Animus Glimpses

[Animus]

Animal mannerisms, previously hinted at, come crashing to the surface as the Thyrsus dashes forward, the only instinct to protect his lover with his own flesh. He waits, expecting a flare of pain, perhaps the embrace of unconsciousness, but the sensation never hits. Instead, a black stickiness, a thousand times worse than the cloying resonance, spreads outward from his abdomen, quickly filling his entire body.

He tries to gasp, to cry out in shock, but his body refuses to respond. It has ceased to be his own. Terror sets in as he realizes what's happening. A prisoner within his own flesh. Cut off, alone. Mike and Triquetra, standing mere feet from him, could just as easily be on the other side of the planet.

He thrashes about mentally, trying to break free, to regain control. And then he feels the other consciousness. Old, powerful, malevolent. This is what had tried to take over his lover's body. And still might, if given the chance.

The struggling ceases instantly, a light switch flicked off. He can almost feel his captor flash a predator's smile in triumph.

But even the deep, dark corner that is still him isn't free of the corrupting influence of the other. A touch of ichor. Probing, searching, harvesting. Even as the thing pretends to be him, effortlessly deflecting his companions' suspicions into sympathy over conjured symptoms. And he watches, transfixed.

Watches the captor effortlessly spins his likeness into a masquerade so perfect, even his lover is taken in. All the while nudging, subtly, toward his own ends. A kernel of doubt. If this other could take his place so easily, then what was he?

The constant oily sensation, a reminder that nothing was hidden. That every scrap would be turned against them. And still the Thyrsus is paralyzed, unable to fight when success meant unleashing this thing back on his companions. Sensations flow into him, mocking his helplessness with flashes of plans. Each of them, caught alone, one by one. His to mold, to play with, or to discard.

The Thyrsus squirms in mental anguish. Holding only the weak hope that he won't give his tormentor reason to change his target, visit this on his friends. Fear, isolation, helplessness, horror, all mix together, drawing his mind further and further into the refuge of the animal.

After an eternity, a still small voice. A ray of light in the darkness. "Take him out, and tell my husband I love him." The words echo within him, resonating. Suddenly, even through the mask of animal instinct, he understands. The risk, the sacrifice. Everything she was, put on the line to reach him through the morass.

A spark of defiance. At first small, subtle. A single name, and an attempt to shift it to one of the few people he trusts completely. The feeble effort is easily batted aside, but the spark, once ignited, can only grow. The captor, caught suddenly off-guard, is ejected, and the wolf surfaces to reclaim what is his. The beast lends its gift of power, and hands reshape into wicked claws to mark the exchange of roles between hunter and prey.

A sobbing scream, the full extent of the sacrifice playing out before him. A dangerously bucking floor, easily avoided despite lack of warning. Thought, in any traditional sense, had long since boiled away. Everything fades except his target, the one at whose hands he had suffered so much. Claws flash out, raking against dry, papery flesh. The prey falls to the ground, but demands its price. The imminent collapse of the building itself.

A sudden, primal fear courses through the Thyrsus, offset only by the need to protect. He slows, bringing up the rear. Seeing to his companions' safety even as painful flashes begin to break through the barrier of pure instinct. But in an instant, everything changes. The prey, back on its feet, killing, absorbing.

There is no decision, for little faculty remains to make such. Simply a fierce clash of instincts. A vastly unbalanced fight, and the need to survive is quickly overwhelmed. In an instant, he spins around, running back toward the epicenter of the nightmare, caring for nothing but that his tormentor be destroyed.

Claws flash, prey evades. Mad laughter amidst a dance of death. But soon the dance changes. The prey opens its arms, as if in a hug. Vicious blows rain down, the thirst for vengeance allowing for nothing else. Thin flesh continues to shred, even as the hug closes.

Images.

A young boy cut off from the others growing into an office worker considered too creepy to hang out with. He tries drugs but that only dulls the pain, and even then he feels it, the alienation, the loneliness. He tries to kill himself, but succeeds in something far different. An Awakening, to the path of the Lead Coin. He feels everyone united in death, something that touches every life, and he awakens with new hope. He throws himself forward, becomes liked, and gets a promotion to head of the Rec department. He is constantly talking to others, having them want to hang out. He uses his magic to pull of great feats and protect those around him. They become his people.

Then he hears them. The people talking behind his back. He's still creepy to them, but he's the boss so they owe him respect. They don't really like him, but he does great things so they are jealous. He's the one who can promote you so kiss his ass.

He doesn't resist when death comes for him a second time, but he doesn't move on. The others may not like him but HE will protect them, and the only way he can is to make this whole CITY his and crush anyone in his way.

The vision fades.

