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

The moment the word leaves his throat, the grasses hung above Crowley's head come to life, the shadows of the browning blades shifting and shaping until they had formed a representation of himself and Talbot. At seeing himself, the pup gave a sharp yip and stepped closer to the brindled stallion he knew and loved; what was going on here? Talbot understood the concept of shadows by now, but he knew that they did not linger above one's head in such a manner as these.

Crowley allowed the hound to press himself up against his cannon bone, but his golden eyes never left the sky, if it could be called that, watching closely the shadows cast above them. When his previously spoken word comes echoing back to him, he nearly shuddered at the inconceivable language in which it had been bounced back. But no matter the peculiarity of the situation, there was peace amidst it all. The brindle wasn't sure what to make of what was happening all around him and his young companion, but he would be damned if he didn't find out.

With the sudden outburst of an intense shriek, Talbot's hackles rose on the back of his neck and he instantly went for his favored spot between Crowley's front legs. Crowley himself had tensed at the horrible noise, ears slipping back and pressing momentarily to his neck until it had faded into the darkness, like everything else. Keeping his gaze locked on the shadow figure, he watched as its form was torn to pieces from the inside out. It would have been a treacherous thing to witness had this being been flesh and blood, and secretly, Crowley was thankful that it hadn't been.

The hissing noise was similar to the one that the hot springs made when snow fell into it's warm depths. The meadow scene above him begins to fade then, taking on the very same darkness that it beneath and all around him. Between his legs, he could feel Talbot trembling softly, uncertain of what was going on. Crowley did his best to send a wave of comfort to the frightened pup, all the while keeping himself aware of the enshrouding darkness. Idly he wondered, was there something out there, watching him? Contemplating? If so, what was it? He couldn't feel eyes upon him, but that simple fact didn't mean it was true.

Then the tar fell before him, hissing and spitting like some pissed off feline. It was unpleasant to the Weaver's ears, and it was obvious that whatever this was, it was searing hot. Crowley might have stood there for quite some time waiting for something else to happen, but he felt that nothing would, and that this bubbling liquid was all he'd been left with in this invisibly walled, dark room. "Will it cool with time?" He wondered to himself, but those thoughts were almost instantly cut off when a wave of voices begin to radiate from spitting tar.

They all called to him, proclaiming that it was safe, and that he need not be afraid. He wasn't nearly as terrified as Talbot was, but there was an uncertainty that had settled itself into the Weaver as he pondered the situation at hand. It was only when he began to recognize the individual voices that were speaking to him, that the brindle twisted his ears forward once again and considered their words. Perhaps the strongest of them all was the voice of Rhiannon's; as young as she was, her voice was still so full of innocence, even if she had already been corrupted by her father into loathing anyone without a horn. There were more speaking to him, calling out for him, but in the end he decided to focus on that of his daughter's voice. Nothing had happened to her... had it?

Filled with a sudden fear that something had happened, Crowley stepped forward and was ever cautious of where Talbot was, for the pup followed along instantly, keeping himself in the very same spot. The Weaver only came to a stop when he stood before the tar, looking down upon it with scrutiny in his eyes. There were so many questions in his mind; what did it want? Why had it brought him here in the first place? But he had to push those aside and focus on getting out of this encompassing, dark room, and that meant that the bubbling tar had to be dealt with. But how?

With a sharp exhale, the Weaver examined it, considering his options carefully. He could very well just shove his nose into it and hope that all would be well, but he couldn't imagine living with half a face. Instead, the brindle lowered his head and twisted it to the left, dipping the tip of his right horn into the goop despite Talbot's demanding whines to stop.

Would this be his end?