sing this song, when everything is gone.

[Meyer]

He’s not sure how he got here, not sure what had happened to her. All he knows is that he is alone now. A weak child, he has only grown weaker from lack of care and malnutrition. Barely past the weaning stage, his dam had disappeared without so much as a final glance and young and weak as he was, the bay colt had struggled to survive. Sequestered in the forests between territories, the barrenness of winter has flushed him out in a final effort. It’s growing dark earlier now. He pauses to lean against a withered trunk, the breath in his lungs like fire. He would just rest here a moment, just a moment and then he would be on his way. A lone wolf howls in the distance. He pays it no mind. If the predator finds him he will stand little chance against it but neither can he afford a sprint through the stark and dangerous wood. The birches stand close to one another, silent sentinels set against an eerie background. Fear creeps into his child’s heart, for the darkness is growing and with darkness comes certain death. He shoves away from the supporting tree, resolve glistening in warm brown eyes as his heart thuds a coward’s beat.   If he just lies here, breathing – in, out, in out – maybe they won’t notice him. Maybe they will not notice the harsh curve of his ribcage; maybe they won’t hear the shuddering breath in paper-thin lungs. He will die here, he thinks, and that will be fine. Stick-thin forelegs shift in weak emphasis, brushing leaf litter aside in a struggle that quickly becomes absentminded. He’d slipped and fell some time ago, starved muscles unable to fight the creeping cold. His small, frail body has frozen to the cold dirt below the pine tree but he can no longer feel it. Death has begun to seep into his veins, warming it with a soft, insidious promise. Meyer smiles faintly, shifting again, the ground tearing away a piece of half-healed hide from his hip. The blood grows cold with frost before he notices the faint throb at his hip but there is nothing he can do. Dazedly, he awaits the end to his suffering.

[Weir]

Oh look, Weir does things. (( if no like use of bird can change this post. just trying to get him off his rump and actually do something))

HOCKETY, POCKETY, WOCKETY, WACK

His own child had not lived long enough to draw his first breath. Weir felt so very powerless over the situation, perhaps because he was. There was simply nothing he could have done about it, no alternate course for that future. The would be's, the should have been's, they bothered the roan stallion. He had so many hopes and wishes, dreams that would be unfulfilled now. What had he done to deserve such a cruel misfortune? What had the child done to be snatched away so quickly? Why had its life even begun in the first place?

If Weir did not like anything, it was not having an answer to a question. Of all his stored knowledge, all the books he had read, there was simply not a definitive answer to this. 

Winter has crept along the lands, blanketing the earth with snow and ice. Making everything a blank canvass of sameness. It was nice he thought, numbing almost to his mind. Less things to look at, to find curiosity in, more time to simply be.

Why he has wandered to the den he does not know. Perhaps he thinks to find some ghost of his only son within its borders. Some sort of crude existence that would fill the hole, though he knows this thought is selfish. He stops to look around, the wind picks up what fragments of loose snow it can, throwing it aside into a new pile. Just like everywhere else, there is little here, but he shuffles along regardless. A slow crawl through the sad little realm, peeking into crevices, looking around each boulder. “Hallooo” he would call as he searched, for the night was falling and would be full of terrors.

Ears turn across his head as he picks out the song of Canis lupis, an unsettling sound to hear in such a place. He has picked it clean though, just about, finding nothing in his search. Well almost nothing. It is with great sadness Weir approaches the little thing, it looks dead upon arrival, and his heart falls. He was too late it seemed, blood already dark and pooled beneath it. 

Oh, but he notices the delicate rise and fall of its chest, and he is lit up with hope once more. Bending to the child he places his lips against the boys jaw, lipping lightly at the pitiful covering of fur. “Child, can you hear me?” He asks gently, hoping the colt has clung to some small shred of life. He lowers himself, curling around the babes backside, giving him what warmth he could. Would that be enough though, the child was on the brink of crossing, surely thinking itself alone. Unwanted, unloved. It would not do, Weir’s mind raced to think of an answer, a solution. There was no magic for him to draw on, not a single speck in…but wait.

Above them circled a charcoal raven, watching the dying foal as if it awaited a home cooked meal. What use did it have for food though, this creature made of shadow? Weir grabbed, feeling a thread grow taught for moments against the bird’s existence, it cawed in protest. He grabbed again, clutching to its source; a horrible squalling noise ensued, it did not want to be taken. He held fast, clinging with all his might, his upper body jerked aside as it fought against him. This bird, this raven flung itself against the air wildly, a desperate attempt to break free of the tie. He wrapped further, though it hurt immensely, his nose bleeding from the effort. He had not used his gifts in a very long time, the strain on these unused muscles were great, but finally he stuck. An explosion of smoke feathers burst from its form as it became something else, a great eagle as it screeched into the night. It was task enough to take the birds conscious, to make it into something else, it would have to do. “Find help, bring me magic, a healer, just make them come.”

WEIR

The Dale's Eccentric Magic Manipulator