Blackfeather Woods revival

tagging @Cicero but open to all BWF wolves

vuk screamed.
vuk screamed at the blood upon her mouth, her chest, her eyes wide-staring and fixed at the jerking form of terich-mir, his throat ripped wide, the flesh of it between her teeth! oh, terich! terich! what had she done? the screaming went on and on until the she-wolf realized it was her own voice, rattling to the ragged end of its taper! and then there was darkness. obliteration. sleep.
the patchwork wolfess blinked up at the stone ceiling of the den, her eyes adjusting to the dim light of early dawn, her limbs feebly churning with the intensity of the memory that had finally roused her. where was this place? she did not speak, merely let her head loll from side to side as she drank in the details of the small room, lifted her thin muzzle to take its various scents.
her mouth seemed to be filled with ash, dry as it was; her eyes ached and she closed them tightly, a shudder running the length of her angular form. what had she done? it was the inquiry that reverberated desperately in her mind, and the tyro opened her mouth to hiss at her own thoughts, only to discover she could not.
clawing desperately for purchase, she gasped for air, opening her jaws again and again as tears of panic stung her eyes. no words, no sound came from her throat; she put her jaws 'round the toes of one paw. the revelation that her tongue was missing provoked horrified grunts from the she-wolf; but she could not scream, nor could she call for help. noiseless sobbing shook the woman as she fought for control; she dug her claws into the earthen floor of the den and panted quickly, eyes shut tightly against the terror of her awakening thus far. 
with painful sluggishness, she returned to herself. she had her sight, her hearing. the use of her limbs, she supposed, gathering herself gingerly to her feet and stumbling out into the growing dawnlight. all that had been lost to her was her voice, and it was not something that had ever come easily to her. armed with this calming knowledge, the oddly-marked she-wolf took in the scents of the earth. packland. blackfeather. the name whispered itself into her mind, and she nodded. blackfeather. she had come here with terich
her thoughts leaped away from that as deer would from a fire tearing through their forest
and ... who else? there had been another. surely? the woman paused, concentrating on the whisper of familiarity at the edge of her consciousness, but there came a reverberating pain inside her skull, one that grew with each second, and the agony of it dropped her to her haunches with a throated cry. head spinning, she parted her jaws to gulp in air once more until the sensation passed. do not do that again. do not try to remember, she told herself — or was it another voice who whispered? the tyro did not know.
some time passed and she stood, pressing toward the heart of the territory. she knew not their names, nor their faces; she knew only that the stamp of their scent was upon her. sheogorath. another name. the she-wolf accepted it without question. terich. blackfeather. sheogorath — here were the things she knew. 
it was alongside a stream she paused, and gazed into the ice-skimmed surface of it at herself. the woman did not recoil from her twisted reflection, letting her eyes trace with disgust and mild pity the scars that lacerated her muzzle and lifted the right side of her lips, the bedraggled appearance of her fur, the jut of her bones from her ragged pelt. anger entered her heart; why had she been so neglected? resolutely she strode into the water, slaking her thirst even as she circled and washed the filth from her pelt. 
decamping to the streambank, the woman began to groom herself furiously, shaking against the cold. i do not know who i am, but it does not matter. sheogorath knows. she paused to nod at herself, allowing the tiniest grim smile to curve her lips before returning to her preening, shuddering on the hard-packed dirt.

The world was beautiful when it was covered in ice, but it also reminded Cicero that he had no real place in this world. It made him feel ethereal for he would suffer cold every single day and night. Previous winters he had had Damien to curl up to; that was when his brother still cared whether he lived or died. But now, now the winter was cold and his thin fur did not provide the protection he would have preferred. No longer did Cicero need the poisons to make his mind twirl and to give himself the pain he so enjoyed, for the cold caused enough of it. He feared that if he did not find warmer places it might cost him dearly, for every time he awoke alone he was shivering. The forest protected him to some degree, so there was that, at least, but he wondered if it would be enough to prevent a painful and slow death or the loss of limbs this winter around.

It was another sore reminder that Damien's heart was slipping away from him and that his place in this dark forest was uncertain. And if that was uncertain, then perhaps his place in the entire world was done for, in some way.

He looked at Relmyna from the other side of the stream as she studied herself. She must feel the same in many ways, he knew, but at the same time he knew that her sorrow had not been caused by her own doing, by some beast, some demon within her, but by the demon that lived within him. When he had first returned to being Cicero Relmyna had been with him a lot, but in time he had become more recluse, had slipped away from the places they used to sleep together. She had noticed, of course, if not only by his changing tongue, by his admittance that he was now Cicero. Not that it mattered to the other inhabitants of the forest. Not to Damien, not to Potema. Oh, how he missed simpler times when he was just the philosopher Cicero. Now he felt like the beast was always there, for the doings of the beast hung over Cicero's head like a dark cloud no matter where he went. He could no longer ignore it, and he could not ignore that Sheogorath was as much a part of this body and mind as Cicero, causing him to feel as though torn apart at the seams.

