Blacktail Deer Plateau now I know the boy gettin' restless
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#1
Trade 

It was a glorious place, truly.

He had been stunned for some time as he laid cradled in the earth. Sleep eventually scooped him away into a peaceful place. When he stirred evening was upon the plateau. Long shadows thrown over the land.

His fur remained tangled with remnants of his sleeping spot. Small twigs and leaves. None of it mattered when he felt so content.

His first action was to seek out Ingram, the Dreadfather. Still owed that bone reading he had been promised in the cavern.
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ingram expects the visit.

he stays close to the small refurbished abandoned rabbit warren he chose to store his threadbones and the gifted goat skull the mysterious woman had brought him before his final departure from blackwater islands.

the bones still taste of salt; worried by his teeth and washed with saltwater. soon, he would have to return them to the shore to cleanse them in moon touched saltwater ...but still their sea and moon magick was potent enough.

the dying leaves of the trees that encompass the sacred hallow whisper of approach; the newest recruit's scent carried by the cooling wind.

at the sound of baudelaire's approaching footfalls, ingram half-turns. nestled at his paws is his rabbit pelt of threadbones; easily his most prized possessions. do not be shy. you must be close to me. else the threadbones will not give an accurate reading. they might be tainted with my threads. especially when ingram has to untangle his own obsessive desire with reading his own threads as told by the bones. it was easier to focus when distance was closed, when the one he was reading for acted as a earthly tether.

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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The man is there, with a spread of things. Baudelaire examines each with a greedy sight. Then smiled warmly at his age-mate's words.

I am not a shy man, Dreadfather. He rumbled with a small trace of humor. Although sleep still hung heavy in his voice, telling of his recent rest recovery from their journey here. Carefully he settled himself near the man — practically shoulder to shoulder if not stopped — as he remained mindful of the bones between Ingram's paws.

What do I do?
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good, the rumble that vibrates in ingram's throat aims to communicate. for a moment, ingram's weight shifts as baudelaire draws nearer, unable to decide whether he wants to be seated or stand; deciding last second to remain standing.

their shoulders touch and though ingram wants to move away from the touch, finding it as foreign as how ash paw touched him in her excitement over the garden  — it is necessary. and the dreadfather does not hate it ( despite how perhaps he tries to ).

the touch would help to tether him to the physical realm ...and would help to see passed his own threads and to baudelaire's.

tell me what you hope to get from this reading. a path revealed? a discovery about yourself? a specific question you wish to ask the bones? having a clear of idea of what i'm looking for helps. at least at producing the ideal result, at any rate; though he does not speak this aloud. to ingram, this is a given.

as he awaits, seaglass gaze strays to praimfaya's rib-bones, both apprehensive and yearning to hear the voices of the commanders once more; a clashing, never-ending war of the two cultures of his birth somehow managing to exist within him in without causing too much destruction.

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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It feels like a brotherhood.

Shoulder to shoulder, bones on display. The deepness of Ingram thrummed through Baudelaire. Who then offered his own, deep warmth in response.

I want to see my path here in Basilica. To know who I will be, beyond simple Baudelaire. Basilica is a new start, my new start.

He felt strong in these words and he stood steadfast alongside the Dreadfather.

Baudelaire wished to be more, and he wished to hear these things whispered from some great force.
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just know if the bones do not spin a favorable thread that the threads can change. they show me what can be. nothing is set in stone. but thus far...have they been wrong? perhaps not accurate: the creation of basilica was not built on bloodshed, on war.

none at sacararium had to die for it and he had not usurped to get what he wanted. but that wasn't entirely true. he'd sacrificed an unlucky soul that had came across him.

a necessary evil.

for a long moment ingram is still. with baudelaire's want held firm in the forefront of his mind, ingram grasps the rabbit skin, giving it a small shake of his head, the bones rattling within before he places it back to the ground.

he stares at the bones, at the marks his teeth had worried into them until there is only him and the bones and the soft pressure of baudelaire's shoulder against his; tethering him.

his vision swims and his eyes close; the bones imprinted upon his mind: taking shape as the voice of the voidwraiths, of the commanders rise in his head. a low hum until words begin to take shape.

a crescent moon. snow dusting the ground. a sacrifice laid bare, baudelaire's crown and muzzle marked with blood.

wocha, wocha, wocha — over and over until the word rends itself from betwixt his lips. wocha.

the want to read his own threads is a temptation that tugs furiously at him but he presses his shoulder harder against baudelaire's, relying on him to bring him back to the physical real. he draws in a breath, having been holding it, and shifts away slightly, nudging the furs over the bones so he is not further tempted.

they still call to him; like a siren's song trying to lure a sailor to his death.

the threadbones speak a path of greatness, of forged bonds. the commanders and voidwraiths spoke wocha to me. in my native tongue, it means chieftan. but to ingram, he does not take this to mean that the other man will be a threat. though he has given no real thought of other leadership roles beyond his own, he tucks this idea way.

it is still too soon. too early. but he would not forget.