A wrongness. Companions, staying to fight. Was it not enough that he offered up his own life? Why should they insist on doing the same? But fate draws him onward. His course is set, and cannot diverge. All his energy funneled to one last act. A simple glare, the only signal he can spare the effort to transmit. And only the weakest of hopes that it could somehow drive them to action.

In the instant of distraction, furious blows go wide, giving the tormentor-turned-prey a few precious seconds of unlife. Seconds that are immediately put to use. A ceiling, collapsing collapsing toward him. A sobbing scream. One final spell, and echoing words as its ephemeral corpus is finally destroyed.

"I know you. I am like you. You are alone on your pure white throne."

He had known death would come. Accepted it, and embraced it, on the level of pure instinct. So he simply waits, for the avalanche of brick and stone to crush him, and bring an end to his life.

[Animus]

A wrenching sensation. Open air, pungeant odors, the feel of living beings.

Many weak sparks of life, rats skittering to and fro. Some sparks much brighter. Human, but none of them known, no companionship here. A sudden instinctive panic of discovery, quickly subsiding as the beast's gift is returned. Knees buckle, sending him sprawling in a heap. Isolated, cut off, overwhelmed. A measure of rationality returns, but brings with it a stream of visions, to tear at his consciousness.

Swirling, chaotic images. Flashes of the shade, launching toward his lover. Of a body no longer answering to his will. Screams of the dying, that thing harvesting their souls to bolster itself. Companions, rooted in place even as the ceiling begins to collapse. The Thyrsus writhes spasmodically on the ground, trying vainly to escape from the terrors set loose by his own tormented mind.

But the torment has only begun. The visions shift, becoming more focused, cutting directly to his core. Faces flash before him, blurring together as they express a pattern he'd seen countless times. Hierarch. A drawing inward, padding out personal space. The Consilium's leader was someone you respected, looked up to, but never a close friend. Some few mages made it past that, avoided the trap of creating a pedestal. But even then, there was more to isolate him. What of his animal instincts? In an instant, Ruby's rejection slices through the Thyrsus' mind, the refusal to accept who he was as anything more than a phase he might be helped to put behind him. Breath comes in sharp, shallow gasps, writhing in pain at the one type of wound he was powerless to heal.

The Consilium was his to protect, but when the chips fell, was he not alone? Who had understood him, truly grasped who and what he was? Ankh. She had mentored him, shown him the path. Taught him how to reshape himself, into something more. Hadn't she known what what instincts would follow, how he would inevitably come to see his Cabal as a pack? But alas, a bond severed seemingly without a thought. In the end, an empty room, a broken heart.

Triquetra. A dance, and what a night together. Drawing him out of his brokenness. An understanding less deep, but still call of the animal resonated with her. And occasionally, behind her eyes, flashes of something else entirely, that left him wondering at what lay hidden. But now? Taken from him. A flash. The one person he cared about most, rooted to the spot, unwilling to save herself.[/color] And now, an empty void. The sense of isolation slams in around him. Alienation, loneliness. A soft whimper of anguish as emotional wounds continue to fester, mocking his helplessness.

He had been spared, thrown free in the instant before death could take him. The ghost knew him, had pawed through his memories, his very being. Why not take the chance to plant a seed, send him tumbling down the spectre's own path? As one final malicious act, to reforge the instrument of his demise into a weapon that could continue his work?

The Thyrsus' blood runs cold.

Eyes snap open in a blind panic as he scrambles to his feet, almost mechanically. He had to know, had to see for himself what had happened to them. Buildings, streets, everything seems to waver, to be less than real. Everywhere, the glimpses of inevitable decay. Brickwork peeling away. The road, cracked and pitted. All things, drawn inexorably toward death.

The flickers tear at him, taunting, but are soon shut out. Everything ceases to matter, except the goal. Feet pound against cement, as he runs back toward the remains of the recreation office, surroundings becoming little more than a blur. Barely sparing enough awareness for traffic patterns to avoid being run over as he crosses streets.

A soft buzzing from his pocket. Registered subconsciously, but quickly disregarded. Just another distraction. He presses onward, barely noticing the knot of people, the sounds of sirens. It was too important that he see, that he know. Even if that knowledge might destroy him.

Finally, he bursts onto the street a block down from what was once the parks and recreation office. The blare of sirens becomes an almost physical barrier, and he involuntarily flinches away from the source. A glut of emergency vehicles surrounding the rubble. Cordoned off. No way to get through, much less stay unnoticed. Even worse, a raging inferno. A cold knot of failure washes over the Thyrsus. Every living being, a pinpoint. So many frail, weak. Some fading even as he watched, crushed under debris or consumed in flames.

