Well, he was going to fight, obviously! This was practice for the Big Bad Wolf!

Zeek bolted through the second gate, caring not at all for singing and even less for some old guy covered in chains who wouldn't be able to fight back properly. Or fairly, cause making big holes in the ground wasn't something you could really counter (even if you were really good at the twist-and-dodge, like Zeek.)

But some wisps of air so pathetic it took a pack of them to wipe out a tree? Well! Okay, not too wimpy, cause they were strong enough to be worth fighting. Still. Not strong enough to really contend with a master warrior like Zeek, yeah!

He lunged into the fray, disappearing under deep snowbanks at intervals during his glorious charge.

Nakhtmin was a mazoi, and so, when he was called to battle, he answered bravely. The bugling war-cry of the bull rang clarion over the field as he charged into a a cluster of foul-shaped monsters.

Flee in terror, demons! Nakhtmin shall destroy you all, otherwise! He warned, hoping that these beasts would prove too persistent to be dissuaded by mere words.

His spears were sharp, his flanks were strong, and he was mighty!

Skill — Warrior (BWP)

The end of the world came for all, whether you paid attention to it or not.

It even came for you in your dreams. It came at you with nightmares.

A ruined world mauled by twisted beings. Monstrous creatures with the barest resemblance to a wolf shrieked with broken voices as they surged after two fleeing figures in the dark. Wolves that looked like them. Normal, four-legged bodies with lean flanks and triangular ears. The pair kept their gaze at the ground ahead of them. Unyielding in their focus, they raced through the dark with land-eating strides. Any slower, any lagging or break in resolve held a gruesome fate. One that the twisted beasts promised with every stilted stride and snap of ravenous jaws.

Arlen did not know the end fate of the two shrinking silhouettes. Unaware that within the waking world they had stumbled across the one respite the pair would find in this cruel land, they were tempted to join them. To run from the monsters that hunted, but this dream did not move with their whims. It kept them still, with no hope to see what lay past the horizon, Arlen was kept to witness what came next.

When the pair escaped over the ridge, the beasts gave up their fleeing prey. Their eyes turned and faces scraped against the earth. The air was tasted, the ground scented. Blood scent seeped into the air, curling with the promise of easy pickings.

Someone had been left behind.

Arlen realized it just as, if not before, the beasts did. Breath catching, Arlen tracked the creatures with their eyes.

The beasts scented the trail in the air, tracked it across the ground, and gathered around a crack in the earth. A narrow crevice that they pawed at and pressed their faces within. Arlen's lungs screamed for release. Breath releasing the moment the cornered wolf stole one of his own.

Arlen shut their eyes as hideous howls and shrill shrieks split the air and was soon accompanied by the panicked, pained screams of the wounded wolf.

---

A sky shattering roar woke the young bearwolf from their nightmare. Unfortunately for Arlen, their dream had leaked into the waking world.

A powerful blizzard swept through the air, and the pale shade of a wolf appeared before them. A hollow feeling pooled in the young wolfs chest at the sight of the dream visitor. Stranger that the visitor was, Arlen could not help but feel like they knew who he was. Something the ghost affirmed and he spoke of what waited before them.

Brother to the injured wolf, the Visitor was one of the pair who fled across the horizon line, leaving the third wolf to his fate. Arlen's nose wrinkled in disgust at the traitorous ghost before them.

Some brother you are. You didn't deserve peace. The words fell cruelly from their lips. Each one wholly believed, Arlen made to turn from the Visitor, but found themself still as glowing stones made three openings in the space before them.

The Visitor, spoke briefly. Asking them to chose a path to fix the wretched misdeed that he had done. He would be met with a growl and bared teeth.

Why was it up to them to repair what he did? Why was did they have to suffer with a broken, dying world because of the actions of others?

Even in Mythris, Arlen lived a secluded life with their father, Ancelin . Bearclaws relied on nobody but themselves, and such thinking almost made the young wolf turn away from the portals all together.

But one window caught their eye.

The second, the middle. The one with the bone-eater tree that witnessed Arlen's awakening within this world. The great tree, the one with wolfs bones at its roots, was nearly unrecognizable.

Blue wraiths reminiscent of the twisted beasts tore at the sky-holding branches. Blackening the boughs as it bled. The splitting of bark voicing tree's agony. The image held within Arlen's mind.

The young Bearclaw had been unnerved by the tree the moment they arrived. It was something greater than themself in ways they couldn't possible imagine. Skeletal remains lie protected at its roots. Its very island a space that was hallowed. Arlen felt it in their bones that it was not a place for wolves to stay.

Now something precious sprouted between skeletal paws and monsters ravaged the sacred space. The beasts' labored in trying to uproot the great limbs that held the very clouds. This is image, it brought a question to the forefront of Arlen's mind.

How fucking dare they?

Arlen cared not for the Visitor and his mate, their remains being entwined within the tree was their own problem. Arlen didn't know a damned thing about a parasite. Confident that they didn't have it, the cured mattered little. What Arlen, surprisingly, cared for was the tree itself. Its histories, magics, and gifts were unknown, but Arlen did know how it felt to stand before the great tree.

Did those monsters think themselves so great, destroying something bigger than themselves? Something that couldn't fight back against them?

