"The old man, the old man, he dies, he dies tonight~ Why not sooner, why not sooner? Oh! Oh! He'll die toooooniiiiight~"

A massive stag staggers along on a path to the ruins, each movement seeming to contort and twist his grotesque image further and further. His face is covered by a white skull, not marked with blue paint, but with blood filled veins which loop threw his eyeholes and the mask's mouth. On the left side of his face, three red eyes could be seen, and on the right side, one empty eye socket exists to spew blue flame. Massive antlers stretch out for the night sky, like many dead and skeletal hands, each with five grotesque fingers. Behind him, a long serpent of a tail writhes like a beast all its own, leading to a massive hand, which snaps its fingers behind its body.

"Kill, kill, kill the old, the old the old. I'll be the reaper, the reaper is me~" he sings, twisting between trees and nearly dancing as he staggers along to his own song. He begins to fall into a wild fit of laughter, effectively leaving him to collapse onto his side in mania. "The blood I'll SPILL, his blood I'll SPILL." he roars, giggling like some kind of child afterwards.


At the ruins, the six eyed grave keeper tiredly works at digging a new grave. His shackles clatter and clank with every digging movement, thick metal cutting into his forelocks with every movement, letting blood drip steadily out of his fetlocks. He turns his head away from the grave after a moment, and glances around. His long ears twitch uncomfortably, picking up odd sounds on the wind. "Hnn... That should be enough." he grunts to himself, and walks away from the upturned soil. With only a few paces, he reaches the gravesite of his beloved, and sits protectively beside it. "There is... evil in the air... Lagho." he rasps, looking wearily at the grave beside himself. His fur seems to stand on end at the back of his neck. He could clearly see the ghost doe, laying on the grave. She seems to frown a bit, then rise to a stand. "You're right Weaver..." she trails off, then steps off her grave and over the old Irish Elk. "But let's not worry about it for now. I'm sure the Priest or someone from the lightbringers will take care of things." she speaks softly, and sits down part way threw him, in a sort of 'I'm a ghost, and can get away with it' manner. Dark then pulls his skull into a sort of grin, and then allows himself to laugh a bit at Laghodessa's antic. He couldn't mind the chill of her ghostly touch, in the least.

The contorting stag rises again to his hooves and continues on his way, still giggling rather maniacally. The stone ruins were within his range of sight, though he remained hidden by foliage, if only for another moment or so. His vision became speckled with the white orbs that mark the existence of spirits still wandering around their graves. The occasional raven squawks, flutters its heavy wings, or simply falls into a calculative silence. Squirrels turn their heads to the ugly beast as it passes by, only for them to sprint to their nests seconds later.

His pace begins to quicken, evolving from a drunken swagger to a hell bent sprint. Offended ravens take flight, loosing silken black feathers as they ascend. Bats scream and join in with the ravens, escaping the pathway of the creature.

"HIS BLOOD WILL SPILL, SPILL, SPILL! OH THE OLD MAN, HE DIES! HE DIES TONIGHT!" he screams, boring into view. The flame of his empty eye socket trails like a great blue banner behind him. His very hoof beats tear into the soil and shake the ground. Impossible to ignore, Darkweaver turns his head to look at the oncoming threat. He quickly rises to his hooves, and holds his head high. "Hnn... Never mind... the Lightbringers... love. I'll handle... him." Darkweaver rasps. Moving like a bullet fresh from the barrel, Spill races around the other side of the ruins, and turns just short of the flat platform only yards away from the other end, only to double back. The high laughing of the insane stag repeatedly changes volume and pitch, hitting its highest pitch as he comes close to his target.

Darkweaver's muscular legs stiffen and his head turns to direct the end of his half moon shaped antler in Spill's path. Moments before reaching potential impact, spill's massive tail-hand swings ahead of him, fingers latching around the ancient stag's defending antler. Darkweaver's eyes widen slightly as Spill manages to step around him in mid sprint. Lashing past his target, he uses him as a pivot point to go into a second lap around the ruins, only picking up speed.

