No legacy but the scars we etch upon our foes

As the curse ebbed away and Crowley seemed to finally be free of it, he struggled to grasp his memories, of what had happened while under the Moon’s sway. There were bits and pieces he remembered, such as the giant monster he had fought with several nameless faces, or the massive flood that had ‘cleansed’ the lands, or the skull-faced child he had encountered in the depths of the woods. There were other things that he did not remember, however, and though Talbot could recall every gory detail of how his master had struck down his own child, the hound knew better than to allow the thought to leak through their bond.

Together they had been making their way towards the veins, to seek council with the Moon to finally receive what the brindle had sought for so long. But somewhere along the way, something had gone horrendously wrong. The dual-horned stag barely knew what had hit him before he was snagged by the stranger’s magic, rendered nearly powerless to fight against it. His heart seemed to slow, as did his breathing, his neck dropped and head carried far too close to the ground to represent the proud creature he had always been. Despite his incapacitation, he could see that there were two of them, both unicorns; a painted man with a bizarre horn that lay upon his face, and the other a fair looking maiden of brilliant, golden hues.

But Crowley didn’t care how good-looking she was. The bastards were stealing him.

With lips curled back to expose yellowed teeth, Talbot snarled at the circling deer, green acid bubbling and dripping to the ground, making a soft ’hiss’ as it fell and burned through the frozen ground. The hound was tense, prepared to make a move, snapping at the heels of the other two companions whenever he deemed them close enough. But as they flashed their antlers to keep him pushed back, it took little time for him to learn that even if they were being stolen, he would be of no use later on if he were injured or disabled.

It was to the Basin they were taken, where so many memories had been made; of the Plague, of Elizabeth, of Rhiannon and so much more. It was where Talbot had grown from pup to hound, where Crowley had held the position of Weaver years ago, where he had met Arah. Neither of them had ever purposefully betrayed the land they had left so long ago, so why were they being taken prisoner now?

By the time the painted one let up his hold, Crowley’s mind was swimming from the effects. It was as though he was just waking up from a deep sleep, and with an unpleasant grunt that sounded almost painful, he turned his yellow eyes to the pair, looking at them through a narrowed gaze. When he spoke, his tone was low, dangerous.

“Why have you brought me here?”

"Talk talk talk."