Some of the weakest, mere feet from firefighters. A hope of being saved, rapidly dissipating simply because their would-be rescuers simply didn't know. The Thyrsus staggers back, catching himself on a wall for support. How many lives, snuffed out? And what about Mike? Triq? Every dimming spark, another tiny cut. His soul cries out, desperately needing to protect the suffering innocents. But powerless to do anything for them. Isolated, from those who most needed help. The tragedy, the futility of it all, slams into his gut, twisting into a painful knot. And with each extinguishment, a question, lingering, prodding an already fraying psyche. What if the life fading so rapidly was his lover's?

You wanted me to see this, didn't you? All my efforts, crumbling to dust? The torment of seeing myself become you as everything I care about is stripped away? Of course the questions remain unanswered. The ghost mage is gone from this world, destroyed by the Thyrsus' own hand. His final act frozen into the threads of time.

Slowly, a memory percolates toward the surface. A buzzing, pushed aside at the time. He reaches for his phone, hand trembling. Who could possibly ... a single glance at the screen sends chills down his spine.

attak at circle, tech's safe stolen, still have ring. I WOUNded. Meet at musuem, emerency planning, return strike?

As much as the Arrow meant to him, the Circle felt like a second home. To have it violated ... one more stab, but that paled in comparison to the news of Joshua's injury. The scene here was hot. No way to get close enough to investigate, much less help. However much that powerlessness hurt. But Joshua was reachable, and needed him. Especially if Triquetra ... the thought is quickly aborted, simply too much for his already fragile mind to confront.

With a great deal of effort, he forces himself upright and staggers away to the nearest bus stop. The flickers of lives winking out caught in his mind like insects frozen in amber as he pays the fare and takes a seat, settling down for a tense ride. Flashes of a body no longer his to control, of a ceiling torn from its support, rushing down to greet him. And through everything, the feeling of leaving his heart behind as the bus drives inexorably onward.

As if in response to the Thyrsus' dark mood, the sky opens up. Rain spatters, then falls in sheets. The world turns a dull grey, walls closing in around the bus. The constant pattering of droplets against the windshield and roof only further increase the sense of being cut off from the world. But even the din cannot drive from his mind the ghost mage's final, echoing words.

"You are alone on your pure white throne."

[Animus]

This is me for forever
One without a name
These lines the last endeavor
To find the missing lifeline

-- "Nemo", Nightwish

---

Memories flare through his mind, the sensory content nearly drowned by the flares of raw emotion.

Fear, isolation. Imprisoned in his own body, probed and violated by an alien consciousness. Memories forced upon him, a life twisted toward alienation and dominance. The final words, searing through his mind.

"You are alone on your pure white throne."

To have his body, all control of his actions, ripped away so brutally, it had created scars, left even his sense of self in question. After all, if the ghost had been able to fool even his lover so easily, what was left of him?

Doubts. Doubts that Scarlet had preyed on, devastatingly. And nearly completed the damage the possession had begun. She had taken his memories, twisted them as she claimed him as her own. And though he'd torn away most of the mark she left on him, still were all his memories suspect. He tottered at the brink of a gulf, that already-perilous sense of identity left in tatters.

Spirits recognized the power of symbolism. They lived it, breathed it. And in the moment of desperation, he clings to their lessons, their truths. He needed a symbol, an anchor. It wasn't just about who the Cabal was anymore, he needed to ground himself in something physical, or he'd be forever lost. He needed an assurance that despite everything that had been done to him, everything he'd done to his own body and mind, he could still find who he was. Even if the foundations of memory available to him were questionable at best.

The tools are simple, colored pencil on paper. After all, this was merely a design, a guide. His flesh would be the true canvas, the only one that could possibly hold what he needed. The Thyrsus picks up a pencil, slowly, hesitantly, beginning to sketch a few lines.

A young, idealistic Théarch, on his way to the frontier of Sacramento. A city struggling violently to rebuild after the previous Consilium had simply ... vanished. Without a trace, its place removed even from the memory of the living. A phone call, as if calculated to throw the danger in stark relief. Before he'd even gotten his feet on the ground. The Hierarch, the once-great Peter Cartwright, murdered, and the Arrow Magister shunting the young Théarch immediately into a Cabal of his fellows.

Was this what those last moments had felt like for them? The sense of dissociation from everything with meaning, of drifting away on the slightest gust of wind?

No answer seems forthcoming as the drawing continues, the outline taking form. His hand is unsteady from inexperience, no true artist. Only deepset need carries him. This was too important, too personal, to even consider asking anyone else to draw in his place. No matter how long it took to get it right. A symbol such as this deserved every ounce of his effort. It was the only way to invest into it the depth of meaning required.

Ten obelisks, in the Shadow of Discovery Park. The points of the Supernal pentagram. One by one they would light up, unleashing the destructive power of the Arcana on the Fallen in one wave after another. A ticking timer, relentlessly counting down the moments before the fledgling Consilium joined the fate of its predecessor.

