You're walking through the swamp at late dusk when you see it looming in the shadows. A shaggy, dark figure towers over you from a distance and you get a glimpse of a pair of glowing red eyes from under a skull. Before you can respond, the figure is gone. It was over as soon as it began but that night you have a strange dream... or is it more of a nightmare?
How does your kin react to what they've seen? Interpret the dream (or nightmare) that was triggered by the event. If you need an idea, you could try writing a skewed version of their naming dream as that would surely be nightmarish for any kin.
How does your kin react to what they've seen? Interpret the dream (or nightmare) that was triggered by the event. If you need an idea, you could try writing a skewed version of their naming dream as that would surely be nightmarish for any kin.
It was dark.
It was dark, and he was alone, and this had never bothered him before, not really - but somehow, even now, he felt a slight apprehensiveness that curled at the base of his spine as his hooves passed through dying leaves, crackling under each step. He could hear, if he strained hard enough, the soft cooing of an owl nearby; the distant chirp of some sort of insect, hiding in the dirt, and the gentle swoop of wings as something moved in the distance. The night voices, those that only opened their eyes when the sun disappeared beyond the horizon
Alone, without the comfort of his creatures, he felt more exposed than usual. The darkness loomed, pushed in through the trees; if he looked too hard, they felt almost as though they were growing further and further, deepening with a blatant disregard for the normalcies of the forest, curling around his legs and pushing at his pelt. Something kept him moving forward, though he could not tell what it was; not when his mind seemed to be filled with an uncomfortable buzzing that seemed to spread through his thoughts like the shadows, blurring out anything else. And there was something -
- something in the distance. Something in the trees. With a great deal of effort, like sludging through the thicker parts of swamp water, Fantastic Beasts managed to come to a halt. It took a will of effort; that something that kept him moving was still pulling irresistibly at him, threatening to take his air if he didn't comply. A heartbeat thrummed through him, too fast, then too slow, then too fast again, and something moved, shifted, breathed in front of him.
A creature. A creature, or maybe something born of the shadows that lurked only when it was night and everything felt somehow more frightening. Fantastic Beasts felt his pulse rising, because the thing - the creature - was looking at him.
It was watching. Watching, waiting, watching, waiting -
He did not have Where here, or Silver, or Song. It was merely him, alone in the woods. Fear crept like cold ice up Fantastic Beast's neck and throat, making it difficult to breathe, soft puffs of curling white emanating from his mouth when he managed to get himself together enough to remember how his body worked. He thought of his creatures again; the ones that were waiting for him, the ones that he could see every day, the ones that stayed with him when he was alone, or scared, or uncertain of the future ahead of him. He knew their presence, knew their songs, their movements; dear things that made it all worthwhile in the end.
Was this some abomination of that? Some twisted, unforgiving, unpleasant form of one of them?
As this thought struck him, Fantastic Beasts could hear the high pitched whining of his own breath in his ears; could feel the way that thought permeated every part of his mind until it was nearly too much too bear, too much to think. This was not one of his, this was not one of the ones that he had so carefully taken care of, this was not one of the ones who trusted him -
Did it need his help? Did it want his help?
Was it crying, as so many of them did?
Fantastic Beasts closed his eyes.
It was dark, and he was alone, and this had never bothered him before, not really - but somehow, even now, he felt a slight apprehensiveness that curled at the base of his spine as his hooves passed through dying leaves, crackling under each step. He could hear, if he strained hard enough, the soft cooing of an owl nearby; the distant chirp of some sort of insect, hiding in the dirt, and the gentle swoop of wings as something moved in the distance. The night voices, those that only opened their eyes when the sun disappeared beyond the horizon
Alone, without the comfort of his creatures, he felt more exposed than usual. The darkness loomed, pushed in through the trees; if he looked too hard, they felt almost as though they were growing further and further, deepening with a blatant disregard for the normalcies of the forest, curling around his legs and pushing at his pelt. Something kept him moving forward, though he could not tell what it was; not when his mind seemed to be filled with an uncomfortable buzzing that seemed to spread through his thoughts like the shadows, blurring out anything else. And there was something -
- something in the distance. Something in the trees. With a great deal of effort, like sludging through the thicker parts of swamp water, Fantastic Beasts managed to come to a halt. It took a will of effort; that something that kept him moving was still pulling irresistibly at him, threatening to take his air if he didn't comply. A heartbeat thrummed through him, too fast, then too slow, then too fast again, and something moved, shifted, breathed in front of him.
A creature. A creature, or maybe something born of the shadows that lurked only when it was night and everything felt somehow more frightening. Fantastic Beasts felt his pulse rising, because the thing - the creature - was looking at him.
It was watching. Watching, waiting, watching, waiting -
He did not have Where here, or Silver, or Song. It was merely him, alone in the woods. Fear crept like cold ice up Fantastic Beast's neck and throat, making it difficult to breathe, soft puffs of curling white emanating from his mouth when he managed to get himself together enough to remember how his body worked. He thought of his creatures again; the ones that were waiting for him, the ones that he could see every day, the ones that stayed with him when he was alone, or scared, or uncertain of the future ahead of him. He knew their presence, knew their songs, their movements; dear things that made it all worthwhile in the end.
Was this some abomination of that? Some twisted, unforgiving, unpleasant form of one of them?
As this thought struck him, Fantastic Beasts could hear the high pitched whining of his own breath in his ears; could feel the way that thought permeated every part of his mind until it was nearly too much too bear, too much to think. This was not one of his, this was not one of the ones that he had so carefully taken care of, this was not one of the ones who trusted him -
Did it need his help? Did it want his help?
Was it crying, as so many of them did?
Fantastic Beasts closed his eyes.
