When the marks begin to bloom on the sand in circles--
When the island shivers with an aftershock---
When the sun starts to look like it's aching and weary in the sky--
When the air and the island inhale deep enough that it sounds like a sigh---
Thana follows.
The thick weeds and the tangle thorns die at her hooves and her blade cleaves the rest of them from the root. Over and over again she cuts her way though the forest, along those footprints running dizzying circles though the dark woods. Thana devours the forest in death until her horn, and her blade, and her hooves are all sticky and almost golden with sap.
She does not stop until the forest dissolves into the sand. Here the air is thick enough with magic and power that her lungs ache to hold it all in. It feels like home, like drowning, like being torn apart and remade over and over again.
You are a monster. You are made of magic. You are made to tear the world apart in blood. The drops of her blood are singing to her. Each one is chanting another line, another whisper of destruction and suffering and rot. Thana wants to roar with the force of it, with all the black consuming her like a storm cloud.
Her magic hates this magic in the air.
She steps closer and there are no thoughts of relics, or gods, or power whispering seductions to her. There is no bravery, or desire, or hope. There is only blackness, only death, only rot turning all the bloody sap on her horn to drops of rotten, decayed forest. The drops make a map around her, small black constellations on a sea of sand. She does not pause to wonder if they live in some night-sky somewhere else but this terrible world with its terrible false deities.
She does not pause at all.
Thana walks towards that relic, slow and angry and hateful, behind the two mares running before her like she is the real wolf in this world (she knows they are running towards the magic but she knows that they surely do not want to shred it to blood and bone and metal). She does not care, not with all her magic singing of death loud enough to make her whole body ache with the bass echo of it.
Her tail swings a warning. The bone blade whistles, sand and sap arc from it to paint more black constellations on the golden sand.
And when she finally pauses, one hoof in the air like a hunter on a wind-scent, it is only long enough to cock her head at the weight of magic rushing around, and around her like a body she cannot see. Hello, her look seems to say and in the way of true beasts it needs no words. I know you are a monster too.. All magic is always a monster.
Thana's hoof scrapes against the sand and it cuts a line through the golden sand.
When she crosses it---
When her eyes start to blaze a purple dark enough to be black--
When the air that is still trembling whistled through her hollowed out horn--
When the rest of the horses come to the beach and think of gods--
When her magic blood starts to scream---
Thana grinds her teeth like she's already thinking of how metal and diamonds will taste on her tongue.
@thana decides to stay
STAFF EDIT***
@thana has rolled a 6! She has been awarded a brittle horseshoe.