Dark pulls his skull mask into a grimace. "I'll be the reaper! The reaper! Take my hand, my hand! I'll lead you to hell's gate~" Spill continued to sing, coming out of his second lap around the stone ruins. A quiet curse escapes Darkweaver's maw. He slowly steps further away from the graves and into the direct path of his enemy. Not slowing down, Spill lowers his head, so those awful skeletal fingers appear to reach out for the older stag. Calculating each movement carefully, Dark raises on his hind legs when Spill comes within two last yards. He thrusts his fore hooves forward, smashing them into Spill's oncoming antlers. With the force of impact, his hooves slip, and his chains become caught on Spill's tines. In the recoil from impact, Dark takes a few forced backward steps on his hind legs. Not bothering to slow himself even after impact, Spill pulls his head upward and twists his neck around violently, tangling the chains into his antlers and pulling the ancient stag completely off his hooves and onto his side, dragging him several feet before stopping. A pained grunt escapes Darkweaver's throat as his fetlocks are aggravated by Spill's dragging. Blood begins to pour out of the increasingly deep cuts caused by the pulled shackles.

A now very nervous Laghodessa begins to pace along her gravesite, glowing blue eyes looking away from the situation for a trace of any assistant in the near forest. "Arch... Now would be a good time to show up..." she whispers, not even audible under the ancient stag's enraged screeching, and the ever contorting demon's crazed laughter. Two sets of crimson eyes tightly close, opposing the clumps of soil and small stones that are kicked up by the crazed stag's step. His maw opens part way, to flash the dozens of demonic looking teeth that line his mouth. The remaining open eyes watch the wild movement of Spill's hind legs. With a bit of forced regression, Dark swings his head ahead of himself and pulls his forelegs under his chest, essentially using his chains like ropes, and coming close enough to his opponent. With one quick strike, he bites clean into Spill's flank, carnivorous teeth locking into place. Blood begins to pour our of the deep bite wounds Spill's thigh, and rolls down both his leg and Dark's skull mask. The laughter seems to intensify, though finally Spill stops running. He twists his head around, looking back at Darkweaver with his head completely upside down. "Canni Canni Cannibal! Some things, things never change!" he raves, receiving a six eyed glare.

Elsewhere in the forest, a golden stag with massive red antlers that emit a black mist turns his head to face the general direction of the ruins. His bright ears twitch at the sudden strange sounds in the air. Cries like that of a banshee, laughs like a hyena... Beside him, a blue and gold stag with skeletal markings and two colored eyes looks concerned. "What was that?" Takeshi asks. Archelius closes his chronically calm blue eyes, and shakes his head, letting black mist scatter away from his antlers. "Can't say for sure. Sounds like something's going on at the ruins, though." he responds, opening his eyes again after a moment. He begins to trot in the direction of the sound of combat, looking back at Takeshi. "Probably should keep our distance though." he adds, knowing he personally would do the opposite, as would his friend of sort. It isn't unheard of for the two to step in between combatants anyway. Archelius looks back ahead of himself and begins to gallop in as much of a beeline he could manage with antlers as wide and oversized as his own. He couldn't get Takeshi involved, so he made the only logical choice possible. Not looking back, he yells back to Takeshi. "Go find your mother! She must not be in harm’s way if there's excess trouble!" The quantity of ravens and bats flying overhead increases rapidly as he travels alone, as well as the audibility of the fight.

As some distance is made from his friend, the necromancer's golden pelt begins to give the illusion of both sparking and creating a sort of dust cloud of gold. With every few steps, his pelt overall becomes darker, and the skeletal markings become more pronounced, until finally his skull mask cracks along the eye sockets. His eye color changes to reveal his own triple set of crimson eyes. In the back of his mind, he hears the spirit of Adrastos acknowledge exactly what is going on... and that it had to be intercepted... that indeed, one of those fighting is the one he had been looking for.

