Michael began to cry. He had entered the Altar by the Sea, and he was a timid tempest: shaking and noble and heavy-light.
Swiftly, sadly, surely, he pulled a dagger from the sheath around his ankle and cut long lines horizontally across both wrists. His movements were so simple. It would've been easy if it wasn't so hard. Deep red blood spilled from his cuts onto the stone below him.
Like sparkling gemstones, Michael's light green eyes glowed, directly contrasting the maroon sacrifice flowing from him. He chanted his spell. Quicker and quicker, his blood drained from him and brown skin turned pale.
A final word was uttered and Michael was no more. A pregnant red cloud rose above his body.
Michael's steed felt him go first. His white pegasus stumble-flew to the Altar howling all the while. The beast nuzzled the body, wrong and wishing for a response, and stomped around calling for purpose and missing him. The noise was horrible.
The tribe couldn't mistake the pegasus' grief. The hunt was abandoned.
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Michael's tribe was one of warriors. Their magic was rooted in guttural blood-lust, the feeling of k…Michael (I)
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