The magic in this forest was entirely foreign to Riuk, despite the many seasons he had passed living apparently just above its ancient resting place. During his early days in Blossom, there had been only the faintest traces of it present in the darkest, most secretive places of the forest. Now awoken, it called to him endlessly. An inexorable siren’s song, heard everywhere and from all directions at once. It was as though it came from the air itself, from the very fibers that made up the living land. Like the slow, even breathing of some great beast, it was always there. Ebbing and flowing, stronger in some places, weaker in others, but always, always there. On the nights when he could force himself to lie still he would swear that he could see it pulsating, skittering, flashing through the air. It was a wonderous, powerful thing. He had seen what it could do, both to living flesh and to cold earth.

And he fucking hated it.

It had destroyed the only place he had ever dared call home. His Spring Grounds, his beautiful meadows and rich forests had been rent to pieces by this damnable magic. His forepaw still smarted from where it had been struck by a violet bolt of the terrible power as he dared to but inch it across the border into his old lands. The memory of that flash was still fresh, and the recalled image of the torn land pulled his lips up into an unconscious sneer. Damnable magic indeed. It seemed he could find no escape from it. It called, always, unabating as the drone of summer insects, from somewhere deep inside the forest. Working its way into flattened ears it drove him mad with its constancy. Threading between the strands of his peppered coat it pulled upon his hackles and kept him always on edge. The magic was everywhere, was everything. There could be no escape.

Yet despite the vehemence of his hatred, the brute could not help but be drawn to the mysterious power. He fought often and furiously with his own innate curiosity whenever the magic showed itself. He had seen the mutated wolves, had been immediately drawn to them. What bizarre creatures they were, sporting the scales, feathers, and antlers of prey as though it were the most natural thing in the world. He passed them by with sidelong glances of disdain, but never failed to cast another glance back over his shoulder in wonder. Whatever had done such things to these wolves could surely not be of this world.

As it happened, this had not been one of the nights when he had been able to lie still, and during his musings about magic he had all the while been moving mindlessly over the dark land. Unbeknownst to him, as deeply lost in thought as he was, he had been guided through the night by the very magic he so despised. Incrementally its call had been growing louder, the phantom pull upon his coat, his heart, his mind growing stronger. Finally it could be ignored no longer, and he was taken aback by the totality with which it surrounded him. The call had been loud before, just as the pull had been strong before, but never had the presence of the magic so suffused the world around him. It was no longer in the air; it had become the air. It was the soil upon which he tread, the trees through which he now moved cautiously, hackles raised, amber eyes open wide, searching for the source.

Light from the early dawn filtered down through the canopy, casting the area in a thick and murky greyness. Everything was as a shadow, with edges blurred and ill-defined. It should have been deathly silent, if not for the roaring of the magic. Though it made no real, audible sound, it overwhelmed his senses such that it was all he could perceive. He was unaware that he had been drawn to Glaesfaet until he broke from the treeline and saw the water raging before him like a thing alive in its own right. Swollen as the river was, its roar should have been deafening, but Riuk heard nothing but the ever-present call of the magic.

A silent, deafening moment passed. Then another. The enormous timber wolf stood motionless at the bank of the soundless raging river, waiting, another simple grey statue in the subdued light. He had never felt the magic of the forest as keenly, sharply as he felt it now. Surely something of great intrigue was about to happen. But the minutes continued to drag on, and he began to grow irritable. Why had he been called here, to this strange place? Why would the magic roar so if it had nothing at all to show him? He was alone; was this a trick? Some cruelty played upon him by the forest in retribution for his hatred of it?

But then, as the light of continued to brighten, something began to change in the churning black water. The first was so fast, so brief that he questioned whether it had simply been his agitated imagination. But the second was unmistakable and was quickly followed by innumerous others. Streaks of brilliant gold were weaving themselves through the dark water, mixing together and leaping above the banks in the shape of massive trout and salmon. It was impossible, utterly unthinkable, and the ancient king took a step backward in simple disbelief. In mere moments, before his very own incredulous eyes, Glaesfaet transformed herself from a writing black serpent into a brilliant, shimmering river of pure gold.

The mutated wolves and scarred landscapes were nothing compared to this spectacle. Never before had he been so close to such a tangible manifestation of the magic within the forest. As he gazed into the tumbling golden current, his hatred of all things magical was temporarily forgotten. It was beautiful, as though the sun herself had fallen and let herself flow through Blossom’s greatest river. Unbidden, his feet began to carry him closer and closer to the magnificent river until he stood at the very bank. He was mesmerized. Staring down into the impossible golden glow he felt himself called more insistently than ever. His head was drawn ever lower, ever closer to the gilded water. He wanted to hear this magic, to see it up close, to heed its incessant call. Lower and lower dipped his great head until finally his broad snout grazed the water’s surface.

In an instant the spell was broken. This was not water. The cool, life-giving river he had stopped to drink from so many times before had changed not into a beautiful spectacle, but into a terrible torrent of some unworldly poison. He leapt back from its surface with an echoing scream, for the place where his flesh had touched the golden fluid burned with pain unimaginable. He thrashed wildly about at the river’s edge like a beast possessed, rearing on two legs, pawing desperately at the tip of his nose, screeching in agony all the while. He dug the tip of his snout deep into the cool, loamy soil hoping that it would sooth the terrible burning, but the pain was only intensifying. Intensifying, and spreading. Mere moments had passed, but already his head and much of his chest were engulfed in the hellish sensation. Even for a wolf of his great stature, the pain was great enough to drive him to his knees and, finally, helplessly onto his side. It was as though the very blood within his veins had turned to acid. He found himself unable to even raise his head, helpless against the torment within his body.

As he lay, gasping for breath, the edges of his vision began rapidly to dim and to blur. He was sure, in that moment, that he was to die here. Death, all for a taste of the unnatural magic which had so infuriated and yet so fascinated him. The darkness closed in upon him, and his last conscious thought was that he was whimpering, a pathetic, helpless sound he had not made since his puppyhood.

. | . | . | .