Not yet letting go of Spill's flank, Darkweaver stubbornly hangs on as the insane stag contorts himself in every grotesque position imaginable to strike back at him with every physical opportunity. The length of the chains bonding them together rapidly shortens as they are further tangled between the mess of antlers, soon bringing the two very awkwardly face to face. Determined not to be killed like a dog, Dark tightens his bite, until finally being knocked off; but not without ripping a size worthy chunk out of his opponent's hide. As a blatant act of cannibalism, he swallows down the bitten off husk of bloody venison. A finally irked look crosses Spill's red eyes, and the flame billowing from his eyehole intensifies. Blood runs freely out of his flank, dying his black and white side crimson. He lowers his head, snarling like a rabid animal, even foaming at the mouth to some degree. "So, so, so... the old the old still has fight, has fight left in him." he hisses. Not losing the chance, Dark manages to position his hooves under himself long enough to make a second attempt at snapping off his enemy's antlers. It isn't usually a difficult task for the old demon anyway, and he had pulled it off to some extent in his previous battles even within the past year or so. Both Wesker and The Priest had seen this strategy used by him.

Heavy, bloody hooves smash down into those arm-like white branches, staining them red as pressure is roughly applied. The chains binding them together clatter painfully, but as tines resembling hideous fingers are snapped off under the pressure, the chains fall free. A trace of a grin appears on Darkweaver's skull, as his freedom is briefly restored. He pushes back on Spill's damaged antlers, meeting more than the expected amount of resistance. He is effectively pushed off, and then turns around to make some distance between them. Spill stumbles back, cackling again. His tail swings overhead, and the long fingers of his tail run along his damaged antlers. Almost immediately, the tines that had been broken off began to regrow. Satisfied, the madness begins to walk in backward circles, eventually stopping while facing well away from his target. His tail stretches out and the hand's fingers bend to make first a fist, and then extend a single finger to point at the escaping bull. His head follows suit, and with a few contorting movements that turn him halfway upside down, he begins to partially slither on his back and the base of his neck, only two hooves even on the ground, making his way through the graveyard toward the old stag.

"Hnn... Dis...gust...ing... thing." Dark rasps, turning around to face Spill again. He stomps a fore hoof, and snorts, lowering his head and flashing now very bloody teeth. "Thing? Thing? A thing am I? Am I?" He raves, twisting so his head becomes upright again. "No no no... I AM... PAIN IS CUPCAKE." he yells, suddenly standing upright properly, albeit getting very much in Darkweaver's face. He tilts his head and takes a backward step before speaking further. "I will EAT YOU." Spill states. With no further prompting, he lunges again at Darkweaver, only to find himself hitting the ground, with a completely different, yet physically similar deer standing over him.

Black smoke filtering out of his crimson antlers, the Necromancer lifts his head high after knocking the demon over. His crimson eyes hold none of the placidity that had been carried over the last several weeks, nor do they hold any intention of mercy or kindness. "There is no place for a thing like you." the necromancer snarls. While normally Archelius would have wanted to attack a cultist in this manner, it seems the greater sin belongs to this murderous creature pursuing the ancient leader of the Enlightened. Darkweaver raises his head, looking mildly stunned. For a moment Spill loses his oversized smile, and turns his head to look up at the new deer. His vision begins to flood with multiple tones of black and red, recoloring the forest only within his insane mind. Black tendrils began to leak out of the trees, the gaps between the stone bricks of the ruins, and out of the sky itself. The grin returns to Spill's blue and white skull, and his tail sweeps over Archelius's back. The fingers suddenly latch around the back of Arch's neck, and with some effort, the necromancer is pulled off of Spill and literally lifted off the ground.

