Barrow Fields marked graves
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All Welcome 
Pelagius wasn’t a roamer at heart. He never had been. The moaning choir in his ears agreed. So, when he had set out from the forests and the shores, he hadn’t had a destination in mind.

This place, piled high with the seeming mounds of graves, called to him. So, here he went.

He had been digging practically all sunset, and with the moon to his back, he came to the realization that, perhaps, this was a fruitless endeavor.

He had dirt and dust clinging to his pelt for nothing. He turned to glare at the skull, sat innocently upon a rock not far away.

You led me here for what?

Reason reason reason

Ghosts weren’t the greatest communicators.
godkiller; bleeding golden ichor
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i couldn't resist! <3

restless like the voidwraiths that seethe in their home realm, restless as the untamable sea. they are drawn from the bleeding forest of the ravens; untethered. besides their joining there was only one — ash paw — that ingram has associated with and spoken to. they venture out; giving a soft rumble of relief as the hum of the voidwraiths settles.

the mounds loom in the distance and along with them a ghostling.

but not a ghostling!

seaglass eyes take in the familiar shape — their shadowson! a low croon of greeting leaves ingram's lips as they draw nearer.

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 croon brought his head snaking back into a painful s, cornflower eyes finding the slinking dark shape of his father.

Oh. Oh!

He whipped his head to the deer skull, giving it a wild grin. This! This is what the ghosts had been chittering, crooning, wailing!

He bounded up with a wild yelling sound, the boy sounding more coyote than wolf in that moment, bounding a short few feet away from the hole he’d dug.

His wild eyes never left Ingram, and his smile never left his face. But one of his ears remained constantly facing the skull behind him.
godkiller; bleeding golden ichor
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son, the dreadfather croons in a low, smoky rumble of greeting. as close to affection as he was ( presently ) willing to show; letting the boy come to him with his wild, coyote like yipping. it echoes among the mounds and it makes the fur at ingram's nape prickle with a shuddering slither of pride.

seaglass gaze takes note of the skull carried by his son — pelagius, as ash paw had called him — and pride tips the voidwalker's chin up. pelaguis, croons the dreadfather, then. you have returned to me? a question offered disguised as a statement.

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 knows

Knows knows knows.

Tears prickled in his eyes, yes, he was Pelagius.

She told you…and you understand. He whispered, stood on the tips of his toes, as though ready to spring into a run at any point in time. He wasn’t, just adapting the posture out of want to do something.

Yes. I go nowhere else. He breathed out, fast and quick, his ears straining forward. He was a far cry from the youth Isangrim, though he thanked the boy for what he’d given him.
godkiller; bleeding golden ichor
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of course. rumbles the dreadfather in low affirmation; attempting to reassure. for how could he not understand? he desires to ask but bids those words at bay, swallowing them back down. they held no place here. you are still and always my son. he adds after a moment of drinking in the boy's appearance: just as he remembers it but different. older. growing.

you have met ash paw, ingram knows this only because the woman herself had told him, was the reason ingram had set off to find his son in the first place. he had assumed that they stayed with his nightwife, though was glad to be wrong. i am building a pack of my own, ingram tells pelaguis. would you be apart of it? it feels almost like a silly question but still, ingram holds true to the belief that any he recruits should come of their own will.

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 boy released a sharp, sheer cackle, like ice tumbling off a cliff. It didn’t appear as though the noise meant any sort of amusement, just something Pelagius had locked in his chest.

His eyes though, were wild and white rimmed.

Yes yes yes yes I did. He responded, dancing in place as though waiting to shoot forward at any time. The mention of a new pack brought his anxious fidgets to a stop, as the boy stared, for a few moments, before slooooowly letting his head tilt to one side.

He would always be a Druid. Buuuut he could be something else too.

Wherever you lead, I follow.
godkiller; bleeding golden ichor
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would ingram have been anyone else, any way else, he might've found the boy's cackle to be unsettling. instead, he is unperturbed by it. the knowledge that he has met ash paw was confirmed: by both parties and yet still, the dreadfather gives a sage nod of his head. while he is not yet entirely sure how to entirely communicate and guide his son, he is sure that time would tell. or perhaps, if not time, then instinct.

good. we have claimed the plateau. he speaks; simply. it was aways from the sea but near enough to the coast that they were not entirely cut off from it. it is called basilica, ingram speaks the name softly, slowly, as if he were casting a spell. you will start as a druidtooth, as all under a year do, he explains. but there will be plenty of opportunities to rise within the ranks.

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