Big Salmon Lake la vie en rose

takes place a day or so after kitsch’s assault

@West

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It was’t until the poppy faded that Kitsch felt the true pain of her victimhood. Her limbs trembled as if the anonymous man was still there, gripping her harshly by her tender, innermost thigh. The pelt that draped along the nape of her neck and over her ermine shoulder was torn and tattered, subjected to the vehemence of his fangs — it stung with her every movement. A flood of tears left nothing but a throbbing, ringing headache in its wake. Blood wept from her most delicate and intimate of areas and the young girl grit her teeth from the rawness between her legs… and it wasn’t outside the realm of possibility that she had a broken rib, snapped like a twig underneath the beast’s massive weight. 

The drugs leeched from her ravaged body but not from her mind; the dove could read the pain of her body so easily, but her brain still lacked the capacity to think thoughts. Even though she regained consciousness and mobility, Kitsch continued to lay listlessly in spot of her defilement, nestled into the small indentation her body had kneaded into the earth. Her body hurt too much to move; her spirit hurt too much to move. This was in this spot that she laid for the better part of a day, drifting in and out of consciousness, not moving for food nor water nor the beating sun nor her own discomfort. For all intents and purposes, the lamb appeared to be dead, for she did not even reposition herself to relieve her settled bones of their discomfort.

When night eventually fell, Kitsch hauled herself from the shallow grave. The dove didn’t feel safer under the cover of night [safety was a fallacy, anyways], but in the darkness she felt invisible and that’s what she really wanted: obscurity. It was that such a desire that pulled Kitsch south rather than north — away from Teaghlaigh — and not a thought was spared for the wolves of Ravensblood Forest, except to brood on how they would never even notice her absence anyways. For monotonous hours she shuffled her dip dyed toes in the dust, trudging along with her throbbing head hung low. Her thirst had grown to be just shy of voracious, so it was water she sought right then and nothing more.

The frigid winter had snapped long ago and the interminable snows had all melted. Rather than soak into the ground, the meltwater traveled above the ground and collected in little divets and pockets throughout the forest; coalescing into a nationwide networks of puddles and lakes. After hours of  Kitsch came upon one the larger reservoirs [quite a big body of water, actually] and immediately dipped her ink-tipped nose to it. The cool water slaked her interminable thirst and filled her belly once more; a comforting sensation after so much emptiness. Then, laying her body against the shore of the small lake, Kitsch dipped her stracciatella paw into the water and watched the ripples ring out across the lake’s jeweled waters over and over and over and over and over again.

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She’d spent most of her return from the mountains on the outskirts of the caldera. The longer she stayed, the more it didn’t feel like the right fit. She knew, deep down, she hadn’t changed. Leaving the heights doesn’t mean she left everything behind and now she feels like she might go crazy with the everyday mundane life. It has given her a home base to keep her tethered to one area, giving her a chance to meet wolves in the area and what she has to work with. She doesn’t have the protection of the manmade dens as she had before but the caldera has offered enough.

West parts for the north by the end of the day and the lake greets her with pale moonlight reflecting its ray on a cool night. The wind blows lightly, only ruffling the tips of her fur, and even though she doesn’t have the poppy lacing her system now, she feels the serenity she can’t deny.

A flicker of light moves in the distance and her emerald eyes refocus. The pale fur reflects the moonlight back at her and she slowly moves along the shore until she’s only a few yards away. She smells blood, causing her nose to wrinkle, and she’s briefly reminded of Amari and how she’d found the girl. It lingers for a few more seconds but wisps away as soon as she realizes she knows the crumbled heap of a girl. A lump lodges in her throat and she scrunches her face, stumbling several steps forward until she closes the distance between them.

“Kitsch?” she calls, slowing to a stop in the muddy bank of the lake.

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Yet again, time was a deadened concept to the girl. Similarly to her time in the bed of soft field grasses, Kitsch did not know how long she laid upon the shore, dipping her paw into the waters and feeling the cool sensation percolate between her toes. It wasn’t out of boredom that she continued to do so, but rather a test — would she eventually dip her paw into the water and withdraw it only to find that she could no longer appreciate the sensation? The rest of her waiflike, ermine body was numb yet her every nerve ending buzzed with a monstrous type of feedback, the tremors of which anesthetized her very thoughts. Perhaps she had aged a thousand yeas and was destined to die there, from old age or hunger or exposure or pain. Whatever the cause, it matter naught to Kitsch. 