To the ancient bull, the sudden appearance of his son in his defense came as a very welcome surprise. However, now his enemy began to achieve an upper hand again. "Arch...!" he wheezes. Spill by now pulled himself back onto his hooves, and almost effortlessly tosses the younger stag at the ruins. A derogatory comment passes Darkweaver's maw at that. Grunting as he hits the ground before the stone ruins, Arch pulls himself back to his hooves and glances around. He could see countless ghosts gathering around him, including that of his mother. The air became bitterly cold, but it was oddly comforting. "I'm fine, thanks..." Arch reassures the spirits, many ancient, some new, and some perhaps only weeks old. He couldn't be entirely sure, but he thought he could see one that appeared to be a newborn fawn, though very much underdeveloped... potentially Hoshiko? Shaking his head, he looks at the spirits as a whole. "But I'll need to call on all of you before this is over, it seems." he adds, and then charges back at the scene of combat. The black smoke around his antlers extends away from their resting places, and swiftly materializes into two white ghosts, which follow closely, ready to be used on command.

Angered now that Spill could so easily remove Arch from the fight, Dark charges at Spill, and slams his brow tines directly into the demon's side. This time he doesn't fall over, though the brow tines sink in. Anglerfish-like teeth flash, followed by a wide sweeping of red and white branches. Regrown tines dig past Darkweaver's thick black pelt and into the skin underneath, and grab in as if each five-set of tines truly were extra hands. Dark throws his head back, tearing Spill's side with his brow tines in the progress. A pained screech escapes him as Spill's tines seem to latch into him like the claws of a large cat. Everything about this battle just seemed to become more and more unnatural, and increasingly concerning. He twists around, trying to pull himself free of the tines. With every struggling movement, they dig deeper, drawing increasing amounts of blood from the old bull. He could not tell if it was the imagination or reality, but it seemed his enemy's antlers were changing shape and position on their own, moving so as to gain a tighter grasp on him.

From Archelius's viewpoint, those bushes of bloodied antlers indeed were moving like living things. With a touch of recklessness, he leaps at Spill, and slams his fore hooves into his enemy's neck. His sharp hooves manage to puncture halfway through Spill's throat, and push the manic creature away from Arch's father. Hooves immediately coming free from the embodiment of madness' flesh, blood begins to spout out of his neck like mini geysers. "SUCH SUCH FOOLS SUCH FOOLS. The old man! The old man, he dies tonight~ Let his let his family come, come to save him! The old man dies tonight! I'll be the reaper, reaper, reaper~ I'll chase them into hell!" he raves, voice becoming sing-songish again. Blood begins to roll out of his mouth, and drip onto the ground. Dark begins to wheeze slightly. His pelt had become well bloodied on one side, and the stab wounds had managed to remove some fur from his flesh, giving a clear visual of a number of deep puncture wounds. Arch turns his head to look at Darkweaver, concern flashing threw his aggressive crimson eyes. "Father... we can end this creature... don't worry." he voices. Dark returns the look and nods once. "Hnn..." he grunts wordlessly, turning two eyes to watch out for any continued attack from their opponent.

"Chit chat, chitty chat! Chatter bird gets eaten, eaten by the cat!" Spill raves; twisting his neck until his head once again hangs upside down. His long antler's finger-like tines scrape across the ground and literally grab chunks of soil and grass out of the earth. He pulls his grin into a snarl to make up for his change in head position, letting his anglerfish teeth stick out in front of his face. Darkweaver snorts in mild disgust. Hues of red begin to touch the night air, signaling the oncoming dawn. Soon enough, day would break. For now, though, the darkest point of the night still had to be faced. Without a doubt, someone had to die... but the question that makes all the difference would be simply... who.

