The question had begun to eat at him.

What does this magic do? he had asked himself--and then tucked it away for many cycles. Kin-Kin had left--with the orb, to confront Astraea--and had never returned. Aether had been created. Nothing much more had happened.

And Black, all the while, had patiently waited. The spell, he felt, would reveal itself, when it was time.

But a strange stirring rifled through the caves, now and then, like a great hand picking through the leaves in a book (not that the black dog would know either of these things, if he saw them); and a sense of unease had begun to linger. The question--What purpose does this serve? had bitten at him--in his waking hours, in his sleep. It is time, he had decided, at last, to know. Gone were the hours where he'd stand toying, tugging, at the magical shape with patient curiosity. Now there was an urgency to it, an intensity that left him stiff-legged, staring with furrowed brows up at the Spire. It was the most magical place he could find, and he tried, again and again, to harness that latent power: to let it build up inside of him, to fill that shape he'd found until it overflowed and burst forth, and did something.

Sometimes it came like a trickle, other times like a burst, but nothing ever came of it; just expended magicka, failing to do anything at all.

The black dog waited as the residue from this latest attempt faded, taking deep breaths as he stared--unseeing--at the glowing Spire.

________________

@Throne

[cw for gore lmfao]

everything moves in the eye of you

Since encountering the strange, ethereal being that was Regalia, Throne had remained mostly in the Core; he was enamored with the flow of magic and unnatural largeness of the Spire. It seemed to be a magnet, a conduit for life and light and energy. The lamb knew better than to touch it, but often spent time raking its shape with pale eyes. He hadn't spoken with another Gembound in some time, but his mind buzzed with curiosity as his stone did. The snowflake obsidian was beginning to take shape, growing across the face of his skull and extending into curling horns, pushing out flat teeth and replacing them with curved canines.

The last of them was beginning to fall out, and he took it as a moment to practice magic - however odd that may sound. He gnawed on a stone for some time, working it at the root that no longer was there. A sharp molar was wedged beneath it, ready to pop out at a moment's notice. Curling his lip into the best sneer he could manage, Throne raked it down his leg and onto the stone. With a small crack! it came loose and clattered onto the ground.

Not particularly wanting the abandoned piece of calcium near him, the lamb extended a hoof towards it. A spark of magicka lit in his stone - horns and teeth and all - and crashed through his entire being like a shotgun spread. Throne bleated, a nauseous sensation roiling through him as magicka misfired and crawled beneath his skin. It bulged beneath his left eye, tear ducts already flooding and spreading down the cheek - joined by blood and murk and displaced strings of flesh. The lamb's skin broke, tearing at invisible seams and pushing outward in tattered, gory threads. Throne's left-side vision suddenly went lop-sided as energy ate at the optic nerve, shoved it into open air out of the socket.

The pale orb shot off like a marble, falling somewhere in the recesses of Polaris - along with a sizeable amount of gore and viscera, completely in chunks and strings and disgustingness.

Everything went black on his left side, and a hot wetness slicked down his cheek and chest and made the floor beneath his little hooves so slippery. A deafening roar came to his ear - oh, his other one had - had - it was gone. Throne bleated weakly, collapsing into a puddle of his own blood and gore and what had once been part of his cheek.

@Black

While the lamb behind him busied himself with magic, Black--oblivious to its presence--was doing much the same. Still facing upward, staring to the Spire with intense concentration, he gathered his magicka gradually to him. Once again he formed it into the unfamiliar shape--one that felt like deja vu and prickling frustration--and as he was letting it grow and swell, and preparing to release it, he heard the sudden quiet 'splat' and weak lamb's bleat.

The black dog spun as he heard the cry, his attention wholly jerked from his still-gathered magic, his brow furrowed as his eyes sharply sought the source. The magicka flared out and dispersed, and he turned, padding rapidly over with nostrils working the air. Blood. Caution ebbed as worry flowed, and he quickened his pace, swerving toward the odor.

What he found was a mess of gore, lambs' wool, and blood, and he thought he saw a large, black gemstone moving somewhere in it. He came closer, struggling to comprehend what he was seeing.

A quick glance up and around, and a few swift sniffs, told him that whatever had happened, it had happened 'alone'; the lamb was not under attack. Was this my magic..? Black thought, and for the first time in his life, he felt the pricklings of real fear. The potential of guilt abruptly loomed, and he lowered his head to gently nudge around at the torn puddle of Gembound before him.

