all the ashes in my wake

We're lost in the space between
who we are and all that we're trying to be

None of the Outlanders did. Taken and scattered away from their worlds, some falling, some spiraling, some merely found the kingdoms shifting beneath their feet. There’d been no time to understand how, why, when, or where – just a sudden alteration, a massive change, in how they were expected to live, abandoned in another way. The initial rage and bitterness over the adjustments had long since disappeared and faded from his form – though he’d had two years to endure the loss of the yesteryears and things he’d known, understood, and adapt to this one. Chulane, and others still managing to make their way here, through whatever the Voice concocted now, didn’t have the same luxury, and would learn more as the seasons strung along in their familiar cycles: disaster, ruin, and repose, some sinking and dissolving more than others, some understood motions suddenly ceasing, unraveling into a different rumination.

His life before had been caring for animals though, an occupation Deimos could only liken to farming, a utility in service to the fauna around them. The emotions rolling through were nostalgic and burdensome, and he nearly sneered, nearly growled, nearly pierced and sliced them all away; no need to relive the same sentiments he’d smothered and diffused ages before.

But it was the blind devotion thereafter, the abrupt, sudden onslaught of acceptance that blunted the keen, sharpened edges. Maybe Chulane was foolish, to immediately surrender to the antics and ambitions of this world. Deimos had fought, fought, fought, in his nature to ponder sedition rather than contentment; and eventually it eroded, it pierced away, it slid off his intentions, ambling, curling, and contorting elsewhere. Maybe Chulane was wise, to immediately, logically, comprehend the spiral, the distinction, of the land around him. It’d taken the Sword a long time to even process coming under a herald’s power. Maybe none of them ever knew what they were doing, and they were merely committed to survival, to perseverance, to enduring whatever this earth had in store for them.

So he withheld a sigh, canine ears swiveling back and forth, otherwise remaining perfectly still, a manifested statue in the dark. Have you gone to see one yet? A deity, a cosmic being, if he was so willing to indiscriminately pledge faithfulness.

DEIMOS

Stop trying to show how to save our souls
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts

His words resonate within me, as he confirms that no Outlander chooses to come through the portal - they are taken, brought here by the whim of these curiously powerful beings the locals call gods. I wonder - do the gods refer to themselves as gods?

Perhaps the time for me to investigate these gods myself was nearing a lot faster than I originally anticipated. I nodded at Deimos' words, solemnity and understanding rising within me, no doubt vibrating through the bond that links all attuned.

Though I missed my home, I did my best to live in the present, rather than let my thoughts linger in the past, a place that no longer exists, at least not in the capacity that I knew it, that I still had access to. Past Chulane was gone, a memory, striving for a dream that no longer existed, on a world I longer had access to. And so I was motivated to move on, to let go - never to forget, no, I would treasure and cherish the memories forevermore - but I would not let it hold me back.

I had to recognise the circumstances I was in as the gift they were - I had been given the opportunity of adventure, of magic and wonder that few from my world could even imagine.

He questions me again, and I respond with a shake of my head - a very human gesture expressed on a feline body. "No, I hope to learn more about them before intentionally seeking one out." I explain my hesitation, my concern, that I might better prepare myself for a meeting with entities that wield such power, that demand such respect, and offerings.

"What advice would you give to your past self, approaching a shrine for the first time?" I ask, head tilting in anticipation of a response.

Chulane

fridooh & whimzi @ deviantart

We're lost in the space between
who we are and all that we're trying to be

It had always been difficult for Deimos to not glance towards the past, staring over lives before, striving either to not enact the same circumstances or spiraling to find himself stuck in similar mires. He’d grown, evolved, and adapted from the apathetic blade, from the ichor-stained steel, from the irreverence in soulless precision. But still, little bits and pieces of savagery clung to his skin, to the nefarious chambers of his heart, pulsing, pervading, persisting in mercurial accord, foundations of another time, another place. Even here, he often stood in the present with a thought to the years unfolding, where they went wrong, where they went right, cycling back and forth; difficult to gloss over, to move on, when corruptible, condemned bones still etched, still existed, in his heathenous structure. It was all in how far he could manage before the rush of battle beckoned, summoned, and drummed in his fibers. Did that hold him back, or ensure his callous existence, a wake of the Reaper, managed to remain? Did it matter, if violence and vehemence were his favored friends?

