Whitefish River some sad singers, they just play tragic
January 05, 2018, 06:12 PM
Lone Wolves

the twilight danced, and the mice were at play,

and the winter winds rustled through the trees

and Olive concealed herself amongst the silvered grasses, watching those dancing mice at play, waiting for the right moment and wondering why she was here. Her courage had ameliorated to an amount that she found leaving her winter den to be entirely within the realm of possibility, so she had indulged. After her unceremonious departure from Moonspear and all the memories held upon that mountain, she had staked a small, masochistic claim to an enclave of rocks and shielded herself from the worst of the snows. Then she had simply stayed put, unsure where else to go and what else to do.  But this night, the sylph exited under the auspice of her beloved mother moon, avoiding Ravensblood Forest and found a well-worn path alongside the rushing water to the east. She picked her way across the landscape, drifting upon featherlight toes and pale coat glowing luminously in the moonlight, looking almost too ghost-like for comfort.

Her travel was slow, and her surefootedness was long gone; soon she was fatigued and hungry and, to be honest, a little cranky. Soon the lamb yearned to be back in the solitude of her den, the security of those earthen walls — but before long had become entirely distracted by the family of field mice in front of her. The small, warm bodies scurried amongst the dead grasses and cooled earth, gathering frostbitten seeds and storing them in a nest of woven sweetgrass. The mice seem oblivious to her being there — so involved in their winter preparations, were they! — that the pale shewolf could sit and watch from mere feet away. Once she had seen them, Olive found that she could not look away. 

Her hunger soon became a forethought, as hunger tends to do, and Olive found her tongue moistening at the sight of the tiny busybodies. Hunting, in any shape or form, was not something that came naturally to Olive, so this reaction was something unfamiliar. In fact, it was something quite offensive to her and she often went to great lengths to avoid the carnage involved in killing... but, it was entirely within the nature of the wolf to make a meal of rodents, wasn’t it? How could something that came so naturally be truly, inscrutably wrong? 

Maybe this lonely, cold winter was an ever-present concern in her mind. Not that last winter had been any better — the memories of Dakarai losing his memory plagued her almost nightly — but now it seemed that Olive needed to look out for her own good, as no one was there to do it for her.  She no longer trusted anyone to do it for her. 

Olive gritted her molars together, clearly in the grips of uncertainty. She felt her stomach keenly, knew that a wolf who couldn’t hunt was a dead wolf indeed, but she couldn’t. Her ivory visage turned sharply away, not wishing to be the harbinger of another’s demise. She was sure that the mice would feel the loss of one of their family as keenly as she felt the loss of hers, and Olive would not live to cause another such pain; it was simply too heavy a load to bear. In a rush, Olive retreated, heels skittering behind her as she darted away from the rodents’ winter stores.

It was only in her departure that the mice took notice of the shewolf and they too retreated to their warm home, oblivious to the angel of death that passed o'er their house that night.  

and all my days are trances, and all my nightly dreams
are where thy grey eye glances, and where thy footstep gleams
in what ethereal dances, by what eternal streams
January 14, 2018, 03:17 PM
Lone Wolves

Let’s get drunk and eat things. Massive powerplay of @Stockholm.

        Between her tightly clenched teeth, the tiny Groenendael gripped the wiry husk of a coconut, holding it up and away from her body as much as possible. Now and again, it thumped painfully against the frail swell of her breast, but she stubbornly endured the pain lest Stockholm attempt to relieve her of her prize. Bright cerulean eyes eagerly sought her towering companion, widening briefly and then crinkling at the corners in a happy dog smile as her eyes roved with feline possessiveness over his heavily-muscled frame. Since she’d found him that day on the Southern Strand, the pair had become virtually inseparable — and even when her natural capriciousness drove her to venture out on her own, she never went out of earshot. Though they were already close enough for his fur to tangle pleasurably with hers as they walked, she pressed closer still, nearly dropping the coconut in her excitement to rub her cheek against the moving target of his elbow.

        The Gampr had a hefty burden of his own: a pumpkin that Seelie had slow-cooked by wedging it between a crevasse in the nearby hot springs for a day and a half. It was too soft now for the pale-furred wolfdog to hold the charred flesh of the fruit between his teeth, so he was forced to carry the unwieldy thing by its stem. The plan, conveyed in her odd amalgamation of whispers, whines, and body language that Stockholm now understood with perfect fluency, was to fish from the river she’d spotted on her way to freedom from her imprisonment in the “bad forest” — and, if they were so inclined, to explore the glittering cavern she had spotted during her brief stay.

        As the sound of singing water reached her ears, Seelie bounced excitedly — and in doing so, lost her grip on the coconut with a soft, jarring click of her incisors. It rolled down a nearby incline and through a warm hollow that smelled tantalizingly of field mice; but the sheepdog was too focused on catching up with her prize to be tempted, let alone to realize that there was another smell there as well — one that ought to be intimately familiar, despite being blurred over with time and loss. She followed the roughhewn sphere until at last it slowed to a stop, and when at last she realized that a very familiar, very wolf-shaped silhouette stood before her, she too slammed on the brakes. The sound she made, not quite a growl but more guttural than a whine, was low and uncertain; she huffed out her breath on a soft boof! and allowed her hackles to prickle like inky quills as she made herself small and skittered backwards, keeping distance between herself and the unknown as she tried to remember who Olive was and whether she was a threat.