Mismatched paws carried the young wolf to the door, not a second spared in pondering any further. Running into the battleground, Arlen passed strangers. Adults and children, their clashing scents spoke of the varied origins of each wolf. Their voice rising in a fearsome cry, they threw themself into the fray. Lunging for the nearest wraith, Arlen bared their teeth, and braced for retaliation.

skill: warrior

---

Three doors. Three choices.

Samo, upon hearing the strange dreamer's words, already knew what his place should be. One that would take everything—he recoiled from it. No. No, he had given enough. He was Samo of the Aedui. The mask he had been forced to wear, Rufus, was gone. He had too much to lose now. Elk Charm. Walosi.

But he was still a warrior, even if at times he hated it. Even if at times he loved it. He looked through the second portal, hearing the adulation of the crowd thrumming in his ears. He shook it away: this fight was not for a master's wealth and glory. The many hard years of training, the blood he had spilled, the lives he had taken—let it serve a different purpose now. His mind made, he moved without hesitation through the second door. The hard winter months had worn down his physique, but he was still strong, and he knew this body better now. The din of battle rang in his ears, and blood pumped eagerly through his veins. He watched, careful, before leaping into the right moment with a vicious snarl.

In the arena he often stayed his hand. Today, his fangs showed the monstrous invaders no mercy.

Skill: Healer (bwp)

Elaine stumbled through the second door on Rivers  heels: light‑headed, breath catching, paws skidding on the sudden shift of earth beneath her. Whatever tether had formed between them since her fall from the sky tugged tight now, an instinct older than language whispering stay with him, stay beside him, protect him. But the moment her mismatched eyes lifted, the world stole the breath from her chest. The Great Tree.

Alive. Ancient. Dying.

The air was thick with rot and grief, the kind that clung to the lungs and tried to crawl under the skin. Wraiths writhed like smoke made cruel, tearing at roots older than memory, sinking their claws into bark that pulsed with fading light. Each strike dimmed the branches above, draining color, draining hope. Elaine's hackles rose in a slow, deliberate wave. The whispers scraped at her ears: wrong, hungry, cold, but beneath them she felt something else. A plea. A heartbeat. A trembling endurance that resonated through her bones like a struck chord.

Stand fast.

Her gaze snapped to the hollow at the tree's base. Two skeletal guardians curled protectively around the tender gold‑flecked sprouts pushing through the soil. Gold Turtlehead, the cure, the fragile promise of life against the Parasite's ruin. And the wraiths were trying to rip it all away. Elaine's breath steadied. Her paws planted. The fear that had chased her since the skyfall burned away, replaced by something fierce and bright. She stepped forward, placing herself between the wraiths and the sprouts, between the rot and the roots, between death and the male she'd followed through the door without hesitation. Rivers' presence at her flank grounded her, but the resolve rising in her chest was wholly her own. "No," she growled. Quiet, but carrying the weight of a healer who had seen too much loss already. "You will not have this." Her white fur bristled, catching the dim light like frost catching fire. The Great Tree's pulse fluttered against her senses, thin but still fighting. Elaine lowered her head, teeth bared, stance widening. If the tree falls, hope falls with it. And she would not let that happen.

Not while she still drew breath.
Not while Rivers stood beside her.
Not while any part of her could still stand between the world and its breaking.

"Come then," she whispered to the wraiths, voice steady. "Try."

OOC

Sreda will protect Roskva if allowed!

---

---

The pain of the world grew, cascading into a horrible crescendo of bitter agony. The darkness grew consuming, festering beyond the realm of shadow and entering the sticky state of gluttonous decay. It was turning on its head, attempting to swallow itself ... attempting to erase an agony in the only way that it knew how.

A bitter purge.

Normally, Sreda would welcome such a mass extinction with open arms. Normally, she would welcome such an ending with an open mind and a pre-dug grave. One for everyone she loved, and one for herself, too.

But this death that was offered was not natural. It was accelerated. Uncertain. Chaotic. It was not as beautiful as many she had seen before. At least, that was the excuse she would give herself, knowing perhaps full well that there were other reasons she did not chase death today.

She woke in a dream.

She woke with a choice.

Allow the consumption of the world — or fight it.

Roskva woke beside her. She was but a child, but she was full of Viking vigor. Sreda would argue that such a bull-head had to have come from Wardruna 's side ... but Sreda knew her lineage — she knew Valeska. Perhaps all too well.

Sreda would look toward her daughter, nose lowering and planting a soft touch atop the child's head. We don't run from endings, she would say, lifting her head and flicking tufted ears toward Roskva. But we have a hand in who survives them. The words were, perhaps, cryptic to a young child. But Sreda meant what she said — the end may come for the world, but it did not come for Roskva. Not today.

Not while Sreda still drew breath.

But that did not mean she would deny her child this chance to fight. Stay near me. We find their weak points. Sreda would stand half-over the child, using her body to subtly shield the youth from any danger as they drew their fangs to face the end of the world.

---

originally had him going through the third door but I deleted that post and moved him over here instead, but it's still showing up in his threadlog ;o; hope thats ok!

skill: warrior

---

The end of the world would be marked by battle. Cúán knew that the gods would lose, and all would be consumed and born anew. Knowing this too, he would still fight. After all, what else was there to be done but meet death with jaws open and fangs ready?

He leapt through the second door with a laugh and snarl.

Óðinn á yðr alla! (Odin owns you all!) he cried out as he sank his teeth into the closest wraith. If a mortal had any chance of besting such an evil spirit, Cúán intended to find out.