The martyr awakes with mouthful of ash and ichor. Blood fills his maw, dribbles down his throat; with a violent fit of coughs, followed by a strained gasp, the man startles from where he'd been reborn.

What he remembers last, is his death. His ruin. The furling smoke of incense that shrouded where his human body had been tied upon planks. Chants and hymns from the monks that were quiet but somehow deafening. The rapid cadence that had been his heart, as a ritual blade was brandished.

He remembers every lash, every cut, every tear at his flesh. He remembers his screams of agony. They'd been dressed in robes of white, that had quickly become stained with his blood.

It was what he was born for. Death hadn't scared him; it was his right, to fall so a new world may be born from his ashes. It was the highest of honor, to die for his god.

His death had not been quick.

And his death had meant nothing.

This was no promised heaven. This, as he struggles to hold himself on four limbs that ache and scream, is hell. His god does not answer his cry. His god does not answer his feverish prayer.

His god is silent, and Lyander is in anguish.

Skill —

---

Ruathar smelled blood like a shark in the sea. The metallic aroma woke something within him, a beast that hungered for the source of it. He didn't know what it was that rose within him, but he had grown to accept whatever woke up as part of him. Rua wondered if it was something his father created, or something that had always lived dormant within him.

The male ventured along the dark coast, nose lifted to the breeze. The scent was faint, but the beast knew where to go. It had a trail, and it would not be distracted. A cough sounded some meters away, driving the male to pick up his pace.

Arriving to find a strange man, Rua slowed to a quiet walk. Ruathar stared at the stranger, studying his hunched frame. He noticed the blood dripping from his jaws to paint the dark sand. “Er allt í lagi með þig?” (Are you alright?) He asked softly, baritone voice carrying across the small space between them.

His toes pressed into the gravel layer beneath him as he attempts to root himself in place—anything to keep himself from rushing to investigate the source of his blood.

---

A dark ocean, with waves as black as night, rages just meters away. Its salt lay thick in stagnant air, lingering with metallic ichor that oozes from between the Lyander's teeth. Drop, drop, drop it stains the onyx sand. Pain used to be foreign, in his mortal life. The monks had beaten him til' his nerves could no longer feel their bite.

But now, reborn, he is in agony. Forced to relive the pain he experienced before his death. With a shaky paw, he presses against his chest. There's a scar there, hidden beneath short fur; it's where he himself had driven the blade into his heart, so that it may be harvested for the sacrifice.

It beats now, beneath his palm. Unsteady, frantic, painfully alive. Panic quakes through him as the waves rip through the ocean. There is confusion too, and grief. Anger will simmer soon within his veins, and soon he would scream at a god who's turned a deaf ear.

Was this punishment? Hadn't he done everything instructed of him? He gave his life, the most precious gift one could give. Only for nothing in return but torment.

A voice startles him, deep and gravelly. The man-born-wolf stumbled backward amidst the sand, the fur along his spine risen. Bloodied teeth revealed in a fearful snarl. Eyes of ice glint with untamed fear, as he faces the beast.

It speaks to him, in a language foreign. He wheezed as he shuffled another step back.

Do not touch me— a demand. His flesh had already bore much pain; he is unsure if he can sustain more.

Then, he deflates. I do not understand. Where am I? And who are you?

Skill —

---

The man wondered if this was his fate, to find those injured and help them in whatever way he could. Marius had been the first, a child damaged beyond his imagination, beyond his own upbringing. Then it was Irina, who had awoken just like the boy before him. It seemed the Gods had decided to make him a healer rather than soldier.

Ruathar recognized the fear that stared back at him, the look of an injured animal. At first glance, the boy was unharmed but the blood that dribbled from his lips said more than enough. He assured him, “I do not want to hurt you.” Rua took a step back, giving him space before lowering himself to a sit. “I do not know. But I am Ruathar. Who are you?” Rua replied, features softening in apology. He wished he had better answers for the boy, but there was nothing more that he knew of the place. It was not his homeland or the one he had awakened in before this.

The sound of the waves lapping against the shore stretched between them, the only sound other than their breathing—Rua's steady, the boy's wheezing. Ruathar didn't know what more he could tell him, until it dawned on him. “You are like me. Man.”

---