• PM To Join • The pale wings of death

[Varthakh]

It had my leg she murmured, and Fridgar nodded. "It did... You did well to fight it." The last thing they needed was for that monstrosity to feed off more of their brothers and sisters. But, had it all been in vain? Had she succeeded in cutting the tendril, she would have only plummeted into the beast's maw sooner. It didn't matter, terror did strange things to even the most battle-hardened Lothar, much more to the smaller Skald. No amount of looking back on mistakes could fix what was happening now, so why do it? Fridgar blinked, unknown to him, that was some advice that they could use in the waking world.

iI didn't matter. With a shake of his head, he lifted the woman onto his back and spoke his inspiring words. She held the ax, but the fire in her heart was far from bight. It was cold with the creep of death, unlike her blood, which matted his coat. He bolted hard. He didn't have much time before the mists would take her. She needed to be there for the death of this monster, to know that it died by her hand before seeing the twins. Thump after thump, his heavy footfalls echoed across the woodland as they broke the mulch of the forest floor. The panther kicked up moss and sticks as it rushed ahead, hurtling toward the revealed core of the cancer that rooted so deeply into Gauthrel. "For Thetros! For all of Uthaldriaaa!" His voice echoed again in his powerful war cry, coupled with the roar of the panther as they dashed past the necromancer.

All his raw bestial strength and speed, coupled with the simple reach of her arm was enough to cleave the whistling edge of the ax through the necromancer's neck. The hunger of the black-violet ax was sated with the bile of the necromancer's veins, and his head hit the floor of the forest with a thud. The mighty jungle cat slowed to a crawl, then turned to behold Sybil's work to her. The body of the abomination began to fade, erode and blur, then shattered like a broken mirror. The shards and fragments of his being all spun in the air before dissipating into a cloud of fine dust, which burned away in bright ambers that lit the night sky, then joined the stars. The forest fell quiet, not a trace of anything remained. There was no more of the tumorous piles of flesh that dug through the soil, no more of the Jeger, just the woods, the night and the two champions... Soon to be one champion.

"We did it, new blood," he said as he began to transform again. this time, he became a great big Willow Redbear, with deep red fur. His form, like fluid, curled around to hold the dying skald in his arms, then gently lowered her to the forest floor. "You did it. The necromancer's tumorous growth is no more." She was dying now, faster and faster. She'd done her part, avenged her own death and saved all of gauthrel in doing so, she had brought great honor to her clan, her family. "Tell me your name, Newblood, so that I might tell your clan of your heroism." And with that, he transformed again, reassuming the shape of the Lotharren Packmaster, Fridgar. He kneeled at her side, then placed his ax more firmly in her hand. It was how all warriors of the plains should die, and he granted her just that.

[Sybil Malach]

Reality glimmered in the eyes of Sybil. The world began to take on a pale, blue hue. It coated everything, and was deeply ingrained within the senses of the dreamer. Black ichor spattered across the skald's face. The wind whipping in Sybil's hair. It was done. The crook of the blade slid between the creature's neck-flesh. In truth, all Sybil had done, was hold the ax. Fridgar had given the dying skald the means of destruction on a silver platter. But time began to slow, for the dreamer. This was something to be beheld. Not because it was honorable. Not because Sibyl was going to be remembered for something. But this creature. This disgusting, fleshy thing, the embodiment of death itself, was capable of death. It didn't matter to whom the bell truly tolled for. It was to all of the men and women in Idalos. Death was a constant. It was something not unfathomable. Death, was a simple question written on a teacher's chalkboard. There was no meaning for it. All things must end. All stories must close. All food must rot.

In truth, within Sibyl's mind, some machination was churning. Some mode of thought was being questioned, deeply. As the skald's flesh turned cold, there was not any fear. There was satisfaction. There was understanding. Something that would only partially follow the dreamer into the waking world. Only partially.

Sibyl's thoughts were interrupted, as the two finally managed to hit the ground on the other side of the once-necromancer. The skald's hands were shaking. The first things to go were the fine motor skills, as the body began to lock up. Fast, yet shallow breaths are taken, in a desperate attempt to make up for the loss of blood. The body trying to do what it can, as the skald practically has to be held by Fridgar to even operate. There was no question. The stab wounds inflicted upon Sibyl's leg must've severed an artery. Genuine lifeblood dripped from the veins. Cherry pink in color, rather than the dull crimson.