Preparations. A tarp woven of pure shadow. Perhaps if they could just move one of the stones out of position, the spell would be broken. Just a bit of a push, and ...

The Thyrsus' sketching halts, frozen in mid-stroke as if the cessation of the creative process could somehow restrain the associated thoughts before the past crawled to its inevitable conclusion. But the unspoken hope is in vain, and the vision grinds forward with the pitiless immutability of Fate itself.

A white-hot flash, the scent of burning flesh as consciousness is overwhelmed. The obelisks stand, mockingly, over a Cabal forever shattered by death.

A thread, unbidden, springs toward the Supernal, reaching beyond his watchtower into the very depths of Stygia. In an instant, reality shifts, taking on additional layers of meaning he wished he could deny. Everywhere, the unmistakable signature of inevitable decay. Lights dim and flicker. Pictures crack, walls become pitted and crumbling. And he almost believed he could make out the gossamer flickers of ghosts.

Eyes turn to the drawing. A bird, certainly, but inexperience shows through in every line. Dozens of smudges, proportions that just don't fit. And even as he watches, the drawing seems to fade, the paper to yellow with age. With a frustrated growl, he rends the unfortunate piece of paper, destroying his fledgeling work to begin anew. Somehow, the torn, jagged edges remind him of the furrows he'd left in his own soul, in the effort to free himself from what Scarlet had done.

Guards-the-Pack looks up nervously, bounding to his master's side in silent support. The Hierarch reaches down, scratching the spirit behind the ears softly, almost mechanically. How could anything bring joy, against the stark inevitability now so plain to his eyes?

With an effort, a trembling hand lifts a pencil and he begins to sketch again. Lines form just a bit more naturally, despite the bitter backdrop. And before long, the memories pick up where they had left off.

A crossing back to the material, with only his loyal familiar for company. But he wasn't alone for long. And soon they had a team together to shut down the obelisks. A hard-fought battle. Blood. Grit. Throbbing pain, the proper consequences of shredding his own body in search of the strength to keep the others alive. Victory, and the halting of the cycle that had so thoroughly obliterated every trace of the prior Consilium.

The Thyrsus glances down at his sketch, the work a bit more sure, but everywhere, subtle touches of entropy bleeding through the work. Is that just ... who I've become? Doomed to see in everything the seeds of its undoing? A bitter throught, which he wished he could brush aside. But even though the stark truth endured, the form was there, the shape usable. But it still needed to be fleshed out.

A new Cabal, cross-Order, emerging from the bonds of the common struggle, and shared triumph. A reputation, built solidly upon their great victory. Influence in the Consilium, as befitted that reputation. But even from the moment of forging, the Cabal began to fade. One by one, members died or vanished. Until once again, only ashes remained of the promise that had been.

But not all was ashes. He stood, as the new Thyrsus Councilor. A smooth rise in rank, but what meaning did it hold, really, against the backdrop of all that had been lost? What value did the position hold? But not long after, an event that did hold meaning, and would set him on his true path. An invitation to join the Neidan, and a friendship that would change everything.

Again the Thyrsus stops to look over his work, barely surprised to note that the ashes seem more clearly-defined, perhaps more real, even, than the bird itself. With a sigh, he lets a hand rest on his familiar's fur for comfort, desperately seeking some counterbalance against the dark feelings welling up within him. But the darkness served a purpose, for this would be no ordinary bird. And by filling in the rest of the details, he could help it to come alive. It had to achieve life, or there would be nothing left for him to cling to.

The freedom to experience the world as an animal, to share in the beast's sense of wonder. This had been his, but Ankh taught him more. How to imprint that wonder, the understanding that can come only from being, into his very soul. And he had changed. Taken on the wolf's instincts, come to see the Cabal as something more. A pack bond. One-sided, as it must be, but always felt. And that bond gave him strength.

Until, without warning, it shattered. He had known the others couldn't feel the bonds the same way he did. But Ankh, at least, had understood the ways of animals. Understood what the pack meant to him. Hadn't she? Why, then, had she vanished, left without even a goodbye? The discovery of absense, the pain of the shattering bond resonating resonated achingly through him, sparking a spiral deep into depression. Emotion faded, joy vanished.

Orphans of Proteus. Far too apt a name, for it stood as a reminder of how easily those who walked the line between man and beast could be disowned by both. How easily they could be cast aside by the two worlds worlds to fall into the darkened cracks between.

Once again he glances down at the drawing, suddenly realizing that the aura of death and negativity now nearly permeates it. A wave of frustration and anger washes over him, nearly leading to a second destruction of the unfinished work. What use a symbol, if it could only remind him of the darkness, the pain? Alarm once again ripples through Guards-the-Pack's fur, as the wolf spirit picks up on the emotional whiplash through the empathic bond they shared. In a desperate attempt to break up the mood, he bumps playfully against his master. Ears perk, tail brushes across the Thyrsus' legs, conveying a message in the language of the spirit's material kin. 'You don't have to be alone with your grief. I'm here.'

