The chaos of the night had diminished no sooner than it had arrived, leaving everyone at the scene feeling a mix of fear and confusion upon the arrival of the morning sun. Gwyn sheathed his blade and looked down to his hands, watching as his halv form dissipated like a match burning out… He felt fascinated and horrified at what had just taken place, and yet… for once he felt like he wasn’t alone. Like he wasn’t the only one who was suffering at the hands of an incurable curse -- that others could finally understand what he felt.
“Gah,” Gwyn shook his head to clear his thoughts. It would be selfish of him to go so far as entertaining the thought. He shifted his attention towards the crowd in hopes no one had gotten hurt, though something tugged at him, beckoning for him to come and follow it. Whatever it was… it felt off. Sinister, even. The hairs at the back of his neck stood up. Did anyone else feel this, he wondered? A quick scan through the crowd told him otherwise. Perhaps he should be the one to investigate, to make sure whatever threat looming on the horizon was stopped in its tracks. The ancient exhaled softly, taking one final breath before breaking off from the group in search of that which called to him.
It wasn’t long before he came across the source -- a massive well of ink embedded into the earth adorned with a wreath of oranges, reds, and yellows which burned at the edges in a haunting range of blues. He reached his hand out to feel how hot it burned, yet they were cold? He’d never come across cold flames like these before. Cautiously, he peered over the edge, unaware of what was waiting for him on the other side.
“...Surprised, are we?” Normally he’d expect his own reflection to meet him, yet this time, something was different. His halv form gazed back at him with a grin on its face as if to taunt him. “A shame the others will never have the mark of the abyss etched onto their souls.” Gwyn felt his heartbeat quicken while his stomach felt weighed down with anxiety. It was a terrible feeling seldom felt by the likes of him, making this moment all the more dreadful to him. He knew what words his reflection would say back to him, and despite trying to drown the noise out, his efforts were in vain. Left with an overwhelming sensation of futility when faced against the voice echoing in his mind, the ancient clenched his teeth and squeezed his eyelids shut.
“You though…You are the chosen one, tasked with paving the way for others to follow.”
“No…” Gwyndolin stumbled backwards, his heart practically drumming in his ears. The edges of his vision grew blurrier and blurrier as he collapsed to the ground beside the Inkwell.
“...Gwyn? Is that you, Gwyn…?” As if it were by some cruel twist of fate, the browbird had managed to catch a glimpse of Fjara approaching him, the image of her bathed in the heavenly glow of the morning sun being burned into his mind as he lost consciousness.
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