The cold of Leilan’s frozen isle starts to get to him. In the darkness he picks his way to his favorite spot, the River, more specifically somewhere under the big tree or the soft moss on the water’s edge. Spring’s grip struggles in the crumbling lightless world that Beqanna has become, but it’s still much warmer than the snowy arctic world he just came from. His travel south is not without incident, in fact, it’s treacherous as fuck, really. He can hear the occasional screams of someone being taken by surprise and gobbled up (he assumes gobbled, from the sounds), and this keeps him alert.
It doesn’t help. He still doesn’t see it coming.
He stops to listen – everything becomes so still that it seems eerily so. Too quiet. His ears try to pick up sound, his eyes try to find something to recognize besides abysmal black, his smell finding nothing on the air that he can put a name to. Everything is strange, and very wrong. A slither across the ground off to his left is rapidly followed by a snap on his shoulder, he can feel fangs emptying poison into his muscle before he manages to rip away. “Fuck!” he screams out, for himself, for someone to hear. He scrambles away, rearing at whatever it is that’s attacking him, striking the ground with his front hooves and not feeling anything tangible except bare ground. He summons something, or tries to, and what comes through his first frantic try is something like a headless bunny. “Yee, ghck, no!” he shivers, sending the thing away and trying to bring another forward. This time is an enormous stag, starting as glowing white smoke and then somewhat forming into solid body. It’s antlers long thick, their points honed, and start in on where the suspected attacker lurks. Another soul comes, a rough looking zombified wolf that seems of hardly any help except bait. He cannot see what he’s fighting, but whatever it is, it’s huge and scaly, and has a mouth full of razor teeth and two enormous fangs – all of which ripped through his shoulder. A fang and a few teeth still embedded in his torn flesh. He manages to kill it, he and his modest horde – the wolf, missing an ear, ribs exposed and half a muzzle left and a stag who Chem was actually pretty proud of. He’s not very good with his new power and a lot of time he summons some pretty rough looking pals.
Healing sure would come in handy right now. A rather insulting thought.
If it were not for his soul summoning, he would be dead. Without his healing it only means he will suffer longer. Unless something swallows him into oblivion or chops his head off, he will bend and break only to crack back into place and eventually heal. Dark magic like this will not heal easily – who knows, maybe it will have the ability to sicken him to death slowly. Perhaps when hell rises and grabs ahold of the world even immortality will not save you.
He limps on to the River, which eventually turns into a drag. The cold water stings his open cuts as he tries to wash, squinting at the bleeding wound as his vision starts to blue. “No.” he grunts, protesting what he knows – he was poisoned. He falls forward into the river, unconscious with his head on a mossy stone raised out of the rushing water. The water runs over his lifeless body, blood mixing with the clean mountain water.
CHEMDOG
to the window, to the wall
to the window, to the wall
some freaky ass a snake creature attacked him.
he used his summoning (for like the fifth time in his life) and he kind of sucks at it but getting better.
THEN he passes out in a river from being poisoned by whatever it was