Stepping like a wild drunk, Spill moves toward Darkweaver. Only movement had been necessary in order to classify as a continued attack. Not standing to be the victim, Dark lunges out of the way of Spill's general path. Within the same moment, Arch takes a step back and holds his head high. "Penetro" he speaks, one eye turning toward the spirit of Adrastos. Immediately reacting to the necromancer's command, the ghost lunges between Darkweaver and Spill, then roughly passes through the latter’s body. As he comes out the opposite side of Spill's body, Adrastos' translucent body becomes momentarily crimson with blood. The blood then falls threw him and splatters over the thirsty ground. Spill's three eyes blink as an intense pain surges threw his body without a cause visible to his own eyes. Without even having a visibly opened wound, blood began to roll out of his very pores and out from under his fur. He stops walking, legs locking momentarily under him. "What, what, what? Magic, magic not of this, this forest?" He mutters, and then begins to go into a renewed fit of giggles. Taking the moment of distraction as an opportunity, Darkweaver leaps at the larger Spill in attempt to bite into his already savaged neck.

Massive front teeth tear directly into the thick flesh and fur of the insane Irish elk. With a sideways pull of the head, the whole body is pulled off its hooves. The metallic smell of blood floods the air, and dark crimson pools over the vivid green grass. The air began to grow heavy with the secondary scent of oncoming rainfall, and the humidity rapidly increases until it feels like there is more water in the air than ozone. The hues of red in the sky darken into full blackness, which momentarily waits upon the first strings of golden light on the horizon line. The sound of heavy breathing and thunderous heartbeats becomes overwhelmed by the sound of flesh being torn from the neck and continued giggling. "Pain, pain, be my game. Pain, pain, play your cards. Pain, pain-" Spill cuts himself off with a bout of laughter. From where he lays, his blood continues to run free like the tears of the crying idol.

Archelius gives an unimpressed snort. "You're finished, offender." he growls, pulling back black lips to flash shark like teeth. "So why the heck are you still laughing." he presses. Darkweaver holds his head high, with a sheet of flesh dangling out of his mouth, and ears pinned back. Spill continues to laugh, while blood leaks out of his mouth. Lying sideways, the blue fire guttering out of his eyehole licks over his skull. "Silly, silly, silly child. You cannot, not, not kill the reaper. Old man, old man, I've come, come to take you home." Spill gurgles. Moving like a lightning bolt, he rolls back onto his feet. Archelius dives at Spill in defensive aggression, only for that massive tail hand to swing in his path and grab him by the jaw. Not missing a beat, Spill's angler fish teeth latch into Darkweaver's exposed and rotted throat. Archelius grunts in protest, six eyes widening in terror. Unable to speak, he could not call upon the ghosts to strike again. Dark instinctively takes a step backward as his esophagus is pierced by overly long teeth, and thrusts his hooves in front of himself to use his chains as whips.

Not responding to the chains bludgeoning his front side, Spill hangs on to both of his enemies. Three red eyes look into three opposing crimson eyes. Blood continues to pool under the three, drowning the grass and weeds alike. Across the ruins, gasps of the ghosts could be heard, along with protesting cries of the departed. "Orion!" A voice pleads over them all. Slowly lowering his head without letting go, Spill pulls Dark's head down before letting his hand-like tines scratch and dig into his skin. The tines bend, moving lower and closer to the ground, then curl inward and around the heads of the two giant deer. With a sudden lurch forward, the tines burrow completely into Darkweaver's chest and clean threw his rib cage, into his heart. One last high pitched screech escapes the ancient stag's maw as his life blood flows freely. Archelius continues to struggle against Spill's grip, only to be continually lifted off the ground by the mouth and into a helpless position. Many emotions flood his eyes at once; horror, despair, grief, hate, rage, and sadness become displayed all at once, each showing in one eye at a time.