Yesterday, 12:45 AM
Lone Wolves

you get olive’s 400th post, my beautiful friend!

The sylph was in the midst of her flight when a coconut, chocolate-brown and wired, rolled past her. Actually, it did not roll as much as it did bounce in a rather comical way, and Olive came to a skidding halt to marvel at it. A coconut, here? How could this be? She was so very far away from the beach. The woman of ash and bone had seen these things before — had cracked one open and indulged in their sweet nectar too, and immediately Olive was appreciative of her sudden good fortune. Perhaps this was a god's gift, though it made no sense; it was so random that it could only be a sign that she was on the right path. 

Olive laughed. Was she that desperate for universal reassurance? She was truly grasping at straws now. She took a step towards the coconut, preparing to grasp it, when something far more interesting suddenly came onto the scene.  Little did Olive know, but Carina’s reappearance heralded a time of many reunions — this would be the first, of many. The fae immediately recognized the gamine, inky dog. Again, for the first of many times to come, her mouth fell open in sheer shock of it. Carina… was alive?

Suddenly, it was as if all the breath rushed from her — and to replace it came the memories, as vivid as daylight, illuminating the truth of the relationship that laid before her. Once her closest confidant, traded by the mummer queen for her own life — and the lives of her newborn babes. It had almost been a year since the worst day of her life.

The small wolfess prostrated herself in front of the skittering girl, who seemed to have as many issues swallowing this as she did, by throwing herself upon the dirt and stifling a small sob. Olive thought often about what became of her nursedog, and being alive had not been assigned a high likelihood. What horrors had she seen — where had she been — what had befallen her? Olive did her best to look a pity, but it did not take much work because she was so very, very sorry. She didn't know what else she could say. “I am so very, very sorry,” she supplicated, thrusting her gaze upwards beseechingly, pleadingly. Olive needed her forgiveness more than she needed her next breath. “It was not my choice. It's not what I wanted...” she managed to choke out, voice quavering and cracking, her heart wrenching over the pain she had brought upon yet another innocent being.

and all my days are trances, and all my nightly dreams
are where thy grey eye glances, and where thy footstep gleams
in what ethereal dances, by what eternal streams
Yesterday, 10:26 AM
Lone Wolves

        The sheepdog’s eyes were wide and watchful, and shock predominated over any other emotion she might have felt upon seeing Olive again. All at once she was back in Ravensblood Forest —

        no, bathing in the star-dappled river, rejoicing in her new name —

        no, in the dead of winter, trying to feed three hungry mouths —

        no, beside the sea lions’ shoals, and Doe was on the ground, screaming —


        Doe’s exit wound was still raw; Seelie’d always had a penchant for hanging on to things. It never seemed to be enough, though. If she’d held on just a little harder to the golden-eyed siren —

        Not even a creature like Coelacanth, whose shoulders were built for carrying guilt, could weather the knowledge that she had failed to protect not only the witch doctor’s children but the witch doctor herself — so the door holding all that guilt and all that failure back slammed shut, creating a rip current of consciousness that thrust her back into the present so heartily she rocked on her feet. She backpedaled furiously, flinging up her head with a whuffle of panic when Olive threw herself to the earth, but she could not bring herself to flee altogether.

        “I am so very, very sorry,” Olive quavered, and the tiny Groenendael’s expression drew taut with confusion. Up until now, she had regarded Olive as utterly blameless. Those present at her abduction were not to be trusted — Dakarai had summoned her, Lotte had driven her away, Arturo had sanctioned his corrupt queen’s decree, and Chusi had done as much by holding her silence — but Olive had remained unsullied in the little crossbreed’s eyes. Despite her intelligence, Seelie was a simple, naïve creature who tended to believe that other creatures were innocent until proven otherwise. Olive’s apology now struck the sheepdog as a particularly suspicious act.

        Suddenly distrustful, the selkie’s daughter swept elegantly forward, her tufted ears pressing forth upon her skull in an uncharacteristically demanding display; the tip of her tongue darted out to taste the air in a manner that was almost reptilian. The rest of Olive’s words were carefully, meticulously stored away, but Carina made no outward response. She believed the mist-shrouded druid to be a peaceful creature — trusted her to refrain from physically harm. Though Olive was taller and older, two things that automatically demanded the dog’s respect, the prostrate position of her body called to something wild and primal that had been awakened during Seelie’s imprisonment.

        Stiff-legged, she circled the Shakti woman, her feathery fur bristling — and although her fangs remained firmly behind her velveteen flews, there was a tightness to her mouth that betrayed the effort of keeping them there. “Did you know?” she wanted to demand. “Did you know, when your husband called for me, that I would be sent away? Do you know what I have suffered? I was alone! I was alone and cold and hurt and sick and did you know?” Her touch was invasive as she drew nearer still, the tip of her nose pressing insistently into the pale fur of Olive’s nape.

        She breathed in the woman’s sorrow, her aloneness.

        Coelacanth, the littlest Corten, the pacifist, wanted very much to score Olive’s flesh with her teeth in that moment — to make a prisoner of the woman as she had been made a prisoner. Experimentally, she mouthed at the tender hollow at the base of one perfect, petaled ear — but with her lips and tongue only. Again that not-quite-a-growl, not-quite-a-whine susurrus stirred in her throat, tickling hotly along the wolf’s cheek. Her feathered tail waved slowly, but there was something tensile and predatory about it that suggested Olive would be wise to remain quite still.