ORIGIN - Concentrated Magic

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everything moves in the eye of you

"... But return to your stone, if you are near death. It will heal you!"

Throne halted in his struggling, pale eye rolling. It seemed as if he were stuttering on the spot, shaking like a leaf and mind buffering. Perhaps, perhaps his stone could save him - but was it as possible as the great shadow said it was? To simply return to a chrysalis? How would it even be possible? Was it by whim or by force? The lamb bleated softly as he was laid back down, the dark being moving away, now, piercing a hole into reality itself.

Perhaps, it was by the urging of magic that he could return to a warm, comfortable sleep. But, his stone was determined the injury it had caused now, deeming it not fatal until magicka was spent. A soothing numbness drowned out the lightened sensation of his cheek, the coagulation of blood exposed to air and being pushed away by a new flood of it. The flow stopped, staunched by an invisible force and held in place so that it could cake and cover and drown.

He bleated softly, pale eye glowing and stone-beneath-the-skin as well. Sweet relief, however fleeting. All the spell had done was stop the bleeding. The flesh beneath was still rent and torn, needing mere time to scab and scar over. Throne pushed to his knees, at least, before the great shadow returned, somewhat more clear in shape.

It was a little bit shaped like the creature that gave him a banana. Comforting. Warm. Leading him to water.

"Tha-aank you," Throne murmured, careful not to disturb his freshly covered face and lowering his head to lap at the water before simply setting it into the shallow pool. With a few movements and brushing of his wooly coat, the puddle was running a deep crimson. "I - I am indebted to you."

@Black

Black watched and listened in silence, his brow deeply furrowed. Somewhere in the back of his mind, memories ticked away--a writhing lynx, blood-matted; a chrysalis, carefully-hidden and -guarded.

But at the forefront, he was listening, thinking, and watching. He noted with concern the waters staining red with blood, like drops of ink blooming crimson, and this bothered him. The waters must be clean, he thought, but he noticed that now the lamb was laying down its head, rather than drinking. Perhaps the water was soothing, then.

As to its comment--"I am guardian," he responded, simply--almost absently--"It is my purpose."

The unknown spell came and went, magicka drawing in and bleeding off, and he ignored it. He lowered himself to his haunches, instead, and then down to his chest, lying close to the lamb and staring at it. He was trying to think of what more he could do. He could summon sustenance, in the not-very-dramatic form of bananas, himself; but he didn't think that this child would be interested in eating anything, right now. The wound, its jaw-... "I will remain here. If you grow hungry, I can create food."

He wasn't sure if the creature would even survive. He hoped that it would return to its stone before perishing, but he had seen many Lessers succumb to wounds such as these, before their own stones took them.

@Throne

everything moves in the eye of you

Throne curled its lip slightly, baring teeth if only to grit them. Magicka worked absently, directing to mending the more invisible wounds inflicted by blood loss en masse and panic. His heart still beat a mile a minute, lungs working overtime as his slicked-red flanks shuddered. It puttered out abruptly, leaving exhaustion in its wake. The lamb seemed to melt on the spot, unwilling to hold his head up and move it about in the sullied puddle.

Meanwhile, he considered best how to approach this debt, since the great shadow wouldn't accept it so simply. "Have youu - you completed your purpose?" He called quietly, ear flickering and pale eye growing half-lidded. Throne gritted his teeth together more, slipping his knees from beneath himself to lie down. "Let me offer something in return, great shadow. Aid, quests, knowledge - though," the lamb paused, before tacking on, "I've not much of the last to offer."

He wondered idly what the black dog had been doing before, what his aims and purpose were - and how old he was. Those baby blues were light, but seemed to hold a treasure trove of knowledge.

@Black

Black considered, lying silent for a long moment. The chill of the river was cold around them, the metallic scent of blood strong in his nostrils. He scooted closer to Throne, again looking down to him and wishing that he could do more to aid.

As he thought, his brow wrinkled quizzically. What did he want in return-?

"Survive," he answered simply.

Magicka came and went. His consciousness pulled at it, forming its pliable shape, but even with subtle variations, it did nothing.

The hound went back to grooming the lamb, and then stopped again, wondering if perhaps distracting it were the best answer, for the time being. "I am the black dog, Black, Void, of shadow." It was not said in a dramatic manner, but rather, very factual, as if the dog considered himself a title rather than an individual being. "I know many stories of the caves. I have seen battle. Fire and dragons; shadow and storm. Does the lamb wish to hear of them?"

Maybe giving Throne something else to focus on, perhaps even to fall asleep to, would be a good way to help? Black couldn't mend his wounds; he wasn't sure what else he could do.