But then again, until now, until Caido, Deimos hadn’t been presented with many gifts, hadn’t known how to look, how to understand, how to fathom them for what they were.

The leopard shook his head, and the hound waited, comprehending the notions, the wisdom-gathering before wandering into the midst of shrines, of deities, of heralds. Perhaps it was best to prepare anyway, instead of lunging into the abyss, into foolishly, ignorantly, crossing lines they hadn’t even seen or predicted. The inquiry gestured towards him though was somewhat of a surprise – the Sword would never be the authority on the rulers of this cosmos or the next. Expect nothing rumbled first and foremost – requiring no thought at all. He’d gone to shrines again and again, never asking for himself, but for those around him. He’d bent his head and dragged his knees before broken fragments in Isilme, begging and pleading for Huyana to be healed; no answer. He’d sought information from the ones here, over and over, for either Amalia’s safety, for some amount of guidance in the pending turbulences, in the mercurial sways, with nary a response. It had stung into a bitterness, a rancorous edge, only to begin its slow erosion when he’d helped build Safrin’s shrine, when he’d asked for more strength, more power. Be patient came thereafter, on a sigh, because despite every other composed refrain in his being, he’d simply pondered giving up entirely.

DEIMOS

Stop trying to show how to save our souls
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts

Expect nothing, he said, his advice reminding me of something friends from before would say about keeping a positive attitude: 'Have zero expectations, and then you'll never be disappointed.' It rung true, especially in this scenario, where we were discussing approaching a being that was responsible for enacting great change on the lands and its inhabitants. Expect nothing, and be grateful if nothing was all you got: Jigano had mentioned curses as well as blessings being bestowed by these gods, which gave me further reason hesitate, to pause and reflect on the knowledge I had, to ignore my curiosity, my desire, my inherent human need to know, to improve, to dig deeper, before taking the leap, the plunge, into the unknown.

Patience is the next thing he schools me on, and I nod in understanding; yes, I will bide my time, I will prepare, though for what exactly I am still not sure, and how exactly is still unclear. I will practice patience however, and as I do, I will gain clarity on this and more. It wasn't going to be easy, but then, most things worth doing weren't easy.

Why did I want to meet a god? Did I seek their favour, their gifts or blessings? Or was I just curious, did I just want to dissect them, like a scientist might, to learn about their inner workings? Did I want to observe them from afar, see them work their wonder without being directly affected? That is probably the scientist's dream, the pinnacle of achievement, but somehow I didn't get the impression that they would oblige - if they were truly all-knowing, they would know I was there, they would know my desires, and thus the observation would be tainted before it even began.

I could just imagine the title of my scientific paper; Field experiments on gods: omnipotent vs mortal predilections

"Thank you," I say to the hound, "for having patience with me. It is much appreciated." Gratitude hums through the bond, the concept of sharing emotions this way still new and surprising to me. But I was an honest fellow, and while I felt exposed by my emotions, I also hoped that I had little to fear when it came to exposing that part of myself. It motivated me to learn to control them better, at least, to assess and only permit those which I want shared to go forth - I am sure as I spend more time away from my human form, practising this shift (or others?), I would make many more blunders and mishaps, all of which I would learn from in time and practice.

"I would like to learn more, if you would have me," I comment, before posing another question, though I understand if he is done with this interaction, wanting to move on to more interesting tasks, to return to work or leisure or otherwise extract himself away from here. "Your home," I begin, "what is it like?"

