The caves are where it all started. They allowed the first wandering wolves access to the land of Blossom Forest, and afterward housed the monster that had threatened the earliest of inhabitants. The heroes had slain it, yes, but in doing so had also closed off one of the pathways in the caverns, magic blocking one of the many exits to Blossom Forest. But over the years, the original spell has weakened and now the way is clear. What will not only crawl out of the caverns, but erupt from it? The caves now thrum with the ever growing magic wellspring as it spreads out into the land. It is from here that the first vampire of Blossom Forest was corrupted, and it is here that any subsequent vampire will be born. To traverse its paths is dangerous - there is an almost impenetrable darkness, and in that abyss lays many secrets - hidden holes one could fall through, weakened floors, and then of course there is the labyrinthe itself. No one knows what the deeper levels hold - no one has traveled them and survived to tell tales. Not even those who call this place home dares to test their luck by going in deep, deep, deeper. The magic exuding from this place has rearranged the lands - moving packs, changing the terrain. Here the cave looks the same but it is not - it is more dangerous than ever. In addition, outside the mouth of the cave the sacred stones that once stood erect in another place now stand guard. They are colored the most beautiful arrangement of jewel tones, and almost appear to be made of gems themselves, no longer the dull grey they once were. It is within them that all official fights must take place - at the Blican Orlege. Welcome to Drylic Cofa...

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THAT IS DREAMING
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Filius watched Hestia go with that too familiar, violent anxiety tugging at his heart until she'd been swallowed up by the furious storm and her scent had long since dulled.

She always comes back. This isn't an exception, this is paranoia.

In frantic search of diversion his eyes roved over the gaping caves, from the stalagmites to the dark coated, slovenly wolves with their prowling spines and brooding sneers, to the moist smelling mosses clinging desperately to infertile rock. If a cave was good for anything, it was a wonderful way to convince wolves to gnaw their own limbs off from boredom.

Grumbling, incoherent and exasperatedly, he turned to fix his luminous stare on Mizuki. She looked smaller with her fur plastered to her bones like it was. Less like the cheeky stranger girl who cried beneath trees, and more like a worn rose that'd been crushed beneath one too many feet. Wet, small and unhappy. The kind of wolf he used to save; to liberate; to govern. Now? She didn't need anything he could give. He couldn't give her food to quell the emptiness in her stomach, couldn't offer words of encouragement to quell the storm raging in her own eyes, and couldn't defend either of them from so much as a rabid fox. Irritated, he turned on his side and huffed. And huffed again, and again, and again, in increasingly loud volumes until he was absolutely sure Mizuki had heard him.

"Tell your body to stop being so loud," He'd just opened his mouth to follow up with, "Some of us are trying to rest." When he became entirely aware, damn the senses of a grown wolf, of two things. One, Hestia was back. Two, something was coming back with her that smelled, to his acutely royal tastes, like it had visited at least the sixth ring of hell and most certainly did not made it back alive. He repressed a gag when the lightly rotting corpse was dropped atop (close enough) Mizuki. Beyond the smell it didn't look so bad, but to his unstable innards it might as well have been carrion. Nausea scratched the back of his throat and he turned, burying his nose beneath his paws and, curling into himself, tucked his tail over his muzzle so that his entire face was obscured from view. He wouldn't soil her dinner with his discomfort. Besides, it wasn't as if this was the worst he'd ever felt. He'd wake up the next morning in pain or in the night to the world spinning, the sensation of sliding off the face of the planet an overwhelming weight under his tongue, or both, and would relive each sunset and rise in like fashion until the earth finally had enough of his whining and ate him whole.

"Goodnight." Was his muffled farewell. It didn't take him long to fall asleep, not with amount of walking they'd done- which, however minute to better suited wolves- was a marathon for him. You could see the curve of his spine as he slept, the sleek contour of his ribs rising and falling beneath the once luxurious coat he preened with notable determination whenever it faced impairment. He was dying, but he acknowledged it with an underlying sense of rebellion. A repeated, subtle refusal in everything he did- whether obvious or not- because he couldn't bring himself to believe that The Son of God could be ruined so effortlessly. Without fighting, without bloodshed or tears. To just gradually fade until he was entirely gone, no more than an angtsy memory to be honored, it wasn't how he expected his legacy to blip out. Nothing was how he envisioned it, actually.


BECAUSE I AM THE SUN,
AND I AM THE MOON.
I WILL SWALLOW YOU WHOLE,
I WILL SPIT YOU OUT,
I WILL BURN YOUR EYES,
AND I WILL CAST AN EVERLASTING DARKNESS,
OVER THIS BARREN FUTURE,
THAT YOU CALL HOPE.





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