But, it did not seem that fate had that in the cards for her. 

When she first heard her name, Kitsch did not react. Her narrow chin remain alighted with the sodden bank, her body listless and unmoving. Her breath came in shallow puffs and she wished her voyeur would move on without much torment. After a several moments though, the footsteps  came closer and Kitsch’s embarrassment yielded to her inane need for tenderness. The oujo shifted herself and turned her head to glance up at the form of West. If Kitsch had been in her right mind, she might have quipped about 'how the tables had turned,' or maybe she would have made the connection between West and the poppy [which became her undoing]. But Kitsch could do neither, could not even speak, and she blinked languidly at the woman — inarticulately beseeching her for help. At this point, anything would do. 

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Nothing happens when she speaks the girl’s name and West frowns with concern. The blood is mostly stale, with a hint of freshness from wounds reopening, and localized to the back of her next. Her emerald eyes scan the rest of the girl, not noting anything in particular from her vantage point but the blood alone is enough to give her cause for concern. She met the girl at a lake under opposite circumstances and even if Kitsch cannot verbalize the sentiment, she picks up on it anyway.

Eventually, she gets the attention she called for a moment ago and she takes several more steps to close the distance. Her nose draws when she’s closer; the wounds are not fresh but they aren’t more than a day or two old. The most of the bleeding has long stopped, at least on the outside, and it she makes a point to avoid the expression written plainly across the girl’s face.

“You’re okay,” she murmurs, gingerly bumping the girl’s muzzle. West stays close should the other need something to balance on. “I’ve got you.”

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West moved closer and at first the broken girl shrunk away from her touch. Kitsch soon relented, after only a moment, and allowed herself a single solitary reprieve against the warmth and kindness of another. Kitsch shut her eyes tightly and knitted her ashen eyebrows together, pushing gently against the woman’s touch. 

Kitsch felt a rush of strength from West’s presence and she pushed herself up to stand, shifting her weight upon shaky limbs to find soundness. Then, all too quickly, her legs gave out again and buckled beneath her — and as she fell to the earth with a thud, the girl was sharply reminded of the fall she sustained, her broken body curled into his serpentine grip. She could almost feel her spectre there, as she laid twisted upon the bank, thrashing atop her. 

“Is he here?” she asked in sotto voce, lifting her head as sincere fear shot through her heart — Kitsch looked up at West, large eyes reflecting the crystalline blues of the springtide lake, not daring look at her surrounding lest he be there. It was what bedeviled her as she hauled herself across the lands: the thought that the man was tracking her, following her, a creature of the night waiting for his chance to strike again.

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Kitsch shrinks away almost immediately but she gives in after a beat. She doesn't know the girl that well and their exchange the last time had been limited. She still received help from her and the least West can do is try the same. Her knowledge is far more varied than Kitsch and by the looks of it, she isn't sure she cab properly take care of herself. She tries to recall their last meeting and whether or not the dusted girl has a place to call home and she doesn't think asking is going to get her too far.

Watching her try to stand puts a grimace on her face and she's torn between backing up and giving her space or standing close to use as a balance beam. West stands still until she has instruction, or cues enough from body language, and neither show up. The battered wolf hit the ground and crumples in the wet dirt.

A chill run down her spine with the terrified, shake breath: is he here? Her ears slink back to her head and Kitsch gaze bores only into hers and not around for herself so she flickers her gaze and flares her nose for signs before she firmly shakes her head. "It's just me," she says. Her mouth stays open to say or ask something else but the words are far underdeveloped and don't pass the barrier. She clicks her teeth together as her stomach twists into knots at the thought of who he might be and the damage to her scruff—punctures from sharp fangs at an angle that's all too familiar—makes acid burn in her chest.

"Let's get you out of the water and somewhere dry, okay? Then I'm going to take care of your wounds," she finally says. She pulls her voice together and acts more of a command than suggestion where she should speak with gentleness. Instead, she stands close and parallels herself with Kitsch to help move her back a few yards into the dry, sun warmed grasses.