Chulane

fridooh & whimzi @ deviantart

We're lost in the space between
who we are and all that we're trying to be

Deimos’ restraint and forbearance came with rising tides and mercurial ambitions; a patient, stoic, nonchalant exterior for most, reserved and quiet, hushed and irreverent. Adversaries and enemies represented a different outlook: seditious forbiddings ensconced under an apathetic gaze, singular warnings amidst the foreboding, foreshadowed treachery, the calculated dominions, the cold, callous wakes. In between were the muddled apertures, the opportunities for his curiosity to be sated, for another to irritate or amuse, to find themselves punctured, pierced, lacerated, or forgotten, a chilling fate spelled out in his rigid nonchalance.

For all the inquiries extended, Chulane was polite, or savvy enough, to exchange acknowledgments; not entitled to the information, but grateful for it nonetheless. The Sword could only impart so much knowledge on the deities and heralds though; and a restless edge conformed to his bones, to the carnivore indulgences bunching, coiling, and contorting amongst muscles. The length of his gaze shifted along the empty corridors, ignoring the beams of luminary light, head turning down the rampaging paths, turned over and over by the treads of animals and monsters alike.

If the leopard had been satisfied, Deimos might’ve continued, wandering, wandering, wandering, the outset of dreams and reality either urging him onward or returning him home. The latter caused him to swivel his cranium back in the other creature’s direction; no emotion, no semblance indicated. The glacial eyes narrowed for a moment, lost in thought, before maneuvering down the trail, familiar in its wake. You may come see for yourself. It was up to Chulane if he wanted to follow or not, and the midnight form of the hound twisted into twilight eaves and midnight oils, blending, merging with shadow and darkness; only waiting for the slightest moment and movement.

DEIMOS

Stop trying to show how to save our souls
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts

A restlessness pervaded the scene, a subtle but observable shift in posture, in focus, in desire to linger here, in this space and time. I feel it, though I do not recognise it immediately for what it is - it feels like this form has almost a will of its own, or at the very least, a subconscious one, that detects and interprets and notices things that take my conscious mind time to unravel, to make sense, to understand and appreciate. It is an annoying delay, one that I hope to improve, so that my taking and using this form to its full potential is enabled. I observe the hound, watch as his hairs rise and fall, as muscles flex and bend, as he moves to leave off, to depart us, before my question reaches him. He peers around, drinking in the world surrounding us, before fixing me within his sights once more, and I hold great concern that this was it - this was the end of our interaction, our meeting - the time for me to return to the place I was calling home (for now?) was here.

Then his words echo within me, and I let them pull my attention, my joy, my curiosity along. Patterned hide is pressed into motion, smooth strides placing me at the hound's shoulder, an eagerness in my step evident, no doubt slipping into the bond, as I was still so unpractised in holding those surface emotions back. Improvement would come, with time, with more shifting, with more utilising this form - I have a quiet confidence that one day, I will be as accomplished as the great beast I stalk alongside, this form able to be worn with ease, the hesitation between my understanding of its heightened senses and my interpretation of them reduced or eliminated, and my own muscle memory developed well enough that I can move less like a human-inhabiting-a-leopard's-body and more like a leopard.

I didn't know all of the answers yet, or even all of the questions to ask that would get me there, but I was nothing if not persistent in my quest on animal sciences, and this was a most curious science indeed. I would master this aspect about myself, one day.

'Have you explored all  parts of these woods?' I ask, my gaze searching the world that was shifting, moving and changing all around us, the canopy stretching high above, the shadows lengthening - and my eyes able to drink it all in, my mind awhirl at the details it would have missed, been ignorant to, been blind to, had my human form been present in this moment.