"..." Sibyl was silent, to Fridgar, for a while. A bear was staring down the skald, as Sibyl's blood was feeding into the soil, "Sibyl... Clan Malach." Comes that hoarse voice. Something wasn't registering in the skald's brain, laying against the dirt. Soil staining Sibyl's clothes, the only movement that's had, is the assisted grip on the ax. Those steel jade eyes slowly begin to wander up into the sky. It wouldn't be long now. Fridgar could see the skald's skin becoming more and more pale. The visible heartbeat spurt of the blood was diminishing. Either beginning to clot, or simply running out of blood to pump.

A short, stammering breath is taken. Sibyl's eyes loll to the side. Not quite gone yet. Still hanging in there by a thread of consciousness. The breaths become more shallow. Sibyl begins to see things brighten in contrast, as the brain begins to misfire on the lack of circulation. Fingertips beginning to curl against the dirt and grass. An even slower exhale. The skald's head does not move, but those eyes do. A part of the lips, "... I thought dying would be... Warmer, than this." The skald says to the bear towering over. Their eyes fluttering closed, slowly. More effort is taken to drag the lids open, once more, "Why is... My blood made of ice?" Comes the question. Incoherency, in the final stages of life. Tears begin to well up in Sibyl's eyes, as the joints begin to become slightly more rigid. Less and less blood to fuel the smooth muscles of the body.

Slowly, eyes begin to fixate on the bear. So many questions linger in that gaze. So many things. But the skald's jaw was too weak.

The dreamer had so many questions. This fragment of Sibyl's mind, in Emea, had so, so many questions. Its entire life was a fabrication. In truth, it was more automaton than the full being. The real Sybil was shaped far by Viden than this. Shaped far more by instincts, than this. This was a piece of the puzzle. It did not create a whole painting. It merely... Was a third. A fragmented third, in which genuinely believed it was dying. Of course it believed. The dreamer's mind would adapt, to make the narrative fit, or else it would awaken. It was cruel. Its existence was only one night. But it felt like years. Laughing, and dancing among the Lotharro. Living in a dream that was stolen from Fridgar. Not even living through the genuine place. It was a cosmic joke. The most fake experience, to this fragment of Sybil, was, perhaps, the most real, the most touching, thing that the iceborn was allowed to feel in years. This hurt more than simply dying. This hurt, because this would be forever goodbye. The chapter would close upon wet ink. The pages ruined. Something instinctual knew this, within Sibyl. But it was bound by Emea to never bubble to the surface.

"It's cold..." Comes the almost croak from the dying skald. Tears streaming down those soft features. Lips speaking to a genuine bear. The humor of it was lost, as death approached. Neared. Hovered. Grasped, "Why?"

[Varthakh]

At first, she didn't respond. For a trill or two, he began to think she'd already passed on. He lowered his big bear eyes in disappointment and made a sound akin to a sigh, though more bestial and grunt-like. He hadn't taken her name in time, how would he ever discover her identity, or who to inform of her passing? It was a sad thing to know, that this warrior had died nameless, but it wasn't sad for long. As soon as she spoke, Fridgar raised his eyes and looked upon her. Sibyl... Clan Malach, she said. Fridgar nodded to affirm that he understood, then assumed his ordinary Lotharren shape. His body splashed like fluid and lost shape, then rejoined as though drawn back into his form. "I will inform the rest of clan Malach of your victory. They will raise tankards in your name."

She looked to the side with her dying eyes and her body grew cold. It was one thing to watch your comrades be mercilessly slaughtered at the claws of some terrible beast, but to stay there and watch a pup die like this, young and fresh, it would haunt him. "Cold?" He asked before looking to the sky. Yes, of course, it was snowing. The Lothar watched as a few snowflakes began to fall from the canopy of the trees, and soon, the forest floor was built up with layers of snow. Somehow, she hadn't been buried, it was as though the snow had always been there, that she'd laid down in it. "Cylus is coming..." Fridgar said as he looked back down at the girl. "I'm sorry that you have to die in such poor weather, new blood," he said, then carefully scooped her back into his arms and held her against his chest.

The least he could do as her Packmaster was make her passing comfortable. And if that took his body heat to do so, then so be it. "Don't be cold, Sybil. Don't be afraid. Thetros is kind to those that die with honor." There was nothing he could say to make this any easier, nothing he could do to ease her passing, no matter how hard he tried. "I'm sorry I failed you," he said, then pulled her closer. She was cold, cold as ice. it was due to her bleeding life force. Without as much blood in her veins, it was harder for her body to spread warmth. "You have nothing to fear, it's okay. Be at ease."

