3/21/2026, 1:58 AM
He'd been told of the oddities this world contained, of the magic that coursed through the roots of the earth, of the great fissures to the unknowable below. His very existence here was all the indication needed for Bogart to believe the incalculable but the land seemed voracious, vicious, so hellbent on him intimately witnessing its capabilities—its significance. It left his stomach upturned and his chest a mess of unforgiving thumps of his heart as though it was trying to tear right through him.
But as the dream peeled away to leave him muddle-minded and unsteady, even as the air split and brought forth three... doors, the last thing on his mind was the consequences of such a sprawling fracture of the world.
Bogart could only think about Raisa.
His senses returned to him at a molasses drip and he found his legs in tandem, coughing, searching. " Raisa?" He called out, bracing against the raging storm. The winters he'd experienced had never been so brutal. It hurt to so much as blink with the way the winds whipped and spat, forcing him to narrow his gaze and shrink the scope of his world. "Raisa!" His persistence was rewarded, at least. Shoving through the blizzard; through the resistance, he spotted her. Stark and bold against the vast nothing around them.
Standing right at that second door. Wraith-wolves slunk, teeth met flesh, blood spilled. He had no troubles with fighting, no compunction in baring teeth when he ought to. In another life, at an earlier time, he'd have hurried forward and through the door, beckoned by a call to defend... but he wasn't that man anymore, was he?
Bogart had more to think about than impulsive gnashing.
Now? He was going to be a father, he had pups that'd need him of sound body and mind to assure their safety. Now? He was something to Raisa and she was so much to him; lover, mother of his children, the woman he'd traveled all this way for and with and—
—"Don't!" Bogart hollered, hoping the storm hadn't silenced him.
As he neared he could see the consideration on her face, the indecision. He didn't blame her. Hell, if she charged forward, he'd have gone with her, but the mere thought of it sickened him. What would he do if she was hurt? Injured beyond repair? "We can go through the first!" He said, teeth in a grit. "Stay with me. I know what life like was 'fore you, don't make me wonder if I'll have to know what it's like after ya'."
It was a selfish thing to say.
He didn't regret it.
"Think 'bout the pups at least," he reasoned. "Please."
Whether it was his greedy plead or the mention of their children, he couldn't tell, but he knew something had shifted her his direction. He nodded, pressed to her side in a fleeting gesture of comfort, and then turned.
Stepped through the door.
The darkness was all-encompassing, swollen by this cacophony of voices, and he waited. Breathed.
And tilted his nose to the sky, letting out a long, ceaseless howl.
But as the dream peeled away to leave him muddle-minded and unsteady, even as the air split and brought forth three... doors, the last thing on his mind was the consequences of such a sprawling fracture of the world.
Bogart could only think about Raisa.
His senses returned to him at a molasses drip and he found his legs in tandem, coughing, searching. " Raisa?" He called out, bracing against the raging storm. The winters he'd experienced had never been so brutal. It hurt to so much as blink with the way the winds whipped and spat, forcing him to narrow his gaze and shrink the scope of his world. "Raisa!" His persistence was rewarded, at least. Shoving through the blizzard; through the resistance, he spotted her. Stark and bold against the vast nothing around them.
Standing right at that second door. Wraith-wolves slunk, teeth met flesh, blood spilled. He had no troubles with fighting, no compunction in baring teeth when he ought to. In another life, at an earlier time, he'd have hurried forward and through the door, beckoned by a call to defend... but he wasn't that man anymore, was he?
Bogart had more to think about than impulsive gnashing.
Now? He was going to be a father, he had pups that'd need him of sound body and mind to assure their safety. Now? He was something to Raisa and she was so much to him; lover, mother of his children, the woman he'd traveled all this way for and with and—
—"Don't!" Bogart hollered, hoping the storm hadn't silenced him.
As he neared he could see the consideration on her face, the indecision. He didn't blame her. Hell, if she charged forward, he'd have gone with her, but the mere thought of it sickened him. What would he do if she was hurt? Injured beyond repair? "We can go through the first!" He said, teeth in a grit. "Stay with me. I know what life like was 'fore you, don't make me wonder if I'll have to know what it's like after ya'."
It was a selfish thing to say.
He didn't regret it.
"Think 'bout the pups at least," he reasoned. "Please."
Whether it was his greedy plead or the mention of their children, he couldn't tell, but he knew something had shifted her his direction. He nodded, pressed to her side in a fleeting gesture of comfort, and then turned.
Stepped through the door.
The darkness was all-encompassing, swollen by this cacophony of voices, and he waited. Breathed.
And tilted his nose to the sky, letting out a long, ceaseless howl.
