🙔 ᴇssᴀʟᴀ

Did You Know? 🙔 Essala ...
ᛜ escaped the Shadow Lands after forty years ᛜ kills every bird she can. ᛜ x. ᛜ x ᛜ x ᛜ x ᛜ x

Relationships
ᛜ ᛮ Nessmuk (mate) - The Lich and lead of Bonestrewn.
ᛜ ᚨ Wormwood (daughter) - The Flightless One is the heir of Shadowsanct.
ᛜ ᚨ Ríkr (son) - The Impaled is the eldest son and heir of Bonestrewn. Born from the sacrifice of the favorite daughter's wings.

Identifiers
scent: petichor, deep shade
voice claim: Moro (Princess Mononoke, English language version)
theme song: (placeholder)

Excerpts from the tale of the Shadow Walker ...

A burst of wind brushed its tendrils through her coat, ruffling each ebony blade of fur to bristle at the unfamiliar touch. How long had it been since she had experienced wind? Or sun - as it licked at her flesh with a just as alien warmth? Was this the home she used to know? Had she actually made it out...? And then, reality snapped back in, with an eruption of light far too bright: eyes the shade of moonbeams opened to reveal the carnage laid before her. And upon her. Blood, viscera, bones, and corpse littered the sand and pointed only in one direction - towards her. The smell of death was as unmistakable as it was inescapable, days old and pungent upon her nostrils. Not even the breeze that disrupted the desert 'scape could carry away the reminder of what she had done night-before. She had killed them all... or nearly. Awareness was sudden then as a lone few silhouettes loomed in the distance. They watched her warily but dared not make a sound, dared not move except to cower with ears flattened taut against their skulls. There was no mistake to be made for she knew this emotion all to well; it was a feeling she had come to experience for many years in the Shadowlands. It was an emotion torn from her soul after many more in that same damned hell. It was a dreadful thing, and yet she could not bring herself to feel pity for their loss nor their fear for the shadow only favors itself. Rising to her legs with abruptness, a snarl ran across curled lips beckoning the attention of every wolf left of B'dlam's once massive "collection". Each drew their eyes to her in anticipation. Perhaps they worried she might kill them all too? Just another blood bath; a smile slowly pulled across her maw feeling just as foreign to her features as anything else upon this mortal plane. Essala, who have you become?

ᛜ ᛜ ᛜ

The collector had fought valiantly when she encountered him day prior, but it was for naught. His crimson spilled and eight feathers plucked from her own wings was all she needed to finish him. Overkill even? No, no, simply a fitting punishment for anything that thought it would find her ensnared and trapped again. As crimson fed the soil and own teeth sought to pluck a feather from winged shoulders. Red (the water) and black (the seed) intermingled and intertwined in an intricate dance until dark apparitions grew from the soil - and shadows became corporeal. They were loyal followers, weak in their flesh but strong in number without any sense of self-preservation: eight wolfish figures descended upon the leader of Eldersblood. And soon after, B'dlam was no more. It was one of the collection that found him next. The Eldersblood scout had caught scent of her leader's blood upon the air and with a howl in the distance Essala knew she would soon encounter the remainder. The bloodbath had left few behind, but it was few whose lives now hung like a weight upon Essala's shoulders. Would it be best that she killed them all? She had considered it, heavily. Two weeks into her reign the conclusion had nearly been drawn. She had attempted in the meantime to not get to know any of the rest for knowledge of what needed to be done. The wolf didn't have the time to spend her newfound freedom on emotions like guilt. So she remained quiet and uninterested in her pack despite to bark orders and bide her time. The battles had weakened her and it would still take some time for her energy (and wings) to recover, but they didn't need to know that or her plans. And fate saw to it that perhaps they never would; news came upon the mouth of stranger wolf - named Embla. The wolf seemed to have want to stay in good terms with the shadows left of Eldersblood even knowing about B'dlam and so many others tragic demise; this Embla seemed to know pain and tragedy well. This brought questions about the very nature of the pack from whence she came. She told of an allegiance between it (Bonestrewn) and the former collector's (Eldersblood). And, well, that... posed a problem. Taking on another sizable pack of wolves in her current condition certainly was not in the cards. Especially if they were potentially ruthless enough that Embla didn't even bat an eye at the massacre that had unfolded here. ... but one lone wolf wouldn't be so hard to extinguish. What was a few more drops of blood after all? That seemed the most promising path until Embla let it slip that tales of the massacre were not truly news. The words were woven in the tales of the birds these days. Essala had always hated those feather-brained nuisances. Just like Sherahn's brother, but that was a thought for another day. For now, Embla was allowed to return to her homelands unscathed... and the collection's fate was bound. If blood is what the new rule of Bonestrewn sought, and she had no doubt of that, then some corporeal fodder might not be so bad after all. A little insurance while she recovered fully. And thus, reluctant or not to take the helm, as Eldersblood bled out into the desert Shadowsanct was born; lead away from their known home through the sands with ears pricked to the feathered skies and the news they carried. If Nessmuk and his pack were in the sands looking, then Essala made sure they remained one step ahead . . .

