Jan 05 2016, 11:28 PM
((ooc -- this is a private thread, as there's a few things I plan to have happen in it to close everything off. That said, if you have a reason/desire to join, PM me or hit me up in chatbox, thanks! ALSO -- it's possibly pretty dark/explicit, so if that's not your thing, don't read :|))
The dark shape that careened wildly down the halls of the stone corridor seemed to be blind. It ricocheted off a wall, spun hard by the impact, fluttering weakly to the ground. The moment it fell still, the creature was more clearly visible: a ragged-feathered owl, trembling and gasping, staggering up on one crumpled, broken foot.
Seemingly undeterred it rose again, launching a bit farther in another wild flutter that took it a couple dozen meters farther. This time, when it struck stone and collapsed, it simply slumped there.
Tiny heart hammered in the blind owl's chest, racing weakly. He couldn't breathe right, couldn't catch his breath; each time he gasped, he found himself choking on the wet in his lungs. His body ached--every bit of muscle and skin burned, yet he could not get warm, shivering with cold. He felt as if he'd been beaten, battered, and he had: by magic, and by disease. By the blinded, broken flight through Origin Cave, making his way like a salmon back to the place of his birth.
And, like those breeding fish struggling against time and all odds to make it back to their homes, Dark was dying.
The owl tried weakly to pull one wing up, against himself, but failed.
The pain was too much.
Bevy.
The thought was weak, barely there. The owl didn't know it, but he'd been hit dead-on by an irradiating beam of powerful magic, then while trying to recover, had been found by the white raven and the white deer, and infected with a dark plague. To add insult to injury (and illness), the deer had then crushed his foot before departing.
Dark remembered none of this.
He knew that he'd heard his mother going mad, had heard the others preparing to attack her, had tried to intervene. All had gone white and full of pain, and then... Bevy had been gone. He hadn't been able to find her, only to fly off in the manner of a wounded animal to try and recover alone.
That's where Clover had found him, her plague-bearing raven alongside her.
Dark only wanted to rest. To return to Bevy, wherever she'd gone. She'd beckoned him, called to him, insulted him, threatened him. He didn't know it hadn't been Bevy--it had been Clover's, or rather Belladonna's, mind games.
It didn't matter. In his haze, he'd barely understood, anyway.
Like any wounded, agonized, dying thing, he just wanted his mother.
________________
Dark dragged himself into his corner, feeling the gentle crunch of stone beneath him, and he knew he'd finally found the right place. He'd fluttered down the stairs, tumbling, until he found the niche, the crevice from which he'd hatched. There he lay, panting, dazed, his body slipping away as the hours passed.
It hurts.
The owl wondered what would happen to himself. His green gem eyes stared out at nothing, but finally he squeezed them shut.
He wanted water, but there was none, here. The thirst ate at him. Hunger, too, but he didn't want to eat, at least; the sickness made him dry retch every so often, leaving his head throbbing with pain.
With an abrupt sense of detachment, his mind slipped away, and he could feel his magic begin to take on a life of its own. Gratitude pulsing through him at the chance to separate his mind from his pain, the owl latched onto it, pouring the remains of his energy into focusing on the spell.
He wasn't sure what he was doing, or what his magic was doing, only that it was away from the pain, and anything was preferable to his agony.
The dark shape that careened wildly down the halls of the stone corridor seemed to be blind. It ricocheted off a wall, spun hard by the impact, fluttering weakly to the ground. The moment it fell still, the creature was more clearly visible: a ragged-feathered owl, trembling and gasping, staggering up on one crumpled, broken foot.
Seemingly undeterred it rose again, launching a bit farther in another wild flutter that took it a couple dozen meters farther. This time, when it struck stone and collapsed, it simply slumped there.
Tiny heart hammered in the blind owl's chest, racing weakly. He couldn't breathe right, couldn't catch his breath; each time he gasped, he found himself choking on the wet in his lungs. His body ached--every bit of muscle and skin burned, yet he could not get warm, shivering with cold. He felt as if he'd been beaten, battered, and he had: by magic, and by disease. By the blinded, broken flight through Origin Cave, making his way like a salmon back to the place of his birth.
And, like those breeding fish struggling against time and all odds to make it back to their homes, Dark was dying.
The owl tried weakly to pull one wing up, against himself, but failed.
The pain was too much.
The thought was weak, barely there. The owl didn't know it, but he'd been hit dead-on by an irradiating beam of powerful magic, then while trying to recover, had been found by the white raven and the white deer, and infected with a dark plague. To add insult to injury (and illness), the deer had then crushed his foot before departing.
Dark remembered none of this.
He knew that he'd heard his mother going mad, had heard the others preparing to attack her, had tried to intervene. All had gone white and full of pain, and then... Bevy had been gone. He hadn't been able to find her, only to fly off in the manner of a wounded animal to try and recover alone.
That's where Clover had found him, her plague-bearing raven alongside her.
Dark only wanted to rest. To return to Bevy, wherever she'd gone. She'd beckoned him, called to him, insulted him, threatened him. He didn't know it hadn't been Bevy--it had been Clover's, or rather Belladonna's, mind games.
It didn't matter. In his haze, he'd barely understood, anyway.
Like any wounded, agonized, dying thing, he just wanted his mother.
Dark dragged himself into his corner, feeling the gentle crunch of stone beneath him, and he knew he'd finally found the right place. He'd fluttered down the stairs, tumbling, until he found the niche, the crevice from which he'd hatched. There he lay, panting, dazed, his body slipping away as the hours passed.
The owl wondered what would happen to himself. His green gem eyes stared out at nothing, but finally he squeezed them shut.
He wanted water, but there was none, here. The thirst ate at him. Hunger, too, but he didn't want to eat, at least; the sickness made him dry retch every so often, leaving his head throbbing with pain.
With an abrupt sense of detachment, his mind slipped away, and he could feel his magic begin to take on a life of its own. Gratitude pulsing through him at the chance to separate his mind from his pain, the owl latched onto it, pouring the remains of his energy into focusing on the spell.
He wasn't sure what he was doing, or what his magic was doing, only that it was away from the pain, and anything was preferable to his agony.