when the walls around us quake

Bylgja picked up the wounded wolf's smell some distance back. Blood. The scent of it hit her nostrils, and her head jerked up. There was little in the way of prey outside of the crypt, but as she followed the smell, she saw it: a dead lynx. Given the creature's coat, it appeared to be distinctly wintry; this was a creature that had been forced out of its normal territory. Bylgja circled around the dead lynx, her head lowering down to nose at its coat. The big cat was stretched out, cold, blood on its teeth, its claws. The fight that took its life had not been an easy one. She smelled wolf on the lynx. As she stared down at the corpse, Bylgja felt as if she immediately understood what had occurred: the predator, usually at the top of its game, had been driven out of its territory by another predator that had migrated due to the season. Prey elsewhere had become too sparse.

So the lynx had run. But in running, it had found a wolf. In finding a wolf, it found its death. But Bylgja smelled blood, and the blood went down, down into the crypt. Bylgja doubted that there was much she could do if she managed to even find the wolf in question. It was likely heavily wounded, given the gore on the lynx's paws. So, Bylgja snorted quietly and began to search about outside the crypt. The wolf, she could tell, had gone down into it. So it meant she had to find... well.

Bylgja was not... optimistic about the chances of the stranger. But she had to do her work. Part of being a healer was knowing when a wolf was beyond saving. Sure she hadn't met the wolf, yet. That didn't matter so much. Not now. She could picture them, lacerated and goresoaked, and the image wasn't good at all. She had to decide what to do as she made her way down into the crypt. Others, she supposed, would be more afraid. Not her. She had the scent of stranger-blood in her nose, and knew there wasn't much at all to be done.

A trip for mercy more than anything else. Perhaps the knowledge of her ultimate purpose soothed her nerves. Immediately as she crossed the threshold down an incline to go deeper, Bylgja's nose was met by a rush of dust, the smell of dirt. Her jaw twitched. The stone here was old. The land here even older. And that, all of it, made the smell of blood hit much more... intensely.

Had this been an opponent's blood, Bylgja would have been pleased. This was no opponent blood. This was the blood of a lost soul, who had stumbled upon a creature at the wrong time and who would now pay the dearest price of all for it.

"May you find company in better lands."

Bylgja murmured. She could hear the wolf's breathing, now. Labored. Heavy. The creature was lucky. There were, she knew, more sadistic souls than she in the lands that she now walked. The wolf rasped for breath, bubbling blood between pained jaws. Bylgja did not catch sight of him until she turned past some pillars and entered a side room -- there she saw the wounded beast, grey coat matted with blood, barely keeping his insides in with the tilt of his body. She knew, immediately, that he would not survive. As Bylgja neared him, she spied the twitch of his paws. He was alive. He was in pain.

Bylgja spoke.

"Was it the lynx?" Of course it was. Given his wounds? It could have been nothing else. The deep wounds down his sides. The scratches that threatened to stop his breath. Bylgja shook her head and leaned, slightly, so that she could get a better look. Even now, she wondered if he could perhaps be saved. But she had to hide that hope, because he... well. Could not be. She could see it. See it in the crazed pain-haze of his gaze. Bylgja knew that the rightful course here was not to heal, but find the quickest way to kill. She could snap his neck, but then he could still survive, paralyzed. Bylgja had seen it before.

She supposed he had rather lost a lot of blood already. It would be the work of a moment. Bylgja murmured an apology to the stranger -- "I'm sorry it came to this." Her accent was heavy. Then she leaned closer to his throat. After a breath in, she tore his neck open, using her paws to pull his jaw back, keep his head arched. The blood spurted quickly at first, and then slower. Slower. Slower.

Bylgja stepped back. His struggling ceased after a moment or two; his blood pooled sticky beneath her feet. Beneath his fur. At least, she supposed, it had been quick for him. She wished he could have been saved. This had been no noble death. A humiliation.

But... well.

She was no Goddess.

She was simply... Bylgja.

Quietly, she turned, and picked her way out of the crypt. Best to leave him there. Leave him to rest.

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