And the unicorn evils run them through;
Split all ends up they shan’t crack;
And death shall have no dominion."
There is a moment, when the grass knits itself together like a shield, that Thana's magic rears back like a beast bellowing at a sickle moon. It clatters against her bones, roars through her blood, and pools itself in the crease of her spine with black moss and winter frost. Under the onslaught of it, Thana steps away from Ipomoea. It is not a graceful movement, but a fearful one born out of hunger.
She has been thinking of the ways to break him down to seed, root, and gore.
The grass around her starts to grow hoarfrost and mold. Each root below them turns black and worms star to rise their heads up from the grass for the feast. Thana blinks, slow and heavy, as she tries to choke the magic back into its cage. Not him, she prays as she chokes it, take the rest of this world instead. Ipomoea touches her and if there is any begging in it she cannot see it save the echo of fear in his gaze.
Thana moves further away from him with the rot still racing out from her like a flood. The ground shivers and turns soft at her hooves. And she think its the earth pulling her through, that Ipomoea has finally realized that someday she will be the death of everything he holds sacred. “The stag is dying.” Each of her words is breathless and sharp as iron. They sound like teeth, like death, like the forest crumbling down around them.
Everything is too hard right now, too begging for death, too tainted with the copper and iron tang of blood. Everything is stained.
“Turn away if you don't want to see its light fade. But in the end it is going to fade. By my horn or by its wounds, death has already marked it.” Black magic is still roaring in her blood, demanding to consume all of the things edging the sharp lines of her shadow. She's trembling with the fight still, even as she's trying to channel it into the stag, the trees, the mud and moss at their hooves.
Thana keeps trying to shove her magic into the rest of the world so that it won't reach for Ipomoea with the furious hunger of being denied. Behind her lips her teeth ache with the need to bare themselves at him, to lay their edges against the stag's throat and devour. Because today it will be either the stag or the king.
Eligos, in the distance, feels the fury and starts to run.
@Ipomoea