Determining his self to be successful, Spill throws Archelius against a nearby tree and turns around to face him. Arch hits the tree back-first, and painfully rolls forward and onto his hooves. "F...father..." he gasps, looking past Spill with one set of eyes. The ancient stag’s sides still heaved with labored breaths, which grow increasingly weak. "You... he trails off, taking in a breath before screaming wordlessly. Spill staggers forward, then lunges at the younger stag. Archelius lowers his head and meets Spill's antlers with his own. "Demon! Phasmatis recedo intemporaliter! Nex, adveho celeriter!" he curses in the language of the departed. The flame in Spill's eyes begins to die, though he continues to press against Arch's antlers. "Nex, adveho celeriter!" he repeats. Spill begins to weaken, and Arch begins to push him backward. Behind Spill, a new figure appears. A skeletal deer wearing no more than a cloak for a pelt, and no flesh on his body crawls out of the pitch black darkness, with a long scythe held in its mouth. Unseen by Archelius' nemesis, the stag turns his head at a complete 180 degree angle before snapping it around, along with the scythe. The scythe tears threw not flesh, but spirit, removing it from the body.

Instantly, the madness collapses on himself, with his life completely removed from existence. Archelius breathes heavily, having tears formed in his six eyes. "... Dad." he breathes, and steps away from the corpse. Death itself turns his head to watch the necromancer approach the murdered ancient stag. Wordlessly, he lowers himself to the blood coated grass around his father's rapidly cooling body, and curls up around his back. He gently drops his head to rest over the ancient stag's decayed neck, not minding the combination of old man smell and the smell of decay and blood."Phasmatis ex silva, recedo ex vestri sepulchrum gero a nuntius. senior est occisor. Contraho lacuna illorum quisnam met is unus, ut they vires addo recro." he speaks softly, eyes closing tightly.

The ruins begin to light up with the presence of ghosts and spirits, and the stars begin to glitter with life. Even the lake begins to take on a glow, like the pelt of the devouts. The ghosts, pushed forward by the necromancer's call, begin to depart threw the forest to seek out the living; and their words - Words that could revive, or condemn. The sounds of the combat had drawn a secret crowd, which began to collect on the outskirts of the ruins, overseeing the final events.

-----

As the sun’s warming light cascades over the forest, the spirits continue to collect the words and feelings of the deer they encounter. Bright white beings dash desperately over the natural green carpet of grass. Others streak threw the vivid green canopy of the trees. In the early morning, they find a select number of deer, and speak only briefly with them. Only long enough, to deliver the message of Darkweaver’s passing.

Hours pass quickly, and the weather slowly changes along with the positioning of the sun. The sky does not grow overly bright, and remains overcast. Tiny droplets of rain escape from the lowest clouds, like withheld tears that could no longer be contained. Soon, the blue overcast of the day fades into the next evening. It falls heavily, like a blanket of snow formed over a January night. Threw the course of the day, Arch had not moved as much as an inch away from his father’s body. He remains curled around his backside, face buried in heavy black fur and sticky red blood. He would only lift his head, not at the sound of others coming to investigate the scene, but to those who bravely joined him.

Without his sibling’s spirits resting in his antlers, he did not change his appearance to match the light of the day for more than a few minutes after the breaking of the dawn. His golden pelt for a brief time reflects the light of the sun, only to shortly after engulf it in deep darkness. The necromancer, for the day, would remain in his natural, biological appearance. Six crimson eyes, heavy black fur, white skeleton markings, fox reminiscent tail, and all. It didn’t matter. First came the Priest, and then came Amary, then Bastilion and Triston, and finally, toward the end of the day came Cloud and his gift of poppies.

As the sun begins to set, the tiny drops of rain grow heavy. An occasional clap of thunder echoes in the distance, like the cry of a lion on the other side of existence breaking threw a gap in reality. The spirits begin to return to the ruins. Their eerie white bodies glow in the evening like the pelt of the devouts, though they are far from corporeal. They silently gather around the living company of the fallen demon, looking down upon them. The necromancer’s spirit sensitive eye opens and scans over the gathered phantoms. He speaks softly, but authoritatively. “Vado haud , ut ceterus pars. Commemoro vox vocis vos fui recolligo.”

At the command, the spirits depart, retreating to the other side.

