Soaring the skies, the limit only one self's strength of will. Tasting the air, embracing the thrill of storm-flight, feathers as much a close friend as any other limb. Freedom, sweet and heady like a lover's first kiss, the exhilarating sense of being one with the world, pouring into one's veins like fire for the soul.
Death but a slight setback, even less so to a proficient cleric in the midst of trusted allies. A long road yet to be traversed, stretching endlessly ahead, promising a future free from the hungry clutches of blade and time. No fear, no worries, serene existence as the future becomes the present becomes the past. All the time in Atreia, a blessing in return for unwavering loyalty, for the willingness to serve with true ardency.
A soldier also, once.
Screeches and cries, the battlefield stained an ugly red. The ring of blades, the roar of aether-fueled fire, the midnight-blackness illuminated an eerie red from the many moons of Atreia. Wings in the night, feathers a wild flurry amidst the chaos of battle, overpowered and pressing for retreat. Screams of pain and desperation, rending the night-air, the coppery tang of blood invading the air.
The whispering promise of an untimely end.
Agony, such as never been experienced in decades, clawing, sinking in its sharpened fangs. Horrible, fatal lethargy, the will to live forcibly drained by an abomination unfit to be named, dragging its victim into the murky depths of oblivion. Retaliation in sheer desperation, already sure of imminent destruction, lashing out with every fibre of strength possessed.
Mortal, once more.
A great reptilian form, rising high and oppressive, blood-red maw gaping. The ground, crumbling into nothingness by the force of a great explosion, ignited by aether. The darkness rushing up in an engulfing wave, swallowing its meal whole.
Release, sweet blackness.