to be taken purely with a grain of salt and are written to be creations of ingram's imagination and religious faith.
sold my soul for a cigarette
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#3
going, definitely. the dog snorted as sleep claimed 
him, and for a moment would've guessed the chuff a part of his dream - were it not that the wolfish sound was intruding upon a fantasy of intimately knowing a pair of the neighbor's border collies.

slavo raised his head, bangs tussled in such a way that they permitted him to clearly see - and yet he again believed the tall, dark, handsome stranger another manifestation of his desires.

the bard smiled, tongue still out the side of his mouth.

"о. дођи дођи, мили, derez room f'r yeu too." 

torvithreadtorvithreadtorvithread
[Image: MOP6.png]
#4
this miiiiight be just a cameo... skip me!

As sunset neared, Ego forged a path through the sound and made straight for Blackwater. He paused when he came across a scent trail he recognized from the islands; one that clung deeply to the Listener herself. The Keeper, he presumed.

Curious, the wyvern hunted for the other wolf, pausing quite a ways away when he noticed the dark wolf interacting with... Well, he didn't quite know what it was, but it was pale, with strange corded fur, and somewhat canid-shaped. Or, perhaps it was some sort of mutant ungulate. With the wind out of his favor, Ego kept his distance and watched for signs of trouble. He would approach to defend the Keeper, if needed, but he was otherwise repelled -- almost eager to turn on his way if nothing seemed to be afoot.
godkiller; bleeding golden ichor
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#5
the strange canine-like beast draws the dreadfather's curiosity, despite themselves; especially when the beastie speaks first in a strange tongue that the voidwalker does not understand and cannot grasp and then in common tongue. though if the heavily accented words could be considered common was for another day all together. even so, it was familiar enough that the dreadfather was able to discern what was spoken.

no. best you wake before you become a meal. speaks the dreadfather ( ignorant of the acolyte observing from afar ); tongue drawing across his teeth.
blood of sacrifice had yet to be spilled and still the dreadfather sought something fitting. something to sate — for the time being — the very worst of their nature.

the dreadfather drawls in the scents again, tasting the salty air. in all of their lives the dreadfather could not say with any certainty that they'd come across one such as the beast before them. not wolf. the conclusion is merely solidified in their mind even before they utter the word aloud. so, what are you?

magick, threadbone reading & 'godhood' is to be taken purely with a grain of salt and are written to be creations of ingram's imagination and religious faith.
sold my soul for a cigarette
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#6
the dog blinked. those words seemed to ring too clear to be something of his own mind.

and even he couldn't indulge himself enough, to imagine a man with a voice as masculine as that.

he stretched, legs skywards, before rolling to be on his belly, coat gathering debris as if made for that.

he crossed his forelegs at the wrists, replied with a smile, although his bangs now concealed the mirthful shine in his eyes.

"dag." he said. it was a simple thing.

"bat in dept-hh: aem ae bard aend songster!" his heavy tail thumbed, raising dust. 

now he tilted his head. "pleez tell mi mai hambl preh-sents hasn't dischurbed yeour peace?"
[Image: MOP6.png]
godkiller; bleeding golden ichor
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dag; the strange canine-like beast responds to their question...as if it explains anything to the dreadfather. it does not, unfortunately, even when they try to piece around the thick accent. so, for better or worse, they are left to piece together assumptions of their own creation. given the canine-like nature and the fact that they are able to ascertain that it is not prey ( at least not as far as they've ever seen with ingram's or their own voideyes ) they ultimately label the dag as an inferior species.

i see... murmurs the dreadfather; letting the simple conclusion dangle off their lips for a moment as if they were going to add more despite having no real intention of doing such. a bard. repeats the dreadfather, not sure how such a thing was useful.

well, useful for little more than being a sacrificial lamb.

no, the dreadfather drawls. my peace is not disturbed. they murmur, letting out a small, amused noise. tell me bard, the title rolls off of their tongue, honeyed and sickly sweet. are you a wanderer? the lack of discernible scents tells the dreadfather that it may very well be true, but such things were easy to hide.

magick, threadbone reading & 'godhood' is to be taken purely with a grain of salt and are written to be creations of ingram's imagination and religious faith.
sold my soul for a cigarette
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#8
he was oblivious, enchanted. once, he guessed the wolfish beauty would lose its charm, but still he found himself drinking in the dark stranger's presence, the way one might enjoy quality wine.

so he found no reason to hesitate in his answer.

"ai aem!" the komondor grinned, tail pounding.

"ai gou from place t' place, see many wonjrous things! such as th' roll of waves, th' azure wachers, crimson sansets aend yeaurself." 

the grin persisted.

ingram: *planning to sacrifice this weird mopman to his dark and nameless deity*
slavo: *twirling his hair* ahaha hiiiiii ;3 <3
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godkiller; bleeding golden ichor
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#9
the dog's answer is assumed to be 'yes' by the dreadfather, their assumption merely being confirmed with the affirmation. it's of little matter, despite how it might be used to their advantage. or not. though the dreadfather could decipher prophecies left by their subjects still lingering in the void in the lay of the reading bones ( the very same that ingram had used to unknowingly commune with them ) they could not pretend to predict the future. it was murky; not their realm.

you flatter me, the dreadfather purls; honeyed and cloying with sickly sweet poison. their favor was not always a good thing. it could turn. except, perhaps, in the case of their nightwife but she alone was the exception.

even if it's true. a ( believed to be ) god in mortal flesh was, indeed, wondrous.

magick, threadbone reading & 'godhood' is to be taken purely with a grain of salt and are written to be creations of ingram's imagination and religious faith.
sold my soul for a cigarette
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#10
words and honeyed voice entrapped the bard, and had his joints the range, his head would've set to his palmpads with a dreamy tilt.

slavo sighed, then rose. he stretched his back and shook out his tasseled coat, ridding it of the chunkier bits of forest floor debris. with a motion he shifted the bangs off of his eyes, and gave the tall, dark stranger a warm smile.

"tchell mi," his head tilted, inquisitively leaning in to better take in the man's scent. "vhat kind ouf laif does ae shorewolf laik yeau lead, vhen nout being ae sight for sore eyes?" the "sore eyes" in question, glimmered like a boy's.
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godkiller; bleeding golden ichor
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#11
a small twitch of their lips; a silent exploration of their newfound power.

the question is inquiring, but the dreadfather feels the familiar reluctance to share their secrets — and by proxy, the secrets of the druids and their nightwife. such things were only meant for those who have earned beyond 'acolyte' among the ranks of blackwater.

many things, the dreadfather breaks their silence. i do whatever my nightwife requires of me. truthful but so very far from specific.

magick, threadbone reading & 'godhood' is to be taken purely with a grain of salt and are written to be creations of ingram's imagination and religious faith.
sold my soul for a cigarette