The Arrow smiles in spite of himself, a hand reaching down to rest on his Familiar. And he truly looks, forcing himself to take in every aspect of his surroundings. The sense of entropy still covers everything, but the spirit glows with its own pattern, a bright spark calling out a challenge to the dull washed-out tones. And then he saw it, the missing piece. Decay ran through everything; that would never change. But it didn't have to. The living would paint their own designs, with a brilliance only made the more poignant by the drab backdrop. Softly, he scratches Guards-the-Pack's ephemeral fur, a gesture of thanks as he once again picks up a colored pencil, with newfound strength to continue the drawing, to evoke the meaning that would put the negativity in its proper place.

Halloween. Somehow fitting that it would be the anniversary of his Awakening. Happiness, joy, no longer came. He had to strain to remember what they felt like, to find even the briefest glimpse beyond the crushing weight of being alone. But there she was, tugging at him, drawing him out of his brokenness with a dance, and so much more.

Slowly, he began to feel again, and it gave him the strength to pull together a Cabal, a mix of new and old. Renascentia. Rebirth. And the promise that he didn't have to be alone. The closeness of people he understood, and who understood him.

Slowly, he brings his focus back to the present, half fearful at how the drawing might have turned out. With bated breath, he surveys his own work, wondering if he would have the strength to start anew if he'd failed again. The phoenix, springing aloft from still-smoldering ashes, the dull greys and blacks of death melding seemlessly into vibrant living tones, resulting in something new. Something beautiful. But the creature looked almost fragile. Did such a little thing truly have the strength to survive, to become more than the ashes that spawned it?

It would have to do. Words spring to Animus' lips, a sharp break amidst the hours of silence. "The phoenix lives five hundred years, before building a nest of twigs and igniting, consumed by fire until only ashes remain. But from those ashes the creature will again emerge, young and whole. This is who I am, and what I want my Cabal to represent." The words echo within his mind, but they seem to his ears more a desperate plea than a bold proclamation. Even so they carried the force of a promise, and could perhaps lend the strength to continue to follow his path, even when the way grew dark.

And now, he knew what must be done, for the sake of the Consilium and for himself. He had cut away the parts of his soul that didn't belong, but some tethers still remained. The time had come to leave behind the pure white throne.

phoenix

[Animus]

Once again, he found himself staring at a blank sheet of paper, an empty canvas. The fear and isolation that had plagued him previously were much weaker now, a mere shadow lurking in the corner of his mind. But doubts still flicker through Animus' mind. One of the anchors that he had thought of as holding a piece of his identity was now gone, destroyed by his own hand. As much as he'd grown to detest what the ring stood for, its obliteration had left a hole. With that piece now gone, did he have the strength to once again bring paper to life? Could he complete himself while less than whole?

With a deep breath, he stares at his forearm, studying the sharp line of the scar. A single cut, from a knife not precisely of this world. At least the sharpness made it easy to draw. An outline on the paper, running three quarters of the length. The physical mark of transition, and movement.

Movement. Running. I'd cared so much about it, and I was fast. The track team would have loved to have me, I'm sure, but that was never the point. Open air, freedom. The rush of wind blowing across exposed skin, the rhythmic impact of feet against the ground. That was always what mattered, the raw visceral feeling. And that just didn't fit in with a sport.

The drawing begins to take form. The light outline of a bird in flight, its body pulled taut in the single-minded need to fly as fast as possible. But lacking in detail. No sense as of yet of what it might be fleeing from, or streaking toward. Or even of its own features. Still, he contines drawing. A symbol of himself deserved nothing less than his entire effort.

Slowly, coherent thought begins to give way to imagery, sensation. Memory in its most visceral form. Halloween night, eleventh grade. All the sensations of an invigorating run. But then ... a shift in the air, a heaviness almost as of a gathering storm, but without a cloud in the sky. Other oddnesses gradually breaking into consciousness. Unfamiliar buildings, seeming less to represent physical structures, and more the very idea of buildings. Street placements which become at first odd, then entirely nonsensical. Traffic circles which somehow ended somewhere other than where they started. The slow, creeping fear stemming from the realization that he was utterly lost.

The bird comes into more detail, its body colored in reds and oranges. It climbs into the sky, its path emphasized by the sharp line cutting from the middle of its tail to just beneath the outstretched beak. A pleasing result that made it appear as if the bird had been molded around the scar. A brief smile flickers across the Thyrsus' face, despite the intensity of the memories flooding through him of his first encounter with the Shadow Realm. Perhaps he would capture what he needed to after all.

