The expeditions have drawn Reynard's attention each time one set out, and this one was particularly intriguing with its large group and high stakes. Irresistible for a spirit so concerned with how this Winter plays out. Up until now he has been content to watch. To nudge opinions and encourage particular paths.
That was before this... monstrosity.
Time and space in the Nexus has always been odd. Changeable. But in its own way it has always been a natural abnormality. A rare mutation of the universe.
There is nothing natural about what Azwel does. It is Azwel who directs atoms and natural forces. It is Azwel who twists them to his will. Not Nature. Azwel's will cuts through Winter like a putrid blade.
Mortals can feel it in every fibre of their being, but so can Reynard. It shakes through the spirit, his fingers carving deep lines into the rock under his hand. Around Fallen and scavengers alike, the air trembles and shudders and cracks. Deep vibrations roll through the earth like heaving gasps. The world around them might as well have cried out at Azwel's attack.
The Wrongness of it shook Reynard, but the moment he pulls himself together he doesn't hesitate. Before this he watched and waited, invisible to the human eye and to modern senors. Now he marches straight towards Azwel. The residual magick of Chaos and Order are carried by the furious winds, revealing him in glimpses, like floodlights passing over him.
He's not as any of them have seen him before, though. Not this time. This time there's no bearded fellow in quaint historical clothing. This time a creature of moving ice and clawed hands marches towards Azwel. If someone tries to hit him, or lunge at him, they pass through thin air. If Azwel turns around, there aren't even footprints for him to see. But the moment that creature reaches Azwel, the eager warrior will turn and see a rough mimicry of human features in his face. Black eyes with shifting snowflakes as irises stare into Azwel's eyes and hold him there, captivated just long enough for an icy shard of a finger to rise to Azwel's third eye... and push. Deep into his skull where the cold spreads from within, filling his eyes and his nose and his mouth. Filling his mind with pure blinding white and unfathomable darkness.
And when the pain subsides, and the cold settles, there is Winter. There is no fear of what might happen, no fear of the Season. Not even a Winter spirit anywhere to be seen. There is only Winter and its madness left in Azwel.
no subject
That was before this... monstrosity.
Time and space in the Nexus has always been odd. Changeable. But in its own way it has always been a natural abnormality. A rare mutation of the universe.
There is nothing natural about what Azwel does. It is Azwel who directs atoms and natural forces. It is Azwel who twists them to his will. Not Nature. Azwel's will cuts through Winter like a putrid blade.
Mortals can feel it in every fibre of their being, but so can Reynard. It shakes through the spirit, his fingers carving deep lines into the rock under his hand. Around Fallen and scavengers alike, the air trembles and shudders and cracks. Deep vibrations roll through the earth like heaving gasps. The world around them might as well have cried out at Azwel's attack.
The Wrongness of it shook Reynard, but the moment he pulls himself together he doesn't hesitate. Before this he watched and waited, invisible to the human eye and to modern senors. Now he marches straight towards Azwel. The residual magick of Chaos and Order are carried by the furious winds, revealing him in glimpses, like floodlights passing over him.
He's not as any of them have seen him before, though. Not this time. This time there's no bearded fellow in quaint historical clothing. This time a creature of moving ice and clawed hands marches towards Azwel. If someone tries to hit him, or lunge at him, they pass through thin air. If Azwel turns around, there aren't even footprints for him to see. But the moment that creature reaches Azwel, the eager warrior will turn and see a rough mimicry of human features in his face. Black eyes with shifting snowflakes as irises stare into Azwel's eyes and hold him there, captivated just long enough for an icy shard of a finger to rise to Azwel's third eye... and push. Deep into his skull where the cold spreads from within, filling his eyes and his nose and his mouth. Filling his mind with pure blinding white and unfathomable darkness.
And when the pain subsides, and the cold settles, there is Winter. There is no fear of what might happen, no fear of the Season. Not even a Winter spirit anywhere to be seen. There is only Winter and its madness left in Azwel.