On the other side, they appear as they had existed in life. Surrounded by a blue mist, pouring out from the other side of a great iron gate with hundreds upon hundreds of vibrant red roses, the outside of the gates are nothing short of its own mystery. A massive creature walks through the mist. With every heavy step his chains clank and clatter, but not against the nearly nonexistent ground. Hanging out threw six empty eye holes are nearly endless chains of gold and iron. The chains loop out at points threw his mouth, and wrap around his large teeth, and prominently around his neck and down his legs. Blood does not seep out of his empty eye sockets, but tears do. They run down the many links of the chains, and drip to the ground silently. Two truly massive antlers, also wrapped in long chains, stand high over his head.

Upon becoming surrounded by the more solid seeming deer, the cursed demon stops in his step. Ears twitch lightly, listening as the mist parts to open a path to the living world. Through this path, the voices of those who spoke up could be heard.

“I…I regret…not getting to know you better. I wish...I had. We might have been…friends. Can you smell it, Darkweaver? The poppies?”
"P-Please...I c-can't...I d-don't want to...l-lose you, Dark. Y-you...You're like...f-family to me,"
”We began as enemies… somehow we became as good friends… but now… You are like a father to me.”
"This is not a place for death. If death could be beaten, truly beaten, anywhere, then this would be the place."
“Every now and then, in one's lifetime, they meet another. Though not the same, so similar. One whom they can call friend. Comrade. Brother. I think that you were such my friend. One I could call a brother.”
” "He is but an old friend.
A stag of great power and wisdom.
And company of whom is always most welcome.
I still owe you that spar, Sir Darkweaver.
..."
“There are those who love you here, I see. Come back to them. You are not meant to die on this day, Darkweaver.”
”…Dad.”

The demon steps out of the mist, tilting his head upward. Sniffing the air, he could indeed smell the poppies. He could hear their voices, as if they were directly in front of him. Stride as heavy as ever, he turns from the iron gates and steps onto the path, and disappears.

As the sunset fades almost completely into the night, the rain continues to fall. It slows again, and the clouds begin to thin. Traces of moonlight glow threw the clouds, and reflect off the droplets of rainfall. In those last few seconds of sunlight, a trace of green light flashes over the horizon.
The spirits gradually return, as simply orbs of white light. Two of which seem to dive right into the necromancer’s great red antlers. Among the last to reappear, is a green glow which shifts into the form of the cursed demon. His step is silent, nigh existent. Chained eyeholes fall upon the bloody heap on the ground, and those lying around it.

The corpse’s body heat had completely left it, save for where those who gathered lay against it. The blood had separated from water, and had dried completely where rain had failed to fall upon it. The demon’s spirit looks away, facing the grave of his lover. There she stood black, white, and icy blue. ”Orion…” she speaks softly, shakily. ”Lagho… I’m here.” he speaks, voice free of the rasp of decay. Her bright blue eyes flash, and she runs to him. The spirits of Laoise and Adrastos look on; though no living being gathered see them. As she meets him, their spirits seem to disappear into a ring of light. Her neck brushes against his in a warm nuzzle, no longer passing threw him, and then rests her head over his back in the deer form of a hug.
”They need you back, Orion.” she whispers, sadly. A smile to match her voice appears on her skull. ”And you still have a promise to fulfill.” she adds. ”Hnn… yes.” he sighs. How he’d love to remain a spirit, just to exist on the same field as his beloved. However, she is right. He turns his head to look at her, and licks her snout lovingly. White light begins to eclipse over the green spirit’s chains, and finally they dissolve. Without the spiritual weights, he steps away from Laghodessa and toward those gathered. The corpse begins to grow warm again, and blood mix with water as the spirit disappears completely. Ragged and torn black flesh slowly begins to regenerate, stitch and lace into new tissue.

Finally, a raspy breath is taken in.

A cough.

A pulse.

Open, dead and glassy eyes close open then focus again.

A few teary eyes open, and ears perk hopefully.

Heads lift, and relieved tails wag.


Powerful words, words of conviction and love…

Allowed by the gods… The spirits… The deer…

Such had brought the ancient Irish Elk back to life.