A quick reverse of direction, an increasingly desperate attempt to retrace his path. But the surroundings only grew more unfamiliar, the sense of fear and forboding stronger. Inevitably, his pace slowed. Running further was useless, it wouldn't get him out of this place. But fear only escalated into terror, an unknowing beacon for the realm's predators. Soon, a flicker of movement, in the corner of his eye. Turning to see a faceless thing lunge at him with a dagger.

Animus jerks the colored pencil away from the drawing just as a tremor shoots through his entire body. Slowly, he becomes aware of sharp, tense breathing and sweat beading on his back and arms. A slow, measured glance travels around the room, taking in the desk in front of him, and behind, the bed he shared with her. The forcible reminders of the mundane, of the present, slowly bring his racing pulse under control. This was real, no matter how vivid the echoes might become. Finally he turns back to continue drawing, refusing to be turned aside by the spectres of the very event which would empower this drawing.

As pencil touches paper, the flashes of memory quickly resume. His arm brought up in a desperate, feeble, attempt to protect himself. A flare of pain as the blade digs into his forearm, leaving behind a vicious cut running much of its length. Collapsing to the ground. Staring into that blank, faceless head, and seeing no compassion, no mercy. Only the chilling realization that that strike had been aimed directly for his heart. Ineffectually scampering backward, his blood pooling in a mocking testament to his weakness. The thing was the very epitome of a mad serial killer, made all the more frightening by its complete emptiness of emotion. Only the cold calculation of personified death. Another lunge, and this time he knew there was nothing he could do to protect himself.

Another tremor, again forcing an abrupt halt to his drawing. Eyes dart around the room with the urgency of prey searching for the predator which haunts the shadows. The shockwave travelling along the empathic bond sends Guards-the-Pack running toward his master, concern writ clear on lupine eyes. Animus gratefully runs a hand through his familiar's fur in silent thanks, the touch serving as a conduit to draw away frightened instincts. He'd gotten so caught up in the emotions of the past, that it took a long moment for the reminder of the present to ground him. But he needed to finish, needed to encode this moment that had changed everything about his life. No matter how much pain he had to fight through to see it to the end.

Slowly, he turns back to study the drawing. And now there could be no doubt about what sort of bird it was, or from whence it had sprung. At the bottom of the page, the blacks and greys of smoldering ashes, seeming to radiate death. But what was it that drove the phoenix from its nest? Simple fear would never do. There had to be something more. He reaches for another pencil, and continues his drawing.

A single moment, when a quick, painful death seemed certain. His very soul cried out, grasping for something more, something beyond meaningless emptiness. The strange, abstract buildings, the alley, even his aggressor, all faded away. In their place, a vast wilderness. All around him, the ballads of predator and prey writ large. Fantastic creatures fought, locked in struggle for their very survival. Plants and fungi quickly grew in, claiming the fallen within seconds. And a grey wolf approaching him, warning off with a glare any other creatures which came too close ...

He stood at the top of a great tower, the entire edifice shrouded in vines and pulsing with life. No memory of how he had reached it, or of the cause of the numerous cuts and scrapes which now covered his body. Simply a feeling of belonging, of no longer being an outsider. A sense that somehow, within that lost memory, he had earned his place. In front of him, a patch of bare rock showing through the overgrowth, instinct telling him what he must do. He pressed his hand against the stone, leaving its print in blood. A moment of purest clarity as the Primal Wild imprinted itself on his soul.

The background continues to take shape. Surrounding the phoenix, a brilliant aura in deep greens and blues, pulsing with life itself. The aura arcs downward to reach a point at the edge of the ashes, a meeting of life and death at the moment of transition.

He lay on the ground, blood flowing from his damaged arm. Struggling to understand what had happened, even as the blade descended to claim his life. But before the stroke could land, a sudden blur in the corner of his vision; a giant wolf. It slammed into his assailant, shoving it to the side in a flash of fang and claw. Seconds later, the predator-turned-prey exploding into a rain of noxious shards. The giant wolf shifting into human form, the last impression before the merciful veil of unconsciousness.

Slowly, purposefully, the Thyrsus picks up the gold pencil, etching an Atlantian pentagram at the point where bluish-green meets dull grey. For at the moment in which life and death had touched, his soul had Awakened. And in that moment, he had reached not for the power to detroy his aggressor, but for the chance to reshape himself in order to survive in any environment, even one as dangerous as the Shadow Realm. Or the Primal Wild itself.

  bringing paper to life

Date		Action		Roll		Result
2012-06-14 09:58:25		Animus rolls 9 to Int + Craft + sp (10 Again, WillPower)		9, 1, 8, 6, 9, 10, 8, 8, 10, 9, 2		8 successes
2012-06-14 09:58:09		Animus rolls 6 to Int + Craft + sp (10 Again)		6, 3, 4, 5, 4, 5		failure
2012-06-14 09:57:55		Animus rolls 6 to Int + Craft + sp (10 Again)		7, 3, 1, 4, 6, 3		failure
2012-06-14 09:57:41		Animus rolls 9 to Int + Craft + sp (10 Again, WillPower)		6, 8, 10, 4, 4, 7, 2, 2, 2, 5		2 successes

[Animus]

Paws slam against the ground, kicking up fallen branches. He runs, a grey wolf streaking through the forest, fleeing. magic-honed senses tell him no living thing follows, but instinct cries out to the contrary. He can feel it. Dark, nebulous, ... and gaining, inch by inch.