[Sybil Malach]

Death came like a whisper on the wind. Though Sibyl's lips parted, to say something, anything, nothing left. For a few moments, it was as though the soul was trapped in some sort of in between. There would be no final requests, it seems. Sibyl was surrounded by warmth. Fridgar, in pulling the skald closer, could feel the chill upon the flesh. It sapped at his own heat, but to Sibyl, it was perhaps the last chance at respite. Slowly, the skald's thoughts returned to the memories shared with the Lotharro. It was all Sibyl had, at least this fragment. It was a lie. A very beautiful lie. A lie that was the kind that authors of fantasy would paint upon frescoes and sing songs about in taverns. That tittering mistresses, and austere matrons would tell. Camaraderie. Companionship. Though Sibyl's eyes hanged open, there was slowly no sight. There was no light.

Sibyl was dead.

The corpse, the once-skald, still had its eyes open. It was hard to tell when Sibyl truly died. There was no last gasp of breath, no hands clutching. All along the way, it was like holding a doll. The adrenaline long since leaving the skald. Perhaps, it was the eyes remaining open that cued Fridgar in. Perhaps it was the lack of a pulse. Perhaps, it was simply instinctual. That primal, chemical bond between pack members finally severing. Whatever the reason, whatever the means, it was an eventuality of a final understanding.

To the fragment of Sibyl, this was the final reality. While the waking Sibyl would remember this as a particularly vivid dream, right here, right now, the last flickering of synapses was the truth. The body, now cold, motionless, with eyes wide open, it was something that would be forgotten as a reality. But the time shared with Fridgar, to this fragment, would always be real.

The Cylus season had begun to kick into gear. It's clear of that. The Cycle of Rebirth had begun on a death. But for the longest time, there was a catharsis upon the air. The deep finality of death. The lack of regrets. The only thing of regret, truthfully, was the age of the skald. The life that had yet to live. Fridgar was the last champion of this ordeal alive. The only man with a name that would live on. The only means of change. The only tether which kept the dream going. Slowly, the dreamer was beginning to wake up. As the last synapse misfired, and the chemicals stagnated within Sibyl's mind, the skald was seamlessly replaced. There was not a jitter in the body. There was not even a change that could be seen, unless a lucid dreamer had been standing around, watching it happened. It was as though the 'soul' had left the body. Leaving Fridgar all alone with the remains.

---=========={ }===========---

Sybil awakened.

Eyes searching somewhere. Anywhere. A cold sweat was forming on the Student's brow. Eyes shaking. Vision failing to adjust to the absolute darkness that enveloped all. A deep swallow. It's clear that Sibyl was shocked by something. A shake of the head. One step at a time. Waking up. It must not have been too far into the night, given how silent it is, in the Carnelian Prism. But Sibyl was disoriented. Confused. Desperately trying to catch breath, that chest heaved, breath audible in this less than optimal home. Alone.

Slumping back against the wall to the side of the bed itself, Sibyl tried to calm, as best as possible. Thoughts were racing through the confused student's head. Eyes had to furrow down. Leaning against the wall. Hands grasped up at Sibyl's head. There was nothing that could be done. To the once dreamer, the waking reality was a bitter chill. The feelings of belonging within the dream: Gone.

The student tried to remember it all. Tried. A nearby quill and notebook: The dream journal. None of the details would be enough to piece anything together. Truly, there was nothing for Sibyl to even think about, in regards to the dream's actual worth. To Sibyl, after all, it was a fairy tale and a half to believe such things could possibly be real. That such men, that such happiness could be found. Could be attained. The Videnese teachings of the Lotharro being graceless, emotion riddled creatures nagged at Sibyl's mind. ... But regardless, the dream was the dream. The Masters of Viden, to Sibyl's knowledge had no domain there. So the details were writ, scratched into parchment, with a shaking, unsteady hand, trying to remember, failing at some parts. It would be flawed. Deeply flawed. The student was no lucid dreamer. But the agonizing urge to write down what had happened, rather than some interpretation was immense, it was nagging at the mind itself.

Sibyl was awake, but was living sleeping.

[Alistair]

Fridgar

Knowledges
Sibyl: A female skald
Sibyl: Impressions of a fearful soul

Loot: N/A
Injuries: N/A
Renown: N/A

Points 15

Sybil

Knowledges
Fridgar: A fraternal Lotharro
Fridgar: Impressions of a boisterous leader

Loot: N/A
Injuries: N/A
Renown: N/A

Points 15

Comments: Oh wow, I didn't except for Sybil to actually die in her dream. WELL THEN. That thread was really cool, lots of Uthaldrian things (Fridgar is obsessed with Uthaldria jfc) that Sybil probably has no idea of and will never have an idea of, but...

Anyway, good stuff. I enjoyed reading it; was very intense, and it had a very cool ending. Props and enjoy your rewards!

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