"Are you dead?" he woofed, with quiet concern. No--it wasn't dead; it was moving, breathing. Then-... "What happened?"

@Throne

everything moves in the eye of you

Among the surge of adrenaline and blood spurting down the lamb's butchered face, Throne wondered - how has this failed so catastrophically? He'd practiced magic before, honed it, experimented with the push and pull of objects in the world, as they existed around him. Never before had it turned into him, expanding endlessly towards the surface. The dull roar of blood in his remaining ear - and the faux-sounds in his shredded, missing one - was another occupant of his thoughts. Quiet as it was, it was deafening.

Throne laid his head down - left side to the earth - labored breaths slipping from slicked-red flanks and overworked lungs. He was pathetically winded, light-headed from the considerable strain of losing blood; and so cold. A shudder came in time with an unhelpful pulse of magicka, and he forced it down. He needed to - needed to deal with this first.

A shadow fell over him, and his remaining eye opened, half-lidded and peering up at it. Two baby blues looked down at him, a deep voice that he could barely comprehend rumbling through his bones. Gargling, choking on his own blood, the lamb bleated, "hhhh- heeeel-llp." Belatedly understanding, he inhaled sharply, eye screwing shut, "mmmy mm- magic..."

@Black

Black hesitated. He was a creature of purpose, of steady steps and deep concentration. This... this was beyond him. He didn't know what to do; he knew one of his children had some magic to mend, but that child was far from here. He wavered, and then lowered himself to lie alongside the lamb, offering the only things he could: body heat, and the worried licking of a tongue.

He tried to clean blood away from the worst of the wounds so he could get a better look at them, though he had no idea how he could truly help.

His magicka swelled and churned, but flowed out with no effect over and over again. He didn't think he'd done this--the spell had never done anything, before--but he was deeply, deeply worried. "I can clean the place," he offered, his voice filled with worry, "but I do not think I can fix it."

Why does its stone not take it-? With bad injuries, he knew the stone often did precisely that--swept the Gembound back within the safety of its confines, to rest and to mend such wounds. He'd seen it happen firsthand, and personally guarded the resulting chrysalis until it had hatched once more. This creature was damned to be blinded, or half-so, for the rest of its life if it remained out here.

Black's brow furrowed even more deeply, and he leaned back--horrified at what he saw, at just how bad the damage was. With a soft whine he redoubled his efforts of washing the blood away, not knowing what else he could do.

@Throne

everything moves in the eye of you

Throne was, at least, a little helpful in allowing the great shadow to lick at his face, craning his neck just so that it was accessible. Exposed sinew and flaps of skin burned against the Core's air, but the lapping of a dog's tongue was almost - soothing. His pale eye rolled in its socket, sullied in blood and gore, eyeing the helpful stranger. Though he wasn't out of the woods yet, he knew he'd have a life's debt to pay for him. The thought of it was enough to push for survival, to move his legs against all of the stifling, insufferable pain, and remove himself from this puddle of his own viscera. A debt unpaid would be a curse.

"Waaa-" he rasped, bleating miserably as he tried to heave himself up and up onto his stomach, tried to fold his limbs beneath himself. Blood seemed to pour faster now, but the lamb was bound-determined. "Wah-turrr... water..." To get cleaned off with.

Unfortunately, his limbs didn't seem too keen on cooperating with him. His knees slipped about in the mess beneath himself, unable to get any traction. Gurgling, grimacing at the taste of his own blood and it's wild, wild, wrong scent, Throne hesitantly worked at his magic. Urging it to do something, to allow him some mercy and movement. His gaze, ghastly and pale and feeble, fixated upon the Spire's gleaming surface. Begging. Hoping...

Nothing.

"Itt.... it doesn't worr-workkkkkk..." Throne murmured pathetically, eye glassy and turned toward his stone, it's gleaming surface now mottled in stringy flesh. "Mmm-"

@Black

Black considered, even through the frantic grooming, even as his onyx heart swelled once more with magicka. There is water at the river. But it is fast, and cold, and this one will drown.

But he didn't know what else to do--and in his mind, Throne wasn't asking for cleaning water. It must be dying, thirsty, he reasoned. The now-familiar swell-and-lightless-flash of magicka hurtled through him, dispersing into nothing, and he stood as it ebbed away.

