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Finally, release came to Thor. The winds vanished as fast as they had come, leaving the land and the stallion in eerie quiet. It was not over though, but Thor didn't need to know that, though perhaps he suspected. Few things in life were worse than false hope, and that's precisely what the presence was fabricating for him.
So the silence, and the stillness, stretched on. It stretched on until it seemed the bay pegasus had finally found some ability to relax, and then it crept forward once more.
When it came again it was different. A southern breeze still carried it towards him, but gone was the harassment and the terror. Instead it slithered out, a black trail of smoke and ink stained darkness, so starkly contrasted against the pale sheet of this world that it did not seem possible. Sunlight could not penetrate the black coil, its void absolute. Opposing winds could not dissuade the onyx current, its destination firm. Mortal bodies, hooves or otherwise, could not retaliate against the raven born fog, it was invincible.
He could run, but it would follow. He could hide, but it would remain. The darkness could only come, and he could only wait for it.
The hope, if he ever held it at all, gradually drained away with each winding twist of the blackness.
Then it was upon him.
It moved like it was alive, though it looked like smoke, thicker than that of any fire's. It seemed to startle when it first touched him, darting back like fish in water, but it quickly regained its composure. With newfound confidence it wove upwards, until at last it wrapped against his muzzle, almost holding him, staring at him, then it sunk inside.
Black smoke filled Thor, vanishing from sight as it poured into him, forcing its way in even if he refused to breath. It embedded in his veins, infusing with his DNA. Nothing happened at first, not even an original pain, just strangeness.
False hope.
A sudden cold sweat would break out over Thor. He would shiver, his teeth set to chatter, his bones sent to clatter. It was not just moisture that wicked out of his hide though. The smoke bled out of his pores, exuded around the bases of his wings and the shafts of his feathers. Like a demonic overshadow, black, foggy wings wriggled out of his current ones. Then it dissipated.
Over the next 2 weeks Thor's wings will become increasingly infected, eventually rotting away into nothing.
It will begin with a cold numbness, a tingling, uncomfortable ache as if the marrow in his bones were turning into sludge.
It will grow from within, making his wings too weak to use, the muscles sore and bruised, swollen and tender.
It will spread to the outside, hair and feathers dropping in small patches but then falling out like rain.
It will break his flesh, cracking, bleeding, bubbling with blisters and boils.
It will affect others, coming off as an utterly wretched odor of putrid decay, the blisters and boils bursting with thick, creamy pus and non-coagulating blood. Spiders will crawl out of the crevices left by the open sores, while maggots will openly feed on them. Anyone who comes into contact with his open blisters will have their skin area ravaged by the same disease.
All the while it will slowly let off a faint, black smoke.
Any attempts at healing it will accelerate the level of progression, lengthening the worse conditions.
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