A heavy sigh fell as he looked at her. Another one of Sheogorath's works... Though Cicero did not remember how this had come to be. He only remembered her name and that she was somehow linked to him — to Sheogorath. "Relmyna," he said, ragged ears thrusted forward, then falling back. Mouth hung slightly ajar as he wanted to ask how she was but changed his mind, finding no appropriate words he could say to her. He wished he could ask her how this had come to be but knew he could not. Likely he would never know.

the water slipped easily from her fur — in a short while, she was returned to herself, and rose on tottering thin limbs, blinking into the cold. the sounding of a voice nearby drew her eye, and she did not startle, somehow strangely comforted by the unkempt presence of 
sheogorath came the unbidden whisper, and the woman closed her eyes, willing it away. she had only just awoken; she refused to be subjected to the whims of her thawing mind.
words rose finally to her throat, but the skeletal tyro remembered swiftly she had been divested of her ability to speak. and so on stiff legs she approached the man, whose scent she recalled only from the clutching recesses of her memory, her eyes narrowed as she attempted to think of his name. he was not only sheogorath. there had been another name. the pallid beast concentrated as she closed the space between herself and the patchwork man, only to stumble as pain radiated abruptly through her skull. 
gasping, she gave a strangled whine, dipping her muzzle toward the earth and closing shut her eyes until the horrid sensation passed. lifting her gaze once more, she recalled the syllables of the word he had spoken. relmyna. was this her? the tyro inquired with pleading in her stare of sheogorath — would he give her his other name? was there another? and relmyna — was that herself?

Relmyna felt like a culmination of all that he had done wrong in the world. All the beast had done wrong. Or perhaps rather, all that he had let the beast do wrong. He should have so many things, but Cicero had never been one for regrets. Things went as they went and there was no use dwindling on what had been. He wanted to say sorry, but felt there was no use in it. Did she even remember what had happened? He did not, but he could see from the way she had followed him and cared for him that this was somehow his doing; Sheogorath's doing. To see all of the pain and suffering he had created was nearly depressing — a feeling he thought he could never have — and he stared at her with a degree of sorrow in his eyes.

"Cicero does not need caring," he dismissed lightly. "The beast... Is gone, for now." He tilted a ragged ear towards her, wondering if she would understand. Had Sheogorath treated her well or had he done more wrongs in his absence?

sheogorath did not answer the questions writ upon her face, and the woman felt frustration well within her. but he was speaking; she listened eagerly, brow furrowing somewhat. gone? sheogorath? awareness dawned slowly; this man was the same, but not. tongue snaking out to touch the edges of her muzzle-scar, the ragged wolfess straightened. cicero. she committed the name to memory.
gingerly she lifted a forepaw and gestured awkwardly in her own direction. cicero was he; who was she? it was the last information she needed to stand more comfortably in his presence.

He looked at her as she pointed at her chest, but he had no other answers to her than what he had already shared. "Relmyna," he said. Her past was hazy to him, he did not remember... "Cicero does not remember what Sheogorath has done, or who Relmyna used to be." If anything else. He only remembered something had happened for when he looked at her things were hazy but filled with some sort of oddly delightful madness. The kind that you find yourself laughing at but know that others would look weirdly upon your delight and laughter of the situation. Guilty pleasure, but he did not know why, and felt he must not feel delighted by it.

After a long pause he added: "But he is sorry for whatever darkness Sheogorath has inflicted." Now what would happen? Where would Relmyna go? "Is your voice lost forever?" he wondered aloud, too afeared to look too closely or inspect to find out himself... but maybe she knew the answer.

relmyna.
a name
terich
relmyna relmyna relmyna relmyna — she committed it to memory and draped herself in its syllables. here was an identity. sheogorath had given it to her. cicero spoke of the other being in rueful tones, and the patchwork girl blinked. how had he come to decide her fate? who she used to be? the latter inquiry flared a warning into her awareness, and relmyna gratefully drew her mind away from that subject.
she regarded him with confusion as he spoke, and then awareness dawned over her — parting her jaws, relmyna strained for a sound, and gave only a strangled grunt. her voice had left her, yes. she was still then, unsure of what to do next, and hoping for cicero
sheogorath
to guide her.

It was as if the name was new information and he wondered if her memory was so poorly damaged. He, too, had many gaps in his memory, although he knew it was only because of the beast that he did. She looked imploringly at him, but he had nothing to offer her. He frowned and said, "I —" looked taken aback because I was not his, but the beast's, and everyone else's, "— Cicero has nothing for Relmyna. Nothing to offer." He looked at her with tilted head, wondering if that would do for her, but fearing that Sheogorath had so tightly wound her around his fate that he would not be rid of her soon. She had followed Sheogorath around ceaselessly, after all, followed his every command... For that to have happened something must've been done.

you can fade here or post again! we need a new one <3

they looked at each other for a long moment.
cicero had nothing for her, but there was nothing relmyna wished from him. to teach her the ways of the land, yes, but now that she had come awake, the tyra suspected she could do that for herself. what sheogorath had given, what he had taken — it was not something that concerned relmyna. 
with no hint of cicero's inner struggle and desire to be free of the slave sheogorath had bound him with, the wolfess stepped stiffly toward him and sought to show her deference by lifting her scarred muzzle and touching his chin with her lips, if allowed. there was no one else for her here — she would continue to serve the wolf who had not been the one to place her in thrall.

She neared him and he watched, face void of expression. She touched his face and he did not flinch on the outside, though on the inside he did not know what to think. He wished Damien were here, for he'd noticed his brother's absence. He thought maybe Damien was simply avoiding him, but he'd never been that good at being sneaky... Cicero began to think maybe he had left, and he was too late to find out, now that there was no more trail to follow. It made him feel trapped here, for here was all he could be in, now; waiting for Damien, knowing this was the only likeliest place he'd ever find his brother again.

He nodded, accepting the burden placed upon him, and started to move, a trek through the forest to look for food. At least she would keep him warm at night, help him survive, like Damien had in past winters, another reminder his brother was gone.