The small furred soul blinks black eyes, reflecting pale of the last of that ribbon as the wind shifts. Light limns the cedar tree's highest boughs, then with a sigh, pours down the tree's stolid surface, turning it crystal. Beneath it, the furry creature slips out of its hole, unable to remain in the half dark when life is pouring into the darkness of the hollowed out life left behind. 

For a moment, the world within remains quiet, simply accepting the magics and the other soul, even the small ribbon of Other which had created the way seems to hold its breath. 

As Chall's eyes close, his intentions purifying, the furred creature's black eyes fly upwards and light from within. In a mixture of the land, the man, the kirin, and the magic deep within the mage, the recesses of the dying man flare into brilliance. What was a small bit of life, unfurls from itself, eyes first, growing into silver marbles, then the entirety of the soul blossoms into a creature which is a mixture of myth and life. Arms as strong as a gladiator with great bands of marble around the upper muscles, meet with a reptilian torso and head, a golden leonine hips and legs, and a great tail as silver as the horn piercing its brow. It lifts its head, staring upwards at where the fissure of injury was being filled, it's gaze luminescent as an early morning mountain sky, and opens its great mouth to suck in the mixture of magics. 

With a sigh, all goes quiet, the beast gone, the tree waving in a soft wind, and Chall broken apart. Yet upon a small twig in the upper reaches of the great tree, where the scent of jasmine and amber remain strongest, a small bird with a flat topped tail, waits, alert, and watches. 

Marge has gone, Hibble notes. She had not even asked the kirin what his purpose was. Good woman, following her heart as she was wont to do. The goblin's black teeth gleam in the shadows as he grins down at the scene below him. The mage, the weaver, and the magic intertwining them, drawing them together. To think he has lived long enough to see such a sight. The beginning. He would not survive to the end, few would, but he had been witness to its start. 

As heart regains foothold, blood pours once more, life begins anew, Wren's body shakes, his throat convulsing, forgetting, until it recalls and with a great bellow, breath pours into the man and he sits up, grasping for the table's edge, the air, his eyes wide and staring into the darkened room. Wren's mind spurs him to action and he turns, orients himself slowly. The scent, the scene before him, it is not unknown to him. But for the fact that Marge is nowhere to be found. 

Only a terrified looking kirin. Wren frowns down at the slender young man in confusion. "What?" he murmurs more to himself than to Chall. Had he not given the mage his still pool? 

But no, that was not it. Memory returns, what little there is. He brushes his hand against his forehead and then blinks at the boy once more. "What happened?" he slowly moves one leg off of the table, the other following. His body, his mind, around him there is a clarity which will take some time to get accustomed to. It is as if a second sight were looking at the room around him, at the kirin, at it all. His eyes hurt, seeing too much. 

"What - " he begins again, then takes a slow breath inwards. "What is wrong?" His deep voice gentle, bemused, he takes hold of the table and stands, then makes his way to the boy, going to his knee with very little grace and grasping the boy's arm. 

It is not brown eyes which look at the kirin, but a light blue, as if the color has been drained from them completely. All is the same, though not so much within the weaver, for Wren only knows the boy is afraid and such a thing is almost unbearable for him. He runs his palm down the boy's arm and grasps his hand. "Has someone harmed you?" he demands, surprised at the sudden, fierce rush of protective nature which floods him. Everything is so new, so real, yet so raw, as if there is little to buffer between he and the rest of the world.