@Throne

everything moves in the eye of you

Survival wasn't a physical gift - a prize to be given to another. It would be his and his only. But, if the great shadow believed it to be fair terms... Throne would too. An ebb of magicka, a push to warm up by himself, flowed through his body, to no avail. It seemed that simple bout of recovery had spent his reserves.

The lamb simply gazed at Black for a moment. Then, he shuffled haphazardly to lean into dog's warmth despite his own rather dirtied state. Once he made it onto his own four hooves, Throne resolved to clean this mess up and inspect the whole of this damage. Careful to not emote - not too much of a struggle - and tear open his poorly-clotted phantom mask, he hummed, "I am Throne." As if he needed to tack on a title, too, "Blackstar."

Velvety ear flickering, enraptured by the muffled voice of the great shadow, he nodded minutely. "The fire and dragon -" Throne requested quietly, "I'll return with - a story to tell you, sometime."

@Black

"Blackstar," he rumbled, and settled in beside Throne more comfortably. For a moment, he looked distant--and he was; he was thinking that both these names held a great deal of meaning to them. Eventually, he turned to the task at hand.

Black was not the greatest storyteller.

A poet, perhaps, if unintentionally so; his speech mannerisms (and indeed his thought patterns) were, to say the least, rather odd.

In any case, he had a very distinct set of imagery in mind; it was just his descriptive processes that went a little awry in the telling. "Great black wings, from the cave of storms," he began, with no tone of drama, merely his matter-of-fact rumble. "Darkened, air and rock. The beast held a shadow. Shadow: and the light of flame. The Ones who are Old called it a beast of chaos. This place burned. No rock was left cold. The Old Ones said that it must be destroyed," Black went on, "or stopped, and so we came. Guardians, but also the living beings who do not call themselves Guardians. Little things, and living things, and talking things. Many magics, and many sizes, shapes, many colors."

The hound paused in the telling, thinking, remembering Raheerah very distinctly. "How can the Dog tell you of its size..? It took the Spire," and here he nodded off at said Spire, "and hid it beneath its claws and wings. The Dog was smaller than a claw. And the Old Ones, and all the little living things, and the Guardians, with magic and teeth and claws, came in and fought him." He could feel the weaker flow of magicka, now, and as he spoke, he absently willed it into its empty shape, hoping it would somehow help the child. "Cave walls. Rock, lit by painted magic of many colors. It shook the stone, and pieces fell. It broke the floor, and many were trapped. None died. There was light, the light of the Betrayer, and it blinded it; and the dragon--the Raheerah--chased this light, magic light, led away, higher away. Through the roof. The many little living ones and the Guardians and the Old Ones fought well."

Black sounded satisfied, at this (as he released yet another vacant spell), as if pleased at the fight that had been put up against the dragon. "Alone, we were each very small. Except the Old Ones; but together they were many, and the dragon could not win."

He looked down to Throne, brow furrowed--he had always been a good father to his children, but it was a matter of being caring, protective, but not possessive. He had never gotten the intricacies right, and somehow he thought that Throne, despite his wounds, might have just... fallen asleep.

@Throne

everything moves in the eye of you

Odd and disjointed as the tale was, it had Throne enraptured; the dry, veracious rumble the story - or, perhaps, account - was told through made up for the lack of details. Narrative held more love towards actions and flow than eloquently crafted similes, anyways. Without the fat and muscle of overdetailing and figures of speech, there was the mete skeleton. The bare bones were fascinating and new, all on their own.

The lamb had not heard of (or been to) a cave of storms, but he imagined wicked and wild winds tearing at his coat and rain pelting against his skin like icy daggers. This great creature - dragon! - must have sought more fiery pastures than this room, and found that it could only create that by way of destruction.

It had not succeeded, and merely was led away. Blurry-eyed from fatigue, Throne tilted his gaze upwards. Many fathoms could lie between here and the ceiling, obscuring any attempt at depth perception by creatures who've only known the earth beneath their feet. If the fiery beast had encapsulated the spire's immense being with his own form, then - "where did it go? I cannot see a hole large enough to fit the Spire, let alone… such a dragon." His ear flicked. "Was there a pursuit? By creatures with wings and magic?"

Throne ground his teeth - magic sputtering a minute surge of energy in his body. The story's end carried implications: most notably, that the beast of chaos still roamed.

@Black

Black craned his head back, peering at the ceiling.

"There are holes, in the darker places," he decided, even though he couldn't quite see them, himself. The cave was hardly a smooth wall, after all. They had to be there somewhere--right?

His gaze then swung back down to Throne. The creature was managing to speak, despite the damage to its face--it was strong, then, or perhaps some magic was helping it; either way, Black felt rewarded by its distraction. His story had served its intended purpose, then.

