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Somewhere deep in the Lost Isles
The sounds of stepping came long after he felt the initial vibrations, coursing through the stony ice cavern like the thud of a troll's heavy gait. Silence, then the thump, then guttural words that once seemed so unfamiliar to him. But aided by magic, and the general inability to do much else with his time, he had grown quite capable of understanding the growls and groans of his captors.
It was not that different from the communications of wolves. A lifted lip, a show of teeth, the raise of hackles, the drop of tail - it was animalistic communication, presented from the mouth of things that were closer to beasts than humans. Part of him could relate.
<You’d be warm if you changed, little pup.>
The guard approached, brown piercing eyes looking through the carved rock bars that formed the prison cell. He was tall, taller than a normal human. By Ere’s estimation, he was over eight feet in height. His head was shaved on one side, adorned by ink in the shape of a mushroom, and grown out long and braided on the other. He wore furs and carried a small hatchet from a leather belt frog, carved with runes that symbolized connection to the dark ones. The elf had learned that his name was Feanor.
Ere didn’t respond. He sat on the cold floor, Emerald eyes lifted to the roof where a hole had formed in the cavern over untold millennia. He spotted a shooting star and then another. The Lost Isles, he had found, were famed for such a thing. With feet pressed firmly against the ground, knees at a comfortable angle, his fingers rested steepled at his center. A small ember stood between his fingers, rotating on an axis, as he felt the sensation of blood flow come back to him.
<Tricks and magics, pale in the view of Halch.>
Ere changed his attention, shifting down from the hole in the roof to the figure across the bars. His verdant gaze was unfocused, making it difficult to tell whether he was looking at the Nordwiir or simply the architecture of his imprisonment.
“Hunger, as fine an aspect as any other.”
Feanor lurched forward, smacking the stone bars with the butt of his hatchet. Fire grew in his expression, hunger even more so.
<You will die here, little wolf. Remember that.>
He backed away and moved on, running the wood handle of his hatchet across the rock columns to the rhythmic beating of a sporadic pulse. Ere assumed Feanor was right. Though, a raven had visited him some time ago and spoke of things that brought hope. Time was infallible and so was the will of the Gods. And now, more than ever, he rested on the mantle of their mercy.
Beckett