Chulane

fridooh & whimzi @ deviantart

We're lost in the space between
who we are and all that we're trying to be

There was a particular siren call in his ears to merely become a phantom, a ghoul, a cretin of the evening, to slip in and out of the shadows and leave the other behind. The shrouds of twilight, of midnight treacheries, were carved into his wake, much like the scars, the lacerations, of yesteryears; and he surveyed, calculated, for a long, heavy silence. The temptation to wander out into the gloom, to become a part of the heathenous ether again, if only for singular moments and irreverent stretches of time, were great and predacious. Absorbed and consumed by the lingering danger, swallowed whole and alive again in the seditious span of the fathomless unknown, his senses sunk and slinked in the accord, nostrils flaring, ears shifting, all the more a demonic edge to his shadowed fixtures. Perhaps it was the hound, perhaps it was the human, perhaps it was a combination of Reaper audacity and Sword prowess; the itch to crawl and immerse into the void, simply because he couldn’t remember the last hours he stood upon a molten precipice and wandered into its immorality.

Then the enticement died and faded on the leopard’s words, and his piercing gaze slid away from the embarking shadows, from the looming trails, and back to the feline again. He remained torn and slightly unsettled, heartbeat ricocheting in his ribs, before hastening along the path, not chasing after the darkness, not rampaging into the evening’s sprawl. Ghosts echoed along his mind, and he nearly forgot what the creature had asked, before shaking his head, clearing out the webs, the figments, the fragments. Most of it. The rest had been left into the enigmatic quandaries; reminded of the Greatwood, and its facets for trickeries.

But he tread along the known portions, swift and keen, allowing the rest of the earth to beckon him closer to home. In the distance, they would be able to clear the woods, the thickets, the copses, rambling towards open fields, settlements and ruins in the distance, the Spire rising high above it all.

DEIMOS

Stop trying to show how to save our souls
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts

There was a pressure, a tension, a compulsion, telling me to let go, to give in, to release the human hold that was dominant. The scientific, the logical, the dry and orderly side of me liked control, and it would not relinquish it without a fight - I could feel the war waging, but I was ignorant, wilfully so, to its origin, my desire to remain in control too strong, too overbearing. I ran in this body, learning the way the muscles tensed and sprang and propelled me forward, but I did not run with it - it was as if I was separate, a remote controller pushing buttons and watching the toy body mimic the movements it was programmed to do. My own ability to control this way has improved, and continues to do so with every stride I take, but I can't help but feel that it is not enough, there is more to this gift, this magic, this skill, that I will only learn if I keep trying, keep going.

The hound confirms, deep voice rumbling through the very fibres of my mind, confirming he held great knowledge about this vast wood, knowledge which I wanted, but instead I maintained the silence, letting my own eyes and ears and paws feed me that knowledge instead of pestering the attuned bond for it constantly. Practice enables perfection to come closer, the more movement I encourage from my limbs the more natural, the more automatic it becomes, and I am able to absorb more of the world around us, to appreciate it, to satiate the scientist driving the leopard, as least for the moment.

Travel continues, the layout of the trees and forest changing, evolving. Scents upon the wind are new and exciting, their sources not yet identifiable, but still I breathe them in. Space opens up before us, fields and fields of it, with evidence of human habitations and old, seemingly abandoned and run-down structures somewhere in the distance. All of this visible to my keen senses under the cloak of increasing night, still a novel, new and thrilling experience for the human controlling the leopard. My motions pause, as a particular feature on the horizon catches my focus, attention fixating, wondering, yearning, seeking to identify, to explain, to know. It is a monument, a tall and intimidating structure, though far off in the distance still, that only confirms to me it's great monolithic height. 'What is it?' I break the silence, colouring it with my wonder once more, my questions, unable to restrain my curiosity for long.