Ani-nii. A dance. Strobing lights and a sea of people. The scent of lavendar and strawberry. All blurs away, as two hearts touch. As if they were meant to find each other. A carefree flightiness that he had long lost within himself. A soft kiss before she blew away like the breeze.

He dodges, through thickets and between trees. Sharply changing course, even once splashing through a stream. Tearing through thorns, his pelt soon matted with a sticky red. But always, that presence, edging closer, and closer. Never once faltering, despite all his efforts.

A hollow-eyed woman. A ragged wedding dress. You are my Jakob. The ghost's touch. The rest of the world fading into the background. Memory twisting and reshaping. Even his own love forgotten, her memory coopted by the narrative. A deep kiss, and the searing pain of betrayed trust.

Scenery passes by in a blur, unnoticed, ignored. Breath comes in harsh pants, primal instinct driving him to a pace no mundane animal could hope to match. But still that inky blackness creeps up on him. He can feel it, surrounding, constricting, no escape.

A wolf mates for life. A searing mental strobe, bringing an instant halt. Alone, desolate. Emotion wells up, spilling out into an anguished howl, piercing the air. The cry of the lone wolf, echoing through uncaring wilderness.

[Animus]

A dog tag. Such a simple object. Yet as he held it now, his eyes blur with unshed tears. "I never knew ... you deserved better. Better than the cruelty of a rogue spirit."

Within his mind, a whisper. That the dead sometimes remained bound to tokens of unfinished business. He held it in his hand. Perhaps he could call Ahriman back, hold onto his ghost.

As soon as the thought forms, he nearly hurls the tags against the wall in disgust at having even thought it. Images, ripped from his own past. The cage of helplessness and fear. His body torn from his control, answering only to a malicious will. The ghost that had brought death to all it held dear, to satisfy its own twisted notion of protecting them. Is this the way he began? Trying to hold onto those who had already passed?

The Thyrsus shudders, nearly losing himself in the memory. No, he couldn't let himself fall down that path. He couldn't become the thing that had so nearly shattered his psyche.

And that meant letting Tom go. But first, he had one final debt to pay.

[Animus]

"Linda Baker?"

Body language couldn't carry over the line, but it didn't matter. The tone of voice told him everything. This was the call that families dreaded, and she knew it.

"I -- I served alongside your brother and --"

Animus' voice breaks, tears streaming down his face. This was a woman who had lost her brother, and he couldn't even tell her why. It didn't matter that hundreds of miles separated them, or that he would never see her face. He could read her grief all too plainly, and it only served to amplify his own.

Finally, he forces himself to continue, a few words at a time. "Tom would have ... wanted you to know ... he protected others ... to the very last."

After a long, awkward silence, Linda offers up a childhood memory. Animus counters with a story of his own, carefully chosen to steer clear of the Veil. Time and distance lose meaning as they talk, trading tales of Tom Wakefield, as he had lived.

When Animus finally hangs up the phone, his voice is hoarse, but the pain of loss has settled to a dull ache. And the dog tag sits on the desk, nearly forgotten.

It was only metal, now.

[Animus]

Words flicker through his mind, accusing, challengng. They're soon joined by the memory of anger, of claws and magic tearing into flesh.

Did I have the right?

Some would consider what he'd done torture. He wasn't entirely sure himself. Confronting the recruits with a foe both implacable and overpowering, then repaying every falter with ever-greater pain ... it had certainly been cruel. He could come up with a thousand reasons for why it had been needed, or the purpose the lesson had served, but none of them answered the root question. Need was not enough.

They suffered, when I was barely scratched. Could I still face what I demanded of them? The subsuming of every desire to flee and live, when those must take second place to a singular act?

He'd done it in the past, channeled the last of ebbing emotional reserves into bringing down enemies irrespective of his own safety, but that was the past. It had little bearing on now.

Guards-the-Pack senses something of the Thyrsus' struggle, and bounds to his side worriedly. For a moment Animus indulges the spirit, stroking fur and granting comfort, as much to himself as the ephemeral wolf. But it was only a delay. It didn't change what he needed to do.

