You're busy dying if you're living in the past

Indeed, something was very much different about today, but the Weaver of the Aurora Basin hadn't a clue what it was.

Whatever it was had reached out from seemingly nowhere, calling for him, beckoning him away from his snow-capped home, his sanctuary from the hideous creatures that called themselves equals to the likes of him. But even at the thought of possibly coming face to face with one of them, nothing could stop Crowley from wandering out of the Basin. After all, the last two times something like this had happened, he'd gained his magic and the then the young Hellhound, who was now always at his feet.

Talbot seemed to pick up on the ominous vibe that was being sent to his bonded, giving a soft whine as the pair headed out of the Steppe and into the neutral grounds of Helovia. His worry might have been lessened had the moon not taken over the sky, leaving them in darkness as they traveled. What was this strange feeling that had suddenly washed over his stripy master? Had he gone insane? Had he a sixth sense that Talbot himself was not yet aware of? Whatever it was, he would remain at Crowley's side and face this unseen force that was pulling them ever so slowly towards the Heavenly Fields.

As the stallion rounded the steep, winding path that led to the top of the normally lush field, Crowley was admittedly surprised by the state it was currently in. The grasses were beginning to brown due to the change in climate, looking less than appealing to the eye of the Weaver. As he carried on, Crowley was quick to notice the sudden, drastic change of his surroundings and drew to a halt as he took it all in. Beneath his hooves was sheer blackness with tiny specks of what appeared to be stars. The brindle would never admit it, but it caused a twinge in his chest; it reminded him briefly of the Boggart he had fought alongside d'Artagnan, when the damned creature had thrown him into a faux, pitless abyss to present his fears. But Crowley was not falling, so he figured himself safe for now.

When a gentle wuff escaped Talbot, Crowley glanced briefly to the pup and followed his gaze which was towards the sky. Following it, he spies the fading of the grassy meadow ground. What had he stumbled into? What sort of fucked up dream was this? He couldn't be dreaming, though; the brightness of the moon, placed strangely in the middle of the pitch darkness, nearly hurt his eyes to look at, and the bitter wind caused his skin to prickle.

The Weaver did not speak for several long moments, simply taking in the odd scenery in which he stood, waiting for something to happen, waiting for someone to step out from the darkness and explain what was happening to the world. To assure that he wasn't losing his mind. "... Hello?" He finally spoke up, uncertain if anyone would even answer his simple, questioning word.

[ooc - If I've messed anything up, just let me know and I will fix it immediately ;D I do not mind if others join in.]