Chulane

fridooh & whimzi @ deviantart

We're lost in the space between
who we are and all that we're trying to be

He expected the inquiry as they ambled through the dusk, the puncturing gestures of unordinary design slashing towards the sky. When he’d first arrived, he had thought of it somewhat like the monoliths in the Basin, high, towering structures, set to regard the rest of the world from their summit-adorned views. Those notions had died soon thereafter, once actions had unwound, once the Voice was set free from its chambers, once they’d explored the basement and he’d nearly perished, once they’d destroyed plants thought to carry the blight, once the weight of history gnawed at their shoulders, clawed at their spines. The Spire he answered at first, pausing for a moment so Chulane could gaze upon it, its shadowed, emblazoned thing, while Deimos stood, rigid, unyielding, unbending, wondering if there was a way they could ever destroy it.

If it mattered any longer. If it was far too late.

The Voice was imprisoned within he started, imparting some notions of knowledge and experience as he began to move once more, the fields’ dried stalks basking, twitching, and maneuvering in the light wind. She used it to bring Outlanders here. It was how he’d arrived, it was how any of them had been taken from worlds they understood and comprehended, thrown here to assist in breaking barriers apart. It is largely used for portals now, at least, what they’d explored, the vast range of rooms mostly off-limits. The Sword made no mention of the disastrous results embedded in there – the amount of death, destruction, chaos, and caustic imbalances, the weight of cataclysms. The curiosity shared by the other would likely be overwhelmed by only those minuscule contortions of information, so he purposefully stalked through the wide-open expanse, the plains, closer and closer to the minaret, and the sanctions of the town.

DEIMOS

Stop trying to show how to save our souls
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts

The great monument is identified, named, known by those who reside here as The Spire, and I nod as I lock the information away with all the rest I have gathered. My arrival and ongoing survival in this realm has been an ongoing lesson in humility, in admitting that I was the new kid in class, uneducated, uninitiated, unlearned in all things that those who had been here long enough simply knew, and lived and thrived. He talks of the Voice, and I feel the weight of emotions that come with it - the history, the forlorn and anguished hints of emotion, of something tragic, something that changed things here, and not for the better (from what little information I could ascertain, anyway).

I had to wonder at what was left unspoken, what great tragedies had this Voice and her actions wrought upon the land, what disasters had she brought upon those she dragged here through what are now known as Portals - was she the one who directed the Portal I mistook for the aurora lights in the Antarctic sky to swallow me up, and deliver me here? Or was it this Safrin, as Deimos had mentioned before, who had brought me here and blessed me with the attuned gift?

More questions. More mysteries.

I followed the great canine's footsteps, mind awhirl with the questions, the wonder, the evidence of historic events laid out before me. I wanted to investigate, to see it, to walk in its halls and gleam what I could from it - but there was no rush, I was a patient man.

'How was she released?' Jigano had mentioned a blight she had caused, whether intentionally or by accident, and her disrespect for the natural order of things (however strange the natural order here was), caused me to wonder if her imprisonment was something the people of Caido should aim to implement once more. Without knowing more, however, I would never commit to such an idea - I had not yet (knowingly) met an Ascended being, nor any of the Gods, but it was curious that in the exchanges about the gods of this world that I have held so far, neither reflected positively on this so-called Voice.

Chulane

fridooh & whimzi @ deviantart

We're lost in the space between
who we are and all that we're trying to be

Outlanders were never allowed to forget they were Outlanders. The Naturals had let them know that clearly from day one; but they’d also extended their kindness, acceptance, and tolerance, however begrudging, as more and more had been summoned and beckoned from the Voice’s pull. They’d insinuated and assimilated, wandering into the murk of lore and ignorance, and despite his two years of living here, amongst and amidst the Grounds, there were still ramparts and sagacity he’d yet to completely behold. Taking in the information quietly, resolutely, staunchly, steadfastly, instead of seditiously or irreverently spreading a growl into its wares, had been a learned accomplishment as well – Chulane would have to do the same, a quiet conversion into each and every world. Since there was no going back. No return to the world they’d lived in before.

