ORIGIN

Shrike was crouched cautiously before The Black Altar. She'd never been down here, before, and the whispers of the Hole were... eerie, to say the least. Kind of thrilling, she had to admit. An adventure, almost, and a promise of power--and the way the voidlight made her look jet black was cool as hell.

Her wings were spread, and she was focused wholly on the Altar. The process had been explained to her, and she'd wholeheartedly embraced the results of her promise to The Warden: she was submitting herself to Chaos, to be forever changed by it.

Shrike held no real sense of attachment to her current magic, or her form. The idea of growing in power, even dripping black, appealed to her. And down here...

...the whispers spoke of things, she'd swear it. She couldn't make out the words, that much was true. But there was a promise of violence in it. A shift, now and then, in the shadows--like soldiers going to war. Like Valkhounds, fangs dripping. Shrike didn't know what to make of it, exactly, but she knew it made her heart beat faster--and not with fear.

Shrike wasn't "praying" in the sense that she was offering literal words or promises to the Altar. She was, however, immersing herself in it. She was allowing the whispers to carry her along; she was willingly indulging in the occasional... what were they? Hallucinations?

She didn't really understand; but she felt that she would begin to do so, soon.

She'd gone back to Canis, of course--wandering here and there, making sure no Praetors were sneaking around. She didn't care, really. Ace had seemed friendly enough, and had he won the battle with The Warden, Shrike would be offering herself up to fungus right now instead of Oilstone. But he hadn't; and so she was here, instead, settling back in for day two.

It was a nice rest, physically. Mentally?

Mentally, she was already halfway doubting her decisions. Twice yesterday, as she'd patrolled, she'd thought she'd seen or heard something that wasn't there. It wasn't just a shadow at the corner of her vision, either, but a clash of them, a ring of metal or claws on carapace, as if someone--two someones--off to the side had broken into sudden combat.

But that doubt was only half of her. The other half found a thrill in it, fed by the nascent Chaos itself: a desire to see more, to delight in the combat, to exult in at least watching it. So she'd been disappointed turning to find nothing there-... and then disturbed by the fact that it was seemingly hallucination. Or was it vision?

I'll find out, I suppose, she thought. Her head tipped to one side as she regarded the Black Altar. "So what are you all about?" she asked it, knowing it would not answer. It was a rock. Rocks did not speak. Then again, this entire cave is whispering.

Only when she'd felt the Corruption all around her seeping through her, saturating her magic and her flesh, did she push up to depart again.

It'd been a couple days, but she was back again. Fidgeting. The visions were getting more... intrusive. It wasn't that she couldn't function; they weren't that bothersome, though she imagined that they'd get worse. She was only just starting to doubt her decision, though. Hopefully, I'll just get used to this.
For the first time, someone's remark had nearly set her off. What would have normally been playful teasing in response, a defusal with biting humor, turned to hot rage. It had been so unexpected she'd shut up and left, excusing herself, horrified by the switch--but fascinated too. She'd made a mental note to be more thoughtful before she opened her beak, just in case.

Twice she'd seen combat, and rushed for it, only for it to vanish like smoke. It wasn't from nothing, exactly. Just the way the shadows in a corner fit together, the way a light flickered--it seemed to become something it was not. And the whispers-... It was similar. A brush of feathers on rock would sound, just for the briefest moment, like a whisper. They hadn't really made words, yet; it was like the sounds here, at the Altar, nonsensical.

But Shrike feared the moment they coalesced. She feared what they might say.

Still, she came. Because she'd said she would. Because she'd been wasting herself, otherwise.

And because she had to know how it would end.

She was... tired.

It was exhausting, making the journey to the Hole almost daily. It was also exhausting being constantly startled by visions and whispers, ones that made her jump and turn. She'd tried, at first, to suppress it; surely she'd get used to it.

But truth be told, she didn't think that was a good idea. Dulling her reflexes, her reaction time to potential danger, simply wasn't smart.

Not that she had a choice; even now the sudden jolt of a hiss beside her ear, or the flicker of shadows at the edges of her vision, had her jumping and turning. It was hard, even, to sleep: dreams (or were they nightmares?) of violence had begun to visit her at night, promising seething battle and boiling blood.

She was not sure if she loved it, or hated it.

Shrike had avoided this place for the last two days. It wasn't that she was afraid of it, or even changing her mind. She had, however, needed a break. The constant urges and whispering were growing stronger and it was harder and harder to control.

