𝐒𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐖 | 𝟏𝟖+

xi. cataclysm.

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‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐇 𝐎𝐅 𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐃𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐃 𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐄𝐍𝐒 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐁𝐎𝐃𝐈𝐄𝐒, a concerto of the curse that lies beneath his skin. A gleaming sword in hand, he slices through flesh and scales, the soil turning crimson beneath his leather laced boots. The terrans and nautica attempt to hinder him, but all they manage is to raise their weapons only to fall to the earth, dead. With every passing second, Morrow gives a little more of himself over to the dark side. Once meadow hues grow black, until all that remains is the wolf that aches to break from his skin.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎When Morrow takes the life of another warrior, his eyes only find Nerrocen, the nautica lieutenant that holds Elowen captive. Then his attention switches over to the men guarding Arion and Cordea, and lastly, to Alistair Carrin himself.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎In that moment, Morrow becomes the epitome of revenge. He's twisted, almost feral in appearance. Blood spills on his clothes and tanned skin, none that belong to himself, but that of his victims.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎When she attempts to meet their bond, her mind only becomes pincered with spikes. He refuses her intrusion.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Morrow's husky voice sounds nothing like his usual tone, and it causes Elowen's creature to retreat. "You're a fucking fool," Morrow growls. "No one lays a damn finger on my pack."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"‎‎‏‏‎This one's not a member," Alistair steals the iron chain from Nerrocen, tugging it with full force as Elowen tumbles against the terran high lord. He smells rancid with iron, stuck to him like sticky glue. "This one spent years in my province, escaped my auctions."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Morrow flexes his fingers against the hilt of his sword, tendons cracking as the darker entity inside of him takes further control of his soul. "You just want her wings."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"It's not just hers I've been searching for," Alistair narrows his eyes upon the shadowed wings folded against Morrow's spine. "If only I knew it would be this easy to coax the alpha of Tabrien from his den. First with your proposal to end the blight, and now with a measly little wyng?"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"You're going to kill her."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"This hybrid belongs in my hands!"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Morrow's growl silences the clearing, from every bird to the remaining knights that haven't been slaughtered by his palms and blade. He takes a step towards Elowen, only to have a sea of warriors barricade the space between them. Oh, never has Alistair been more wrong. Morrow will tear the world apart for the were, no matter the numbers between them.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Alistair pulls Elowen back from the small army. There must be dozens upon dozens of warriors against one man, outnumbering Morrow tenfold, but he only raises his blade. The aroma of death coats the woodland, all done at the mercy of Morrow.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Give up your fight," Alistair gestures over to Arion and Cordea. Cordea's aqua irises have long since fallen shut, the blood loss from the wound in her side too much for her to handle. Arion grips her with white knuckles, his wolfish claws breaking free as his matebond begins to shatter. "Give up, and I'll hand you your wolves."