He maneuvered and motioned, until they were out of the thickened fields, out of the moors of memories and disasters alive and well there too – over the ashes of favored festivals gone to death and desecration – roaming closer and closer to the blackened tower. His eyes glanced to it once, and then no more; he knew enough of it currently, no desire to dig into its remaining mysteries for now. Chulane though wouldn’t have known, wouldn’t have heard, wouldn’t have understood – Deimos wasn’t certain if he ever would, much less a newcomer. A breath of stalwart bounds, and they’d pressed beyond its faction, predator strides on established paths, but not the haunting decree of its uncertainty, the fixations of its deeper-cutting wounds.

The inquiry flexed between his shoulder and rested on his hound spine, wondering and pondering back to those moments where others had climbed up, had lingered down, had solved perplexities, had opened wares, had discovered the Core in the center of it all. Then the barrier had fallen, fallen, fallen, and the world expanded (at what cost?). Eventually, his answer came, a rumble between bonds, a reverberation of intricacies and defiance, uncertain where else to place it. A multitude of things, but ultimately one of her own sacrificed themselves. Thereafter, there’d been forests and woods and Fae; a whole host of other trials and tribulations unfolding.

DEIMOS

Stop trying to show how to save our souls
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts

I had been made quite aware of Naturals' view on Outlanders. Though it was a Natural who had fetched me off the Fangs and brought me to the township of Snowcloak, he had since made it clear I was nothing but a pest to him, an irritant - I had tried to show that I only wanted to contribute positively to the lives of the residents of Halo, to return the generosity that they had showed me, and yet I was declared a nuisance, a bother, at least to him. So I endeavoured to ensure I owed him nothing more, and to only give my energy and skills to those who needed it, who wanted it, who would accept it - which was most of the rest of the small town, it would seem.

But it was very easy to see that I was, and always would be, an Outlander, a newcomer, always forgetting some little ritual or lore, never truly feeling like I belonged - but persisting, nonetheless.

Closer and closer we came to the tower, to the great pillar, my eyes bulging as I took in all that it was, all that it stood for. The very earth we tread upon held memories, scents and long-forgotten footprints - my imagination conjured images of battles waged, of warriors pressing upon the door and forcing their way in, of wraiths and unknown entities pushing back, screaming, fighting, and then magic, the unknown energy of the elements that was still so mysterious to me, and yet it fit this story, this scenario that played out in my head. Magic is what released the Voice, in the tale my mind crafted.

Ah, but it wasn't magic, not the elemental, human magic Jigano spoke of, at least. It was sacrifice, and the tales I had heard of the Voice fit this narrative as well. A low growl vibrates my throat at the acquisition of this knowledge, my dislike for the Voice a certainty now. 'Sorry,' I say with apologetic tones, with repentant emotions flowing through me. 'Life is precious, and that a god would extract such a permanent price from a follower… is baffling.' I pause my thoughts, a trickle of the same anger that caused my earlier growl rumbling through me. 'More than that, it's infuriating.' I was a doctor, I focussed on the preservation of life, on the prolonging it while there is still quality of life left to be lived.

'Do any of the other gods demand such sacrifices?'

Chulane

fridooh & whimzi @ deviantart

We're lost in the space between
who we are and all that we're trying to be

Oh, there’d been fighting. There’d been death. There’d been poisonous miasma choking, stifling, coating his throat, his lungs. There’d been drones of insects intertwining their way into his skin. There’d been Fae chanting drumming in his ears, Shields and Sages and an abundance of other things he couldn’t reach. There’d been explosions, basements crumbling, eroding, falling apart all around them as they scorched, blistered, and tore apart the stone structures at the seams. There’d been repairs. There’d been gaping holes where goddesses had fallen from the sky. There’d been ancient things crawling out of pillars and ruins, desecrated in the next sweep and turn. A thousand other notions could have clambered and walled themselves in those shackled, tethered, monolithic pieces, and for now, he wanted nothing to do with it – head down, eyes on the rest of the world around him, people and inhabitants he understood, he helped, he strived to protect.