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Kitsch exhaled deeply as West confirmed their solitude, letting her knitted muscles loosen and broken fram lay heavily atop the mire. The wastrel nurtured some doubts that her assailant had left her [even if he was gone in the flesh, but would he ever truly leave her in mind or spirit?] but Kitsch found response with the older shewolf standing above her.  This might have been the first time she softened since the attack… and it felt good. it felt nice. it was must easier to shoulder the weight when a compassionate soul there to bear it with her. 

West was not a wolf that Kitsch knew well, but at that moment, Kitsch would have followed the woman into the fires of hell. The pearl was hungry for government and security — and West’s voice was like a sweet song, offering her such amenities a thousandfold. So when West cajoled her into rising once more, Kitsch somehow managed the strength to do so.  Feebly, she shuffled towards the warmth of the sun and as she moved, the naiad felt a flush creep up her visage in embarrassment. The nature of the attack was clearly written upon her body and, having risen to her full height, her story was put on exhibition; from the wounds on her withers to the swelling of her rib to certain injuries that would require a more delicate touch. Kitsch clamped her tail over her rump and  pressed it firmly between her legs, wishing to conceal the information that she did not wish West to know; how worthless and weak she was.  

It did not take Kitsch long to move, but she did so in such a pathetic manner that one might wonder how she had made it so far from the meadow. “Okay,” she uttered needlessly and laid against the warm grasses — this time, she managed to keep control of her limbs and was able to lower herself in a more dignified fashion.  “Okay,” Kitsch said again, reassuring herself. Then, her keppel gaze swept up to the form of West beside her and she whispered sincerely “Thank you…”

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Hearing Kitsch’s voice is enough for her to know there’s trust, no matter how small. All she has to do is nurture it from here and build it up and chained from the girl to her word; she’ll have the girl up in no time. West gives her a soft, encouraging smile and shake of her tail. She doesn’t say anything right away, instead helping her to her feet and guiding her away to a thick patch of grass. The wind offers a slight chill to the day but overall it is warm and she doesn’t have to combat the weather to keep the pearl safe.

“Lay down here,” she says. Try to relax, she thinks when the words do not come to fruition. She doubts it’ll do much to get her to do so and she works in gentle touches and encouragements instead.

West comes around to the side so she can better see the lacerations on the back of her neck. They are mostly angry punctures she’ll have to keep clean to keep the infection from building beneath the skin. She sighs, glancing off in the distance. She wishes they were closer to the caldera than they are now but she can’t take her to the borders and ask for help when she has barely contributed herself. Instead, she’ll have to make do with what she has and what Kitsch will allow.

“Let me look,” she tells her before she carefully ruffles her nose through fur, finding each puncture and further wounds. From the outskirts, she sees the main one on the back of her neck and abrasions around her hips, in the delicate skin on the inside of her thighs. It only confirms the suspicion of what happened and she fights back a number of questions. By the time West gets to her rear, her tail covered protectively, she sighs softly before putting her nose gently to her hip and silently asking for access to inspect.

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Kitsch does her best to heed West’s unspoken wishes, but the pain was too great to allow for much relaxation. At best, Kitsch could do nothing more than lay her head atop her ink-doused toes, willing her muscles to relax the tight vicelike grip they had upon her frame. Kitsch could do no more than listlessly lay upon the grasses [like the sullen ragdoll the man knew her to be] as West inspected her.

Kitsch felt West’s cool, comforting nose against her feverish skin and she drew in a breath and held it. The action itself was comforting, but Kitsch found she could still not relax. Her mind trailed West’s movements and assessed her inner being as West inspected her outer being. Her appraisal moved from the lacerations on her withers to the bruises upon the tender pink of her stomach and thighs. Kitsch knew what logically was next and drew legs in towards her body, hoping to conceal herself amongst her own tangle of legs. At the behest of West’s warm touch, the tangle eventually loosened and allowed her guardian all the freedom she needed to accurately assess her condition. Who was she to deny help when it was being so readily offered to her, after all?

“m—my chest hurts too, the girl wheezed, hoping to quickly draw attention to another part of her body as soon as possible. The fall she had sustained, coupled with the full weight of her hulking opressor, could have easily done damage to her delicate, gamine frame.

