The song of a bird marks her end and my beginning.
This song will be our glory, brother.
This song will be our salvation.
This song is the song of war.

My horn slides from the flesh of her throat and reaches forth hungrily to dig in again, to make the marks of a deer's antlers. Do you know enough, brother? You ask me with uncertainty. Enough? I have stalked the borders of our old home many days, have heard the whispers of life on the wind. I know from the heat pounding in this odd breast, from what these glowing eyes have seen and from the whispers of my new colleagues. Yes, my brother, I am certain I know enough. Purposefully my horn slides from her neck a final time.

The dead has divinity.

I keep you from her side, for fear that you might stain your coat with the impurity of her blood, and extend a wing to rest before you as your flame subsides. This is our action, brother. Any pain is worth the result, any hurt simply a vessel for success. You've done your work and painted flame across her, brother.

And lo, the dead has fallen to a phoenix.

Your hesitance does not go unnoticed; once I would have struck you to force you into action, now I simply request. Please, brother. This is for us, brother. You reach forth as delicately as a tiger can, and I find myself amazed by your gentleness. You grip in your teeth feathers of black from the samurai, and white from the swan, and per my instruction scatter them over the body. I hiss at the sting of the pain that this vital form thrusts upon me, but still the action is un-regrettable. This is worth the pain, I tell myself. It doesn't hurt at all, I tell you. I can see the faint flicker of uncertainty in your eyes as you let feathers for a golden boy fall. He was kind to me once, brother. To both of us. But he, too, has sworn fealty to she that once sought your death. Now I strike in your name, brother, against those that sought to destroy you. This is for you, brother, all for you! I would wage war against a thousand kingdoms, slay a thousand innocents, just to see your life spared, to see any hurt upon you returned in revenge. This must be done.

And so, the dead has the ruler and golden knight's trace.

The kill was close enough in contact, clean enough, that no other portion but the upper half of my horn lays stained by what little remains of her life. I feel the final strike of this poor fool's death knell settle in my chest and mind, and go forth unhesitatingly to wreck her body in more ways than one. My horn slides across her withers, tracing the pattern of broader buck horns with more ferocity, and I bite her shoulder firmly, until it bleeds. I call you forth, and watch with welling pride as you trace your claws in careful places above the bite.

And then, the dead is marked by the cave-dweller's grip.

The rest, brother, well it is simple. I usher you off to the side of the grove, carefully making sure each track of yours lies buried in the snow, and set about to create for myself total destruction. My steps are slow, careful and shifted, each turned to disguise the cleft of my hooves in the snow, and to create the tracks of a sun's wicked soldiers. My horn, dripping with blood, marks in red splashes a retreat towards the desert that fades only with the snow. I wipe my horn distastefully, annoyed that I am stained in any manner with her blood, and cover it all with leaf litter. The return to her body is made similarly—several sets of tracks disguising my species with delicate shifts until a congregation of sorts forms in a circle. Then broader paths, set off at a run towards the body. The beating of wings clears snow as if wind were pressed against it by the force of a legion of pegasi; I let my wings dip and trace occasional lines in the snow. About her body, half hidden by the snow as it continues to fall, the mark of a battle is created by the smooth divots of hoofprints.

And finally, Tamira, that kind and foolish nurse of the World's Edge, is marked by a path to her murderers.

Across my back, the heat of satisfaction shimmers. But no, it is not merely pride in this wretched act that strikes me, but the faint glow and twist of magic. a mark, brother! Your excited cry pushes from this living breath air and excitement and my neck cranes to see the marking of which you speak. Cruelty becomes itself, creating upon me the mark of powerful tools and a cradle of wings. How and for what purpose, I shall never know. I may call myself a god, but the world works in odd ways at at times of its own accord. But it is magic, brother, this can be certain.

I look down at the beautiful destruction I have created.

Fire, for the general's zephyr.
Marks of antlers for the unnamed Diviner.
White and black feathers, for the Sultana and her General.
The bite of a full-grown stallion, the scraping of antlers across flesh, and the marks of a bone-claw collar for the unknown Sergeant.
And at last, a trail of blood and hoofprints leading to their home: the Dragon's Throat.

In its own way, everything is magic.

My wings fold to my sides and disappear in flame. My form subsides to childlike death. The horn and teeth stained in blood by my potential form exist naught in the body of the undead colt, leaving me pure. I return to you and create a final trail: a trail of my own, of running for what little remains of one's life.

Yes, my brother. This is magic.

[[Tamira ;-;. Thread finished.]]
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