Prodigal Son blah blah blah

It lifts its head like a hound scenting the breeze, having been roused from its slumber by a scent so sweet—power. The land seems to hold its breath, to grow taut, too quiet, as you scream into its black shadows and bright eyes. Curiosity ripples through it, a hush of wind, a murder of crows (well, they resemble crows, at least) breaking out into a cacophonous chorus somewhere in the distance.

The influx of new souls has slowed, like the trickle of blood from a closing wound. It has done little to soothe its hunger, its thirst, for all four hearts gaped empty and raw, leaking magic, unraveling the edges of its own fabric.

And the land's own heathen bastard son hadn't delivered what he had promised. The great champion was truly the Deceiver.

The spell of stillness shatters; the ground quakes and deep furrows head straight for you, like a burrowing creature charging, but.. there is nothing there, only sick light and pulsing shadows, and all you feel when it arrives is a vague presence throwing itself at you, shadow tongues trying to lick through your skin and lap up that precious godsblood running trough your veins.

the Rift

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[ ACCEPTANCE NOTES: VIRGA ]

Magic:
Transformation: Able to grow glowing silver primary feathers.
(While this does not specify during what time of day, it's all up to you if you want it to be conscious, etc. :D)