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Kitsch moves after a few seconds and West whines at what she sees. She withdraws her nose to give the girl her privacy from anything more invasive. The most sensitive of areas is swollen more than West has seen and it causes a sickening feeling in her stomach as she feels a little physical sympathy in response.

The woman takes a long breath, closing her eyes, sorting through what she needs to do first. Leaving her in this condition isn’t much of an option but she has the lake nearby and she’s certain she’ll find a few things to get her through the next several hours. “It’ll be okay,” she murmurs when she comes up close, putting her nose against the space behind her ear. “I need to go for a few minutes and find some things but I won’t be far. Call me if you need me to.”

West doesn’t give her much of a chance to respond so she turns tail and leaves, making her way back to the water and circle around for the best possible chance. She finds a plant with a yellow bloom, though still immature, the roots are enough to give the desired effect. Carefully, she pulls several from the base and shakes them free of dirt. If anything, she can give the girl from pain relief until she can find everything she needs. She trots back eagerly, continuously shaking dirt from the roots so Kitsch can eat them without too much trouble.

She drops them nearby her nose, separated from the base of the plant. West nudges them closer and lowers to the ground. “Eat these. It’ll help with the pain and it might make you sleepy, but I’ll be here,” she says, curling her tail around her rump.

why is this post sooooo bad  -___-

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Kitsch found she could not inhale nor exhale during her truncated examination – the breath had caught in her throat and, beneath her thin crop of pale fur, she could feel a bashful redness flush her cheeks.  Her polluted mind swam with thoughts like what will West think? and would she even care for a worthless thing such as she? and even will I die? but the questions were never uttered and thus, never answered, and before long, her nurse excused herself to acquire the necessary medicines. The Kitsch of another life might have joined the woman as she rooted through the surrounding areas to find poppy or willow or maybe the plant with white flowers, hoping to learn something of her craft – but the disabled lamb could do nothing more than listlessly lay her head upon the ground and soothe the throbbing of her body by surrendering a small sleep.
 
She was roused by the gentle touch of West, who carried several different herbs and plants in her mouth.  There was a urge for her to eat, and though the nausea that simmered in her gut protested greatly, Kitsch desired relief more than anything else. ”Okay,” the wastrel squeaked and pushed herself up onto her elbows, albeit with some effort, and took the herbs in mouth. The taste was as she expected – bitter, earthy, made for peasants and not her decadent tongue – but she managed to swallow them all the same.  ”w—what are they?” she questioned, only after the fact, unintentionally evincing the trust she already instilled in her guardian.
 
A chill racked her body and Kitsch lowered herself back to the ground, awaiting the foretold sleepiness of the drugs. ”I’m scared.” she murmured to the woman who stood above her, eyes verging on sudden tears . Her injured body would recover, so it seemed, and that corporeal relief made way for the injuries of her mind to take precedent.

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Want to wrap it up with your reply?

Kitsch takes the orders easily, reaching for and chewing the plant until it’s gone and, only after it has reach her stomach, inquiries about what it is. She stares down at what she’d brought, thinking about it. The name is nowhere to be found in her memory and she brushes it off with a shrug, which doesn’t seem to last long as the girl eventually announces her fear. West’s lips purse together as she sits down, close enough so they are fur to fur in some places, and lowers her head to put gentle kisses between her eyes.

“It is okay. You will feel better soon,” she explains. Perhaps she can get the girl to take it several days in a row and loosen some of her anxiety and fear—but not enough that is enmoldable—and give her a little reprieve from danger. It is not enough to make her stay asleep—lest she be exhausted from the day—but either way West eventually picks back up when she has fallen lax enough to go out and find the other things she needs to treat her wounds.

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Her gentle shuddering soon subsided, guided to calmness by the tenderness of Wests’ cosseting.  The women’s voice also soothed her, and perhaps it was a self-fulfilling prophecy, but the pearl soon felt her eyes began heavy and eventually close, shielding tired eyes from the horrors of the world and the dreadful nothingness that her life was. She was nothing to him, and who was the dark silouhette but a representation of all the wolves in her life, even the ones she had yet to meet?
 
But as sleep took over her ragged soul, Kitsch couldn’t help but hope that – maybe – she meant something to the woman, West, who stood watch over her.

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