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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He is silent, and supportive. A steady presence against Ingram's shoulder. When the man pushed harder into him, Baudelaire returned the pressure. Prepared to help him however he may.

For the whole processed perplexed him, but he had never seen someone so serious. This was far beyond any brushes with religion he had had before now.

Yet there is more. Something captivated and enchanted him in a dark twirl, as if the atmosphere of it all could cloak them.

Wocha, He echoed with a soft, budding awe when Ingram had spoken his piece. Greatness. Bonds. Chieftain! He tested it against his tongue once more in a heavy whisper between them.

Baudelaire had not expected to be so immediately thrusted into the beliefs of Ingram. Nor to be so suddenly enthralled with them.

And if I wanted to walk this path, to be known as Wocha...?

He felt lost. Adrift in his own mesmerization.

For a moment his pale gold gaze looked to the covered bones. His own hunger for them began.
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ingram needs to remind himself to share, to shed the fortress-like walls he wants to hide his knowledge in. it was what made him a good keeper to his nightwife ...but now, now he must allow himself to fully become something more.

this was his mission.

forge the bonds. prove to me, and importantly to your pack mates that you have what it takes, that you would be a good choice for wocha. earn their support. he would put the choice to his wolves: their say and support meant more than his own swift judgement. while he could easily, selfishly, let the control be all in his own paws that went starkly against the idea of community he was trying to cultivate.

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.
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I want it.

He said without hesitation, but in it was his promise. That he would work for it. That he would see to this path that had been laid before him. He had been warned that it could change, that it would not be solid, but he could keep this close.

He could strive towards Wocha.

I feel ridiculous as Baudelaire now, before you and the bones. Your visions. It doesn't match very well.

He laughed, tired and warm.

The name of an heir, a prince. A name of a boy, given in hopes he'd grow as a gentleman. Something refined and courtly. Unfitting who he had grown into the last few months.

He hungered for whatever it was Ingram had found on his path, and it had quickly marked him.
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you know what to do. speaks ingram, last, on the rank of wocha and what was expected to gain it. the leg work and what he chose to do with the potential path the threadbones had put him towards was on baudelaire and baudelaire alone.

the judgement and decision was better left in the paws of basilica as a whole. ingram would only seek to meditate, to offer advice if needed.

if you desire a new name, you may take one. i, myself, have had many. it was only recently he went back to ingram holding onto it tightly, possessively like a child with it's comfort blanket. why, he could not say. perhaps it was not meant to be understood, like the warring fury and want for affection he still harbored for his mother felt every time his gaze touched her rib bones in his threadbone collection.

you may consult the bones, if you wish. this is personal. he tugs the folded skin from the bones, in case baudelaire wished to see if they might speak to him. so long as ingram is there to supervise he does not mind others looking at his bones.

it is only when he is not there to watch like the possessive magpie he is that he does not want his bones disturbed.

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.
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Personal.

And yet he felt it because of the community, because of Ingram. That made it far less personal. He almost wished for community in this!

He stared upon the bones with a heavy curiosity — and although he feels a thrum of adrenaline with them, it is nothing compared to the man next to him. There were no visions or words lodging free from his lips in a trance.

He felt hollow. A husk meant to fill himself with what was around him and become something that way.

His teeth clicked against the end of his tongue.

I cannot hear them. He confessed with a small thread of shame. It may be personal, but it was you who led me here. It is Basilica who will judge me on my path. He looked near forlorn towards the Dreadfather.

If I am not yet Wocha, then tell me what I am.

A plea more than a demand.
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though ingram expects the answer — for he has been able to hear the commanders, the voidwraiths all of his life even without the threadbones to channel and bind their energies — it brings a modicum of sadness to him for a moment. his bloodline speaking to him through the threads of their shared soul was a lonely gift. it was not common.

not many can, ingram offers in a low rumble that he tries to make as comforting as he can. i have heard them my whole life ...even before i used the threadbones to channel and bind them. he gives voice now to the inner workings of his thoughts; a lonely truth, perhaps.

still, there is a persistence to his companions' desires. admirable. a desire for a new name, like a snake shedding their skin was something ingram understood well. it was what had inspired the shedding of worripa to take his grandfather's name, though he felt more closer to the borrowed memories of blodreina.

seaglass gaze flickers to the bones once more. you are a druid, the dreadfather speaks. syrax the bones whisper, if you'll have it. strong sounding, and yet elegant enough to match what ingram presently knows of baudelaire's disposition.

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.
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fade? <3

Perhaps it was not a trade learned.

Better left to those birthed with the gift of sight. Baudelaire was not such a man, but he was pleased to know one. One who now called him —

Syrax. Like no other skin he had worn before. Like no title he had ever been given or taken. Syrax was a man who had not failed a political wife and left behind a lover. Syrax was a man of Basilica for the future.

It's mine. He agreed in a near hushed, deep voice.

He had entered a knightly heir, princely and regal. He would continue his path under new ideology and identities.