Dreaming with eyes open
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1371yo Male, Tall & Average Canine 7 posts 0 Honor 0 ☪ Scamander
#1

Dreaming, it had been a memory of the past, an unending reservior to the connection he had with the world, its power, and the endless, twining streams that bound them together. Long ago, Nyx had believed in that connection, had worshipped the Gpds perhaps not in reverence, but in truth. They had brought them from nothingness and shadow, had given them life, and so, he had pronounced them real. His dreams, in these many aeons, had been silent, empty, an entrance into the void where all things perished. They offered no rest, no peace, only a hollow, aching truth that his light had long choked on the ash. He was uncertain, how long his mind had been in stasis, how much time had trickled away. Flashes of red burned the horizon, burning, freezing, the magic left untethered licking against those left alive, and those slowly crumbling away. The war had ruined more then the land, equine and wolf killing more then just their enemy. Something vital had broken, something of Ourania itself.


His body was cold, his bones laden with steel. Polished garnet appeared dark against the snow, the world around him pale, bled dry. Laced with snow amidst his ashen fur, Nyx drifted in and out of existence for a time, hours, days. Even now, the marks of the war had littered remained, etched in ice, the blood long having washed away, leaving seams of silver and black. Misty eyes opened, only to clamp shut, a muffled hiss the only sound to be afforded in the desolation.


His world went white again.


Night fell before movement broke the ice, a shell turning to diamond dust upon his back. Nyx shuddered, and the snow bled red. 


The snow muffled all sounds, all songs, his pale, imperfect eyes looking out across the silence, and with a sigh, mist touched his lips. Earth and sky blurred together, even as once more, the enduring essence of his kind kicked in. Nyx walked. Each step left shadow in the snow, each step brought him further from the den amidst the snow that had kept him hidden, had become his bed since Ourania had rejected him. The place that could have, should have, become his grave. He walked, for he knew not else what to do. Flashes of dreams phased through his vision, blood, the screams of equine fury, their hooves cutting as daggers through the onset of an advancing force. How long that battle had raged, he could no longer be certain. Both sides conceding there would be no end, until one ceased to be.


How many had survived?

"Speaking" | Thinking
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12yo Male, Tall & Average Equine 4 posts 0 Honor 83 ☪ Berb
#2
Rhyfel. The knight knows Him just as he knows Y Gwag—that formless, spiritless nothingness—for they are kin and kith, the three of them. Rhyfel, Y Gwag, a Gwythyr. They are that which makes bones, grinds them to dust; that which fills the halls of Uffern, that which empties the world. War. Black—for the smoke that fills the sky like a portent of annihilation, choking the sun; congealed blood around pale, rictus grins. Hearts, those which are festered, and those which have feasted—black, all the same. 

It binds and it severs, in equal measure, not just those on opposites sides of the sword, but those on opposite sides of the universe. For Gwythyr can sense Rhyfel here. In the hard and harried tracts of stone—red-iron mausoleums; what little that grows around the edges, feeding on what has been laid bare at the roots, like plaintive offerings to faceless, merciless gods. Horsehair and dogbones. 
And, perhaps, he can see it in the worried, timeless lines of pelt and paw, crook of claw and clouded-red of eye. It is what draws him to a stand, horse and wolf—(Rhyfel, rwy'n eich gweld chi)—that, and the knowing boon of Y Gwag, though this blaidd may not even realize how close they have become. 

May know it by another name.

The Void. Emptiness. Nothingness. Greyness. Y Gwag, by any other name. That which Gwythyr had fought for, summoned Rhyfel for! Ground bones to dust, drained blood from lips! Spilt smoke into the sky! Feasted and festered. Who he had turned his back from Diweddolau for—singular in his godhood, though He may be—for, in the shadows, he was made to see the frailty of divinity and worship.

“Blaidd.” It is a deep, hard rasp from his scarred throat, marked by the soft sawing of bone and the clack of teeth. White vapour spills from the empty sockets and spaces between his molars, wreathing his haunting grimace. Pale, green orbs—like embers from a rotten fire—piercing despite their pallor and otherworldliness, unblinking from this stranger-wolf’s form. His body is tight and coiled; in the cast of night, he is left with face bereft of flesh and muscle. “Hmmm… brawd Y Gwag. I am Gwythyr.”A marble-white skull in the moonshine. With the countenance of a soldier, He stands, among whale bones and ice, in the path of an everlasting creature of origin, a grim emissary of the End.



-- @Nyx
Hover for translations.
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1371yo Male, Tall & Average Canine 7 posts 0 Honor 0 ☪ Scamander
#3

He walked, his steps a symphony of iron upon stone, the clash of fabled endurance, the infallable ambition of one who had never known another way. Once, there had been the thought of peace, once, those who had come from the Garden of Eden had not seen foe in the fellow beasts, creatures brought from the web, mere infants truly by the hand of the sculptor. Once, perhaps, the world had been untouched. Maybe then, Nyx would not have been but a spear, a bloodied blade polished by the slide against bone, the steel kept subtle with the rub of fur, flesh his clothe, blood his oil. Many times the shaft had broken, and yet, those who weilded him had never cast the make aside, for such armorment no longer came from such masterful hands, form the original creators. 


He walked, for it was in his nature, consumed by the promise, the lost and tattered dreams of a man who no longer existed. Long has the void reclaimed his light, leaving the wolf amidst the twilight hour. The sun would not come to him, not this day, or any day to come. Only the burning pain, his gaze flinching where the forge lanced across the primordial tomb, here where life had fallen to the whims of Whitewalkers and Wraiths. Beneath him, Nyx knew the abyss opened into oblivion, there where all things were cast from view, hidden, lost. It was better to forget the horror of the wars, the lost ones, then to crumble beneath the guilt. He walked, for until he felt the stability of the ground beneath his steps, he would find no path, no draw back to the raised battlements and arrow chipped baracades that had endured the dissension into madness. There was no time to acknowledge his own shortcomings, the scent of languor that came with such near misses. His body had healed in stasis, as well as it could, the marks present yet long having ceased oozing, his eyes, while no longer ravanged, still held their flaws, the crystal fogged and degraded. 


Nyx had born his cloak of crimson for far too longer, had known the colors of conflict long before the foul taste of old blood yet lingered on his tongue. An aroma, a poison that never quite left him. Time was an ally here, a spinner of morale, his body returned to its strength, driven in ravenous hunger, and in the fleeting energy left to accumulate in the time since he had fallen along the embrace of the void. Nothingness, had bee his only companion, all these long months, an immortal body held on the cusp of death, unwilling to falter for the simplicities of nourishment. The moon cast his path, brilliant upon the ice, a mirror world of darkness above, and shining white below. It was what made the ghoulish fiend stand out, a man masked by the cretin grin of the scavenger, its flesh like the carpace of a beetle. Moon-blind eyes peered forward, seeing, but not, a imperfect view, angling his crown, his own wraithish grin morphed as he lingered on the Equus Bane. He knew its smell; wraith, death, emptiness. He carried that very same hollow shadow within himself.


 He did not know the words, had not heard this script peeled away from the page, brought into the light away from the hoarding flame, yet, he knew the intents, could taste its elixir. "Creature of the night, how bolden you are in the light of the moon. I am Nyx, her watchful eye."

"Speaking" | Thinking
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