Which begged the question: did she really want to progress to a state where there was no such thing as a break..?

Well, she'd committed now. She settled in once again, regarding the Altar with her blank stare, determined if nothing else to do what she'd said she would do.

She was closer to some point of no return. She could feel that; she just didn't know what that point of no return might be... or when.

She'd find out, she supposed. Sooner, or later. Or maybe I won't. Maybe I'll slip past that point, and never realize. Maybe I already have.

She sat quiet today. She'd had nightmares all night the night before, and they had left her both exhausted and restless. Shrike was alternating between fidgeting and nodding off.

"Was any of it real?" she asked the Altar, her eyes opening and staring wearily at it. "Memories, or... visions? Prophecies? Or just what could be?" She sighed. "Or just the crazy wanderings of my mind." Her expression hardened, dropping back to her typical cold stare, though touched by that tiredness. It didn't matter what the nightmares had been; she understood that, really.

What mattered was that she hadn't gotten enough damn sleep.

She settled herself back on her wings, a little; then she yawned and shook her head. "I'll be back tomorrow. I'm finishing this," she told the Altar sternly. "But I'd like to get a good night's sleep tonight, so fuck off, if you don't mind."

Were it truly sentient--and it was not--it might have noted her fearlessness, at least. Hers was a heart born of a giant worm; there was nothing of warmth or love or terror in it, not now at least. Not from simple nightmares.

Shrike hauled herself back down the Hole, suppressing a yawn.

When she'd first come here, it'd been with the wide eyes of someone seeing magic for the first time. Her sense of awe and of potential for the future had filled her with excitement.

Now she was just really tired.

Admittedly, she had slept; but most of it had been fitful, again tinged with horrors. The worst part was? She was starting to enjoy that bit. At some point she'd gotten exasperated watching the wars, and had dived right in, aware at that point that she was dreaming. The taste of blood and the feel of flesh rending beneath her (not very sharp) claws had been exhilarating. And she--again with that wormy heart of hers--didn't feel anything like remorse, horror, or even concern that maybe this wasn't the best path to take.

"Good morning," she told the Black Altar, her words half-lost to the churning whispers. The Black Altar, predictably, did not answer.

Shrike took up her position before it, mantling and sitting back, for this morning's contemplations.

Shrike's visit today was shorter. She was itching for action. For a fight, or a good hunt, or an argument, or... anything. The nightmares hadn't been bad, and so she'd rested--but the dreams had been glorious. The dread was draining away, leaving her with imagery of heated battle, and she was finding that... she wanted that. She wanted the conflict, the triumph. The savagery.

So though she sat, today, before the Altar--she fidgeted. She let the Chaos seep through her, its warmth heating her blood, whetting her thirst for more.

She couldn't wait to get away.

Shrike ruffled her feathes. Yes, she was laconic each and every time she perched here: but it didn't mean words weren't surging through her mind. Questions. Demands. Hopes. Fears. None of the latter two particularly intense; she wasn't much for feeling.

Thinking, though.

Well. She might not have been good at it, but she sure was doing it.

So is this what the future holds? she wondered, at first, shivering with a sense like fever as heat rustled through her body. And, will I look different when it's done? And, Will I still be able to think straight?
Funnily enough, she wasn't really worried. It was just... empty wondering. Faint, distant curiosity without much emotion attached.

But there was curiosity. A curiosity that lingered, even after she'd left the Altar behind that day.

Today, Shrike found herself more deeply succumbing to the whispers. She wasn't sure why. Her fidgets before the Altar turned to a tremble, and her breathing turned to rasps. It was a shift. A turning point, of some kind, though she couldn't have said what.

At some point, shivering through a strange fever, and staring through distant visions of war, she realized she was... leaking.

From her eyes.

Were she a softer creature--a gentle one--she might, at first, have thought that she was crying; but that was not Shrike. It took her a moment, raising wing-claw to face, to recognize what was happening.

Oil. Black sludge, rainbow-hued and rancid, pouring from her tear ducts. From her nostrils. From her ear-holes. Staining her white feathers black--or, here, her black feathers white.

She would not remember the sudden rampage that followed: a mix of exultation, of excitement and of bloodlust. She would not remember attacking the walls, or kicking the Altar. Fighting nothing, until her wings were bloodied and her blood mixed with Oil. Her shrieks of rage and joy would fill that place, the shadows there, and she tore herself from the Hole--dragging herself on wings like a downed dragon--in search of violence.