ᛜ ᛜ ᛜ

He is coming, bird-killer, they sang. They sang. They sang. And she snapped, fangs finding fine flesh, tearing through fragile bones; shredding feathers and blood to taint the lagoon at foot - plop, plop, plip. It had been a month of this, and Essala grew more cross with each passing day. She was under no delusion that the carrion weren't in the pocket of the infamous lich. She'd kill every last bird in the sky. She had not been happy to move the pack from the desert to the swamps. It wasn't that she had any particular fondness for the scorched sands, but why, oh why, had the next nearest Biome had to be this humid hellscape? This damned, hot, muggy swamp. And these damned, stupid birds with their incessant trills. This couldn't go on forever. Was this Nessmuk even worth such measures of flight? Embla seemed to believe so; the foreign wolf had managed to find her way to Shadowsanct regardless of how far Essala took them. If killing the birds hadn't worked, Essala would just have to try something different.

ᛜ ᛜ ᛜ

Nose twitched and nostrils quivered, speak of the devil. The familiar scent of decay was upon the air. Ears pricked in consideration; was it stronger? In the Shadowlands where everything smelt of a dampness and still-air, her nose hadn't been much use. But while she couldn't quite peg why, Embla's scent just wasn't quite right. "Back again, so soon?" Unimpressed eyes turned expectantly as the foreign wolf stepped from the shadows. It was nearly sickening to see her skulking there in the darkness as if she thought she belonged amongst the dark veil. As if she was safe there - in Essala's own world. "He suspects me," the words carried fear, and Essala blinked with little interest and far fewer shreds of compassion. What did intrigue the lead, however, was how - different Embla appeared (nearly grotesque)? "Don't you look - different..." She had looked different, in fact, each and every time. A little worse for wear, a little more ... mutated and strange each and every time. "It is his doing," there it was that loathsome fear deep in her throat, "please listen to me, this-this transformation is happening to us all. And... and he suspects me." There were those words again. "And why is that my problem?" "I... you need me," At that a wicked smile crossed Essala's maw, head tilting as a measured step forward was taken. Embla's posture visibly shuddered, backing away. She quickly began to change her tune, the words and gestures were appeasing and submissive, but not a one of them was heard nor truly observed. How could Essala see or hear anything anything beyond that impudence? "No, I - I mean, that I have helped you and - perhaps I could continue to -" Without warning, the shadow-wolf lunged with teeth sharp and intent only to kill.

