The Cavern of Secrets holds much more than you can imagine. Once a forbidden place, the ban on entrance has been released...yet, is it a good idea to enter?

Once a great battle had been fought in this cavern, against a dark beast that had once - and still might - dwell here. No one knows where he disappeared to, but there are rumours...

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BITE ME
IP: 98.206.163.124
Posted on April 3, 2014 at 00:00:26 AM by Filius Deum




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Filius dreamt rarely of anything outside of death, a spectrum as narrow as it was certain. A repeating collage of blood and water, of watching himself be disemboweled by the horns of a buck or boar, or charred in the heat of a wildfire. Smothered, drowned, beaten, impaled, hunted, diseased, trampled, frozen, burnt, devoured, broken. And when it wasn’t death, it was life a cripple. An invalid. Unable to defend himself, unable to take comfort in the assuredness of to the grave except by his own teeth. A hell above ground worse than the hell beneath his feet. He’d take to shuddering, jaw snapping, legs and muscles convulsing in the throes of whatever unpleasant demise he was in the midst of enduring, and when his heart had stopped in one world, it sped up in the next and he’d wake up panting, wholly agitated, the whites of his eyes more prominent than the black. If he was lucky he’d bring nothing over with him besides vague nervousness, but more often than not his tongue would be bit, legs overworked or pulled; the cause of his morning aches, not of progressive decomposition. No, that happened over a much longer period, over weeks, over months. Slow, deliberate, in mind as much as body. It was only a matter of time before something was torn or thrown out of place. That was part of the malady, a thread sewn into the web of symptoms, and would progress alongside it. It started with exhaustion, weakness, nightmares, and would eventually advance into paranoia, complete lack of appetite, hallucinations, aggression— what he was infected with wasn’t unheard of. Though no real name had been given, the ess he’d spoken to before abandoning his pack had theatrically dubbed it The Hunger claiming that towards the end he’d be rabid with a craving for wolf flesh- but her description was based entirely on rumor and inflamed with a collective fear of the unknown. Whether the last bit was true or not, the terror he dreamed of paled in comparison to his apprehension for unintentionally hurting, or gods forbid, killing Hestia when he was too drained to recall rational thought and affection. The possibility of wandering from her side filled him with anxiety, but not as severely as bringing her harm.
It was over this he mulled in the morning— if only to blot out the memory of sand crushing his bones and filling his lungs while he sank deeper and deeper beneath a sun-bleached desert— tending meticulously to a sore spot on his paw where a nail had been split when struck against the unyielding cavern wall. Dew settled over his wispy fur, and although it chilled him he let be, thinking it reflected the orange morning light in the most delightful of ways.
He fought furiously for the right to be vain.

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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