He considered the question, and tried to draw the answer out to help further against the pain; it was the only help he could think to give. "There were many with wings. Small, and large. Another dragon; another beast of violence and chaos, friend to none, but enemy to all. Enemy to the other dragon." He paused, thinking, and briefly eyed Throne. Ironically, the white dragon--a selfish, violent beast--had blown its own face apart with backfiring magic during that fight, as well. An eye gone and everything. ...Best not to mention that now.

"There was a bird: Tenzin. It held ice through its wings, and a blizzard in his breath. And a moth: enormous, fierce, angry. It fell from the roof above, and it fought the dragon, and that one died. Its stone had been returned to life by others. I gave my aid," he added in a dignified rumble. He could remember Aether's studious expression; but for its eyes, it would have been a mirror of his own. "It is called Aether," he added, and then thought about this. Hadn't it offered aid, when he needed? Could it heal the wounded?

As Black considered, he felt the magicka whirl back up again, taking its now-familiar shape. Half-absently he formed it, changing its flow here and there, seeing what he could do to make it do... something.

Then he turned his mind back to potentially calling on Aether.

He wasn't sure what it could do, but he was surprised he hadn't thought of it already. He hadn't thought of the moth-creature almost at all in the past few cycles. He imagined it like him: as a guardian, to be called upon in times of danger. But maybe Aether could do something for Throne.

"I can call upon it; perhaps it could aid you?" he asked, tilting his head down to peer at the lamb.

A vibrating sensation grips Black. For a moment, his vision shudders and blurs, doubles and triples. He hears his own voice several times over, overlayed by Throne's and other unknown whispers. The sounds grow louder, the vision grows more unstable, and it all quickens with a sickening pace before it stops abruptly and there is nothing: there is blackness and silence. Like plummeting to the ground, thoughts racing until the impact and then—nothing. Everything lost on his last exhale...

"Hello?" a distant voice. It's distorted. Is it even real?

"You're... you're here." Where? Where is this?

As if being resuscitated, air fills his lungs again. He sees Throne, but uninjured; the vision shifts. He sees Throne, dead; the vision shifts again. He sees Throne as the child is now, injured, failing its magic, trying...

"Oh..." the voice again. Far away. Close. Stuttering and echoing. "Here, like this."

A wriggling in Black's gem releases its magic, flowing toward Throne with soothing, nourishing intent; while new veins and tissue webbed across the expanse of the left side of Throne's face, Black's own flesh began to curl and peel away.

For Throne, it was not painful.

For Black, it was painful enough for both of them.

Such was the blessing of Dawa, the curse of Dawa; a gentle breeze could feel like needles in her skin, but the pain of her partner? Worse. Worse than anything. His scales torn from his body, his flesh burned and frozen, wings shredded and rebuilt—and Dawa, her magic refusing to leave him, soothing him through the process. "I'm here, I'm here," whispered the air, but she was not there. Her stone was with him but her body, her soft wool, her kind eyes...

The left side of Black's face bubbled and stripped away, pieces of it falling away and regrowing in the span of mere moments. It was fast, but eventually he was left with pocked skin and deep scars. Throne was left with a partially reconstructed face, his eye blind, his ear a tattered bit of skin; Black's ear was equally tattered, his left eye also blind.

But the blood for both of them had ceased, scars marring each of their faces; they were safe.

"Like that..." whispered the voice to Black, fading, growing more distant. "You did... a good job... Guardian."

And the presence of her vanished. The magic drained completely from her stone, and she was gone...

Somewhere, deep within the hidden caves yet unexplored, a thunderous roar shook the earth they resided in. Its sound carried through the sediment like an earthquake. Rocks and pebbles and dirt clattered and fell from the ceilings, and the very magic residing in the Spire itself seemed to shudder. A blast of heat followed, spilling from the vents and burning with a rage, a sadness, a conflict he had never known. She was gone.

Spell unlocked!

Failed Timeline
High Intensity Manipulation. Equalizes the health of the user and one target. The user may either share their good health or afflict damage, depending on the state of the user. If the target is in poor health or injured, the user afflicts themselves with half of the target's injuries or pain, alleviating the target somewhat.

everything moves in the eye of you

Throne wasn't entirely convinced that there were holes in the ceiling - though he'd be proved very wrong in about five minutes.

Regardless, there had been many different creatures facing off against the chaos beast. A single, common enemy had united the denizens of the caves - though it could be a mere collective need to survive another day, continue to wander and be as they pleased in these caves. The lamb hummed softly, though he couldn't formulate a response - or consider this Aether - before Black succumbed to a strange sort of agony, flesh peeling away to mirror Throne's own scarred face.

Then, of course, the thermostat went up a few degrees.

uh oh, spaghetti-o's! exit to this thread
@Black

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