ᛜ ᛜ ᛜ

In the end, she had been weak. Embla; she whose scent was tainted with fear. Whose insolence continued (even now) to be a thorn in her side. Whose form writhed between clenched ivories. Whose blood fed the earth (so sodden already that it could only pool upon the surface as crimson puddles). Whose last breath rattle from gaped lips. Whose eyes rolled back. And whose body fell limp. Essala; she who shook the corpse between closed teeth. Who watched blood splatter the air (painting her and he as if a Pollock). Who heard him through pinned ears. And who met his gaze with a returned passivity. Who did not previously notice he who skulked in her shadows. Who was distracted by an impertinent little wolf. Who had let her guard down and allowed rage to upend caution. Was it not this careless and impulsive behavior which had gotten her into this mess to begin with? In the end, it was She who had been weak. And now that she was here, what was She to do? As He stepped from the darkness that had embraced him so wholly (foolish, foolish), his wings folded neatly against his back and his teeth stretched wide in a horrible grin. Oh, and then he laughed, laughed like rattling bones. Laughed like the itch of rage and blood-thirst boiling hot just beneath the flesh of her skin. Ah, yes, there it was, aggression so familiar, faithful friend, companion, solution and creator of problems - one and the same. Embla was no longer even a distant thought and certainly no longer a distraction, Essala's eyes leveling her counterpart in their gaze. From the shadows he came as if he truly belonged. Of the shadows? No, somehow different. There was a darkness more permanent in those hollow eyes; within their depths death seemed to stare back. Curiosity, something foreign to her for so many years now, began to usurp malicious intentions. Piqued interest became her as he - Nessmuk - spoke in a voice that seemed as dead as those eyes; as dead as... dear Embla, whose body now dropped as if nothing more than a burden. Discarded, disregarded. "For months I have been dreaming of how I might kill her... this end is more fitting." He had advanced until his paws were touched by the red that stained the underneath. And she did not react; no flinch, no movement, only watchful moonbeams gauging, calculating. "We meet at last, slayer of B'dlam, bird-killer ..." The lich spoke upon a pleased snarl, "Essala." He is coming. He is here. The lich, Nessmuk. Smelling more of death than Embla, even now. With feigned dismissiveness, her words were quiet though not shy, "you came all this way. Just for little old me?" Dryly and with clear derision, Essala added "you shouldn't have." Wings sorted themselves upon her back, mind calculating just how many feathers she could spare if, no, when this turned ugly. Three or four at most without sacrificing her new regained flight feathers. That might be enough for an ordinary wolf, but - "Don't tell me your upset over a few fallen wolves and," lips curled over ivories in a snarl of disgust, "birds." "Upset?" He seemed to ask (finally breaching the silence), and Essala was nearly of want to sigh in relief - take a desperate gasp of air through the cut in the lull; yet... she did not. She hardly breathed at all, in fact, with only the faintest quiver of nostrils betraying her livelihood. No, this was no time for lies like relief - for his next actions were not what she expected. Hardly. Teeth at her throat was expected - action - violence - bloodshed - and likely her death. Or perhaps, if she played every card just right, she'd be the one to walk away. But, no, instead, he spoke again with the finality she'd only anticipated to be her end not mere words. "No." Consider her interested piqued yet again, a foreign and unwelcome sensation. Her former life on this plane had been filled with such emotions and intrigues: curiosity and consideration of others intentions beyond just survival. Perhaps her disgust was best directed inward? She watched as he turned away from her - no reaction. Why? Why? But, yet, there was no reaction. She watched as the traitor's rib cage was split like the Red Sea - no reaction. She watched as crimson and viscera erupted from ivory cage - no reaction. She watched as he consumed Embla's very heart feeling - and it felt as if her own was in the vice of those teeth, but why? No. Reaction. "I have been dead for many moons," the Lich then told her as though conversationally, like they were companions (or could have been under a different moon). As though he was not dreaming of killing her, and her of him. "Death did not release me for souls added to the ferry. The Void did not yield for tender feeling. It was Fury." Words accompanied by that sharp, jagged smile; grotesque even, perhaps Embla hadn't bee lying after all; not that such a thing would have changed her fate. The ghost of a smile lined her maw - sickening, twisted, and almost certainly quite... mad. "Fury over the failings of others." Ah, now wasn't that apropos. Attention diverted wholly onto He as Nessmuk took a single step, continuing while she stood more rigid, cautious. "Legacy, bloodline. B'dlam was chosen as the Mate of the last of my Blood - Meaksaw -" He spoke the tale as if he hated them all. And her. "You killed the vile creature and their offspring. And when the time came for Revenge ... what did my daughter do?" The teeth once more expected against her skin did not come. She was more consumed with the why not than his words. Why not? Why not just kill her? Nessmuk suddenly spread his wings, stretched them far and vast and great - blocking out the light from above and throwing shadows upon the ground. He had had the upper-hand; he had caught her by surprise; why had he - not - killed -her already? Words once more interrupted her thoughts, and oh was there rage behind those words. Though Essala might never know at whom that fury was truly directed, "she killed herself instead of /you/." "I came ..." He murmured, soon after as if to answer her silent questions, "for ... little ... /you/. And ... what do I find?" Nessmuk asked, quiet. Quiet. "A creature; not quite Here. Not quite Wolf." And perhaps that was just it? Nessmuk knew not what he was up against. And how fortunate for Essala that she knew just enough about the depths of a lich; unlike those like her who walked with the shadows, darkness, the lich walked beside it like only the most versed in the Shadowlandss could do. And then Nessmuk - he seemed quite beyond the darkness, ahead of it. So, yes, she knew enough. Just enough to know she had never had a chance in her current state to overcome him. Just enough to know - now was her chance. "Quite the tale you spin, Lich," she mused aloud though not quite seeming to be talking to him at all. Her head turned to preen amongst own feathers, watching as one drifted slowly into the crimson puddles below, before finally returning her gaze to his. "Should I suppose," she began with a leg lifted as if she might step closer yet, "that you seek... my blood next then?" The thought was closed as own ivory daggers sought the flesh of her leg, watching, watching as the blood let freely into the earth. Mixing, mixing, with Embla's life-fluid. It didn't hold much power alone but - Together it might just be enough. "So sorry to have to keep you waiting, yet again." As if summoned from the black-watered lagoon, a spectral silhouette kissed the sun from the depths of Nessmuk's own grand shadow. An alligator with hide of onyx, a shadow as corporeal as He and She sunk tooth into Nessmuk's hide. And she, well, she knew enough was truly just a stall. She had to make space fast; the lizard that clung desperately upon the lich (wanting only to drag him under to the deepest depths of the swamp) would not be successful. Only a few bounds away from the carnage, she turned to look back at the writing forms of ebony - knowing the next time they met would likely result in their last breaths shared. It unsettled her - not because she feared dying but - rather...

Run, bird-killer, run! He will come again.