Vrangr

Blood drips from the tarnished bronze blade mixing into gory puddles as rain pours down their form in murky rivulets. The field upon which they stand is torn. Chunks of grass, muddy pits in the shape of massive footprints, the crushed and trampled unfortunate shrub, a tree—reduced to splinters and wood chips. It was inevitable. This carnage. Does one dare call an earthquake or a typhoon malevolent? This was. It’s twisted form causing destruction and carnage wherever it wanders. Is it still called hubris if it is a God who made the mistake? Her folly—all of this death. What was the meaning?

Cautiously antlered-kin creep forward with health potions, Aid, and regeneration to repair what the Unfortunate had wrought.
“…I am sorry” the Leviathan whispers as she applies bandages to deep hurts.
“This is NOT your fault. It is her Arrogance that wrought this Calamity and the ones who pay the price are you. It is not as though They ever pay the consequences of their own actions. Instead we are made to pay for their mistakes and are hurt all the more for it”
Antler-kin is almost ten times their weight and five times their length and yet they have never looked so small





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