He locks himself into the Hallow chamber, taking no chances of disturbance. This was something he needed to face alone, and he doubted any of his Cabal could even understand the need for what he was to do. One by one, spells fall away, further isolating him, and removing any protection he could think to hide behind. His clothing, too, is removed and set aside, as much a symbolic gesture as a practical one. This was a matter of the soul, and of will. All else was a distraction.

Die every day.

[Animus]

A wash of fear, heightening senses, causing every detail of the surroundings to stand out all the more vividly. Hands shift into a wolf's claws as he once again turns inward. Instinct embraced, then denied. Before he can lose his nerve, a swift motion brings one claw raking across his chest, four parallel gashes shredding skin and muscle.

At first there is nothing. Seconds later, pain floods through the tormented flesh. He sinks to the floor, vision wavering with the struggle to remain conscious. But the trial has only just begun. Fear returns with a vengeance, and with it the demand to act. His body wants to push out the wounds, but he clamps down. It is not time.

The battle is faught on two fronts. Matching the struggle against instinct is the need to maintain the slipping hold on consciousness. Vision fades in and out in time with the beating of his heart. Tears sting his eyes, conjured from the twin struggles of body and will. If the blood loss weren't weakening him so, his limbs would surely be thrashing about.

In a desperate bid to keep his mind active, he turns it on the extent of his self-injury. He could just about feel the gush of blood as it pooled on the floor below him. Every breath brings fiery pain, and precious little air. Chalk that up to a punctured lung. The spreading cold at his limbs spoke of the ravages of blood loss. Thoughts blur into near-incoherence, as vision fades to mere pinpoints of light.

Any longer and he'd slide into a sleep from which there was no waking. It was time to end the test. The Thyrsus finally looses the stranglehold on instinct, allowing his body to push away injury as it had been screaming to do. With efforts at first feeble but slowly gaining in strength, skin begins to peel and fall away, almost as a snake sheds. Only as each layer leaves his body, it takes with it some of the injury, until flayed flesh is rendered whole and skin unbroken, only the pooled and congealing blood standing testament to what had been done.

For several long minutes, Animus lays in his own blood, shivering from reaction and too weak to move. The ordeal had left him completely exhausted, physically and mentally. Finally he works up the strength to stand and begin to clean himself up. The physical marks had been easily erased. But other marks remained. The memory, of that searing pain, the desperate struggles of mind and body ... no, that wouldn't fade nearly so quickly.

Still, it was a fair price for what he'd sought. He'd proven what he needed to, if only to himself.

[Animus]

The voices of his Cabal fade, subsumed by an ever-shifting background of sensation.

A municipal office building, choked with decay. A black cloud, rushing into him, the inky blackness filling his body. The sensation of a dark and ruthless consciousness, pulling the strings, shutting him out. A pupeteer, blithely masquerading as him, parading his body past everyone he had once known, with no one able to tell the difference.

A moment's anguish ejects the consciousness, and claws flash out, shredding the dark cloud that it has become ...

Only to find himself in the Catalyst Sanctum, staring into Kite's lifeless eyes with a stab of guilt.

He staggers back, suddenly in darkness, and a spray of submachine-gun fire sends his world exploding in pain. Desperately, he fights to remain conscious, to find and eliminate the shooter. But the onslaught is too much, and he collapses to the ground, dying.

Suddenly he is standing, unhurt, staring at the bullet-riddled corpse of Ahriman. He cries out in grief, clutching at the body as if he could somehow restore life, and finds himself holding only dog tags, the lettering on them fading before his eyes, until he holds only blank, meaningless slabs of metal.

The Thyrsus screams out his horror and grief, but the scream is a howl, and he is a wolf. He looks around. Other mages look back, friends, acquaintances. Some turn away in shame or pity. Others stare in disbelief, that a man would choose to be an animal. A few draw weapons. Flame ignites just behind him, singing the tip of his tail.

In an instant he flees, clutched by primal fear. The surroundings are now a forest of buildings, tall, dark, and foreboding. Every turn seems to bring him back to where he started. Panic spurs him faster and faster, but it only serves to box him into a smaller area, until he can only run in place.

In front of him, a cruel caricature of a man, in a blank white mask, his knife dripping the blood of a thousand victims. The thing approaches slowly, purposefully, and suddenly he is human again, on his back and scrambling helplessly backward. Blood flows freely from a gash down his arm. His head slams into the wall of a building; there's nowhere else to go. He looks up, and suddenly the being advancing on him wears the face of Invictus.

For a long time, his mind flickers from one flash of sensation to another, like a piece of driftwood tossed about in violent rapids. At long last they release him, leaving him huddled and panicked, in a cold sweat. The Thyrsus' entire body aches as if every muscle had been tensed for at least part of what he'd experienced, and true sleep eludes him entirely. The only comfort is Guards-the-Pack curled up atop him, acting as the spirit's name dictates.