"I will try to bring you to the water. But you cannot go in. It is too cold, and too fast. I will try to bring some to you." That alone would be hard enough, but Black had a vague idea in mind. And if it failed, he could always swim in, and bring back whatever might cling to his (admittedly short) coat.

He leaned down, massive jaws closing as carefully as he could manage around the wooly back of the lamb's neck, and he pulled up, lifting. He gave a questioning sound, as if asking if--with his help--the lamb could move its own feet. It was too heavy for him to wholly carry--but perhaps, if he were helping, he could assist it at least to the water's edge.

@Throne

everything moves in the eye of you

Throne nodded feebly, head hanging unhelpfully limp against his chest while Black worked to lift him up. The lamb's hooves pushed against the stone, but the lamb felt like his legs would give out at a moment's notice. Snowflake obsidian burned hot against his skin, if only to try and mend the wrong that it had did - attempting to do something that would staunch the flow of blood and somewhat tie the loose ends that occupied the Racka's left side.

Still, nothing.

He was starting to lose hope, even in his push for survival; his mind worked quickly to find alternatives to owing one's life. It flitted quickly to offering genuine gratitude, even if he bled out or fell into a deep, dark sleep - that could be done quickly: "thaaa-thank yoou, big shaa-dough." Throne continued to muse, though, as he fought through the weakness in his legs and bones. If he were to pass and become nothing but bone, his gemstone would remain, yes?

"If... I don't ma-makeee it..." he bleated sincerely, "youuuu - take my stoneee."

@Black

Black struggled.

It took all his strength and stamina to haul the lamb, slowly and with staggered, straddling steps, nearer to the river. To the lamb's thanks, he merely grunted, unable to speak with a mouthful of wool. And when it spoke of its stone, in death, his strength had worn thin. His neck and shoulder muscles burned, and he felt as though he could not get his breath quickly enough. He set the lamb down, took a breath, and spoke. "I will return it to life, if you die. But return to your stone, if you are near death. It will heal you!" This was said with some urgency, and a glance at the lamb, before Black felt the magic swelling in him again. Grim determination gripped at it and shaped it, the black dog willing it to somehow help Throne: to mend the wounds that were marring its body, to somehow replace the blood that had been lost, to put back its eye, to remove its pain.

Nothing happened.

For all he knew, it was a spell to manipulate light. He still didn't know, but he was desperate to provide some sort of aid to the lamb, and he could think of nothing.

A guardian who could not aid.

He had never felt so helpless.

With a rush he turned, lopsidedly running for the water--for the steep slope, and the rushing ice of the river below.

Black rushed to the water's edge, flanks heaving, and spent a tired moment summoning his magicka once again. It wasn't the gentle ebb-and-flow of prior, the habitual "tugging at invisible strings" as he'd been doing, over and over, with the unknown spell. Instead, it was the focused concentration of known magic.

He wanted to use void--nothingness--to draw water upward, from the river, and to the water's edge. He wasn't sure how the spell might affect the solid stone beneath, but he had to try.

The dog stood at the bank, stared down to gauge the water's level, and then walked awkwardly backwards a couple yards. There he concentrated, trying to pierce a hole in reality itself, a super-powerful point of gravity above the water, but out over its banks, enough to draw it up and spill it over the edge.

There was a pop, a hiss, a rush; and then a black point of not-light, of not-anything, whispered into being over the stone. It sounded as though it were whistling, drawing things toward it, engulfing even the air; and the dog stepped hastily backward as he felt its pull across his fur.

The water poured upward, spilling inevitably over its banks, enough of the river breaching that when he released the magic (and it vanished with almost a soft whistle) the rest splashed down into a puddle.

A puddle they could use.

He was a desperate, as he glanced back--it was what the lamb had asked for, this water, but he wasn't sure how it would help. He only hoped it would be enough for the little one to drink.

"Here," he barked, scrabbling back over on uneven, wet footing, to try and aid Throne toward the tiny pool. "There is water."

At least now, the lamb wouldn't need to fall into the river, and be swept inevitably away. Some strange recess of Black's mind reflected that he had taken the water, the same as the water took Gembound, at times: drawn it inexorably up into his darkness, diverting it and pulling it relentlessly from its element, drowning it on the land.

This thought was luckily not very prominent in his mind, or he'd have wondered at its relative incoherency.

a double post with permission!

@Throne