His movements weren’t an echo of motion at all, but threaded silence, wraith, phantom contortions in their own means and measures, hushed and slinking along worn pathways and rubbled dirt, around crisp, bitter, decaying leaves. His thoughts were nearly the same, not molding or melding anymore of the torturous chambers behind him, shoving the weight off his shoulders, off his backbone, repelling, forgoing, forbearing, forbidding.

But Chulane was not the same; the words expressed and echoed. He had nothing to be sorry for, not really; the horrors would existed long before and they would reverberate, resound, well after too. It’d been experience in the trials, the tribulations, the treachery of the unknown, and how often they fought against or for sentiments, ruminations, they didn’t quite understand.

Life is precious burned against him too; for he’d taken many, and lost his own.

Instead of blistering further, he wound his way down paths of domiciles, of residences, of settlements, and guilds, far better, far brighter, than the minaret they left behind. A quiet tour, his eyes pausing momentarily on bakeries, on barracks, on his and the Shield’s house further off, lights of the fire from the hearth illuminated off of windows. A pang shuddering somewhere in his chest.

The Sword naught on the subject of infuriating countenances and their contortions, the maddening work and expectations of gods; Chulane would learn on his own soon enough. Instead, it was the following inquiry that permitted the briefest shift of his quiet into a drifting rumble. Ludo once asked a follower to murder an Ascended. Other than that, he couldn’t trace another tale; perhaps that too was a mystery, an enigma, wrapped up and knotted, gnarled and noosed, in someone else’s journey amidst deities.

DEIMOS

Stop trying to show how to save our souls
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts

The landscape changes, the focus on the Spire, the monolithic monument - evidently once a prison, a cage to an incredible power, who had - finally moving along. The township that has seemingly arisen from long-lost ruins, dust wiped off and life restored, lights illuminating homes, families, life. It was a stark contrast to the topic we were discussing, and it settled the frustration rising within me, the tide of my anger flowing into something different - a soft curiosity once more, a quiet observance of the world around me, welcoming the sights and sounds.

So it was confirmed, another god does ask for sacrifice, or at least, death, slaughter in his name. Ludo, and it makes sense, inasmuch as gods can make sense to my mind of science and logic, that a god claiming to be the patron God of Death would seek that which he stands for from his followers. I nodded in acceptance of this information, though my mind still whirled, as it was wont to do. Was he asking his followers to sacrifice their own lives? No, it would seem he was asking for their souls - for though I had not experienced taking the life of another human before, in all the stories I've read (hello Harry Potter), taking another's life damaged one's own soul, one's very fibre of being.

The "gods" that existed mostly in the minds of their followers on Earth historically asked for such things, though always conveniently through words written or spoken by mere mortal men. I was sceptical of any talk of gods until I saw one for myself, or experienced their power directly (- had I not experienced their touch directly when I was brought to this realm? -), to my mind, the gods of this realm were still simply very powerful beings, so much so that compared to us mortal men, they were gods. There was a distinction in my mind between 'true' gods and these very-powerful beings (though perhaps it was simply me trying to cope, refusing to accept this fantasy as reality until I had no choice).

It was strange, though most likely only to me, to wander streets where human foot-traffic often wandered, where evidence of life thrived, where people were retreating into their homes. What a sight it must've made, a leopard and a hellhound wandering down the street.  'Beautiful.' I summarised quite succinctly, drinking in the sights and the smells, the view of a world from a leopard's height. As the night sky filled with more stars, the depth of the evening became more apparent to me, and a touch of concern for my return trip to Halo rose within me - I had intruded long enough on the time of this man, this beast.

'I know the way to the portal from here,' I begin, pausing my stride to peer directly into the dark depths of the hound's gaze. 'I appreciate all you have told me, and shown me.' I reiterate, preparing to state my farewells, lest I be stuck here longer than I initially anticipated.

Chulane

fridooh & whimzi @ deviantart