when the stars threw down their spears and water'd heaven with their tears:

It was time.

Patience is a fortitude Wyrm has grown from living under the spell of immortality. He’d slept for years, buried by rot and dreck, woken when Heartfire had come back, and now it was time to branch out again. Continuing towards something, always stretching those fingers outward in eternal chase of a light he has yet to grasp. Immortality had come and gone and it had given him youth, for a spell, but now the process of death hounds him once more and the shifter finds he cannot wait any longer, for fear that an old haunt will return any day.

The rumors had been growing. The wolf hunts once more, they said, bringing with it a terrible flame that no enemy could yet extinguish. The green stallion knew all too well which flame they’d whispered of. He’d seen it, but never felt its wrath. Pale blue, white near the center, and hungry, always hungry for more. A stolen power, ripped from the chest of another, and wielded by a creature who’d taught him everything he’d come to perfect over the years. Time, revenge with it, was marching on, and Wyrm would not catch himself unprepared.

Nor would Longclaw, who traveled beside him on legs that grew stronger and taller every day. His son’s unique coat has shed its baby fluff, revealing an iridescent hue that changed with every step he took. His sister, Rapture, was safe with their dam but this one - the colt, the younger of the two and the less powerful of the twins, was in dire need of training. There was a softness to them both that even Wyrm had not foreseen (and though, secretly, the shifter did not mind it, for what father can find fault in their own get?) that needed hammering out. That began today.

The border doesn’t hinder them, only changes from life to ashy, grey death as the two ingress further. Wyrm had followed the horned one here, found that it suited his needs quite well, and was determined to finally see something through until the end. Besides, who could stop him? “We’re here. Rest.” He commands the boy, slowing to a stop himself to have a look around with eyes that shift to slit pupils. Longclaw was winded, no doubt aching from the journey, but the days of pity were over.

“Someone will come for us soon enough.”

did he smile his work to see? did he who made the Lamb make thee?