Swiftcurrent Creek tongue-tickling bubble juice

Weather: 17°F, Mostly cloudy.

The large white wolf had been up and moving for a couple of hours now, feet making soft sounds on the snow that had fallen yesterday and the days prior. Presently, the skies weren't clear at all, but Dune was glad that the snow had let up, even if it was only for a little while. The meat of the coyote helped to alleviate his hunger pains, and it gave him more energy than he'd had in weeks. The top of his muzzle still stung when he licked it, but other than that, it seemed to be fine.

He was following the winding banks of a frozen creek now. When he came to a point where the ice had been broken, he stopped and greedily drank at the liquid, lapping up the water as quickly as he could. It quenched his thirst, and he stood there, water droplets falling to the snow as he took in his surroundings.

The fae had always been prone to nightmares, but only recently had they started to come as often as they did. It was more often than not, now, that Olive found her sleep disturbed by something terrifying or worrisome — not a real threat,  but something conjured up entirely by her own mind. The imagery changed often, but there were elements that were oft repeated: Dakarai [of course], blood, a stranger, a pervasive sense of dread. She would awaken in the night, breath and blood racing as if she had just returned from a hunt, but her mind could remember nothing of the nightmarish visions save for those few details. 

When she awoke, she could rarely get back to sleep, so Olive spent many days tired and lethargic. The cold also did her no favors, as she was very much a summer wolf and had the characteristically thin, silken coat to show for it. It was times like these, when she was cold and thin and waifish, that she felt the true weight of her solitude.

Olive was hungry, but thirst was so much easier to slake so she sought a creek she knew to be nearby. There was another already there — it seemed that she had not been the only wolf to be drawn to the creek, where the ice had thinned and broken, seeking a drink of winter's frigid meltwater. The woman reached out her coal-tipped nose, but could glean no packscent off of him — he didn’t smell like the three ladies from the other day had, at least. It was a quite small space where the water bubbled up from beneath the ice, and rather than approach a complete stranger, Olive took a seat several yards away, milky plume wrapping demurely around her haunches. She was certain that he had heard her approach, so Olive waited patiently for her turn to imbibe.   

Dune's ears picked up on the sound, then his nose on her scent, and at last he turned his head to see the wolf who had approached, waiting patiently behind him. Assuming she was being smart and keeping a good distance away in order not to instigate a fight, he backed away from the creek and allowed her room to drink. He did not speak, not finding it necessary to engage in small talk or exchange pleasantries. Not that Dune had ever exchanged pleasantries with anybody at all. That was not the way of the north, and he was most certainly a wolf of the north.

He was still sore from his scrap with the dark, yellow-eyed wolf, and he hoped that this encounter would prove to be less... violent. Then again, he was prepared to do whatever he needed to in order to survive.

Silently did the man back away from the drinking spot and, just as silently did Olive approach and assume his position at the water’s edge. The lamb leant her head towards the sleeted creek and began to lap up the water, curling her rosebud tongue backwards and pulling the sweet liquid into her mouth — all the while, her attention trained on him out of the side of her jade stare. It wasn’t that she was overly nervous, or that he gave her any reason to believe he meant her harm; she just no longer had the naiveté to believe in a being's inherent innocence. Evil was real, and evil sometimes hid behind masks of kindness.

With her thirst thoroughly sated, Olive raised her silversilk crown and allowed herself to turn to face him fully, stepping away from where the mud of the riverbank made her cold. She was silent, as was he, and took a devilish seat right where she was — a good-natured challenge for him to break the silence. It wasn’t often that she met strangers and introductions weren’t immediately exchanged, so she wondered what would happen next.         

If it was a challenge, Dune didn't pick up on it. When she bent at the creek to drink, he watched, but he didn't bother to say anything. Why would he? He needed no words, and nothing about her screamed to his innermost instincts. She stared back, and he took it as a silent thank-you for leading her to water and not chasing her away from it like some might have done.

Figuring she was well enough on her own, and not wishing to intrude any longer on her solitude, Dune turned and began to walk away.

Olive was, honestly, surprised when the stranger turned to make his exit — without have said a single word to her! At first, the fae found herself almost affronted by his reticence, not understanding what she had done to possibly offend him. “oh, sir!” she called after him, taking sweeping, dancing steps to quickly recover the ground between them. Drifting up and around his perimeter, the sylph slowed to a halt and aimed to block his path with her body. Olive was not one to beg for another attention — she had no problem with her newfound detachment, and considered herself to begetter company than most — and if the man truly wished to leave, she would not deign to keep him from it. “Was it something I said?” the milky shewolf inquired, both seriously and in jest.         

She chased after him, circling around and cutting him off. Dune halted, blinking at this new development. He had not expected her to come running after him, and for a split second he wondered if she meant to do him harm. Her tone, though, along with her body language, implied anything but harm. In fact, he did not see why she was following him at all, if it was not to challenge him to some feat of strength.

"What?" he asked in his usual single-word way. He did not know what she wanted, nor did he know what she expected of him. He stood staring befuddled at her, brow crunched as his simple mind attempted to make sense of the situation.

and cue her overreaction!

There was another, solitary moment when neither of them spoke — simply stared at each other,  her jade orbs searching is own for an indication that she should leave, or continue talking, or something — and Olive found herself baffled by this. When words were stripped away, what was left for her besides a pervasive sense of discomfort and the panging need to fill the void with ideas about the moon, or philosophy, or her own sadness, or, or, or… Perhaps the sylph used her words as a crutch, and her ability to connect through conversation actually works against, for when it was gone… her fortitude suddenly plummeted. 

It was much, much different that how she had felt even just thirty seconds earlier; but Olive’s vicissitudes of moods had become somewhat characteristic of her. Just because she was up one moment, didn’t mean she wouldn’t be down the next.  Olive wanted to blame her discomfort on the fact that she had been around mouthy and sincere people her entire life, all the way from her cubhood to her matehood. This was… a first. The shewolf relented and chose to lean into her own insecurities.

The brute gruffed a single word, but it did nothing to soothe her — it hadn’t been his intention, but somehow, Olive had expect to feel a bit better when he finally deigned to speak. He questioned her, and the waif had a difficult time forming an answer, or an explanation behind why she followed and stopped him. The man didn’t truly, actually owe her anything — in a way, she supposed he had been nothing but civil to her. There were wolves out there who wished to kill and maim, and he neither killed nor maimed her… so this was good, right?

Olive scoffed to herself, surprised at just how low her standards had become.

“I, just…” she uttered, gaze falling to look at her toes. She huffed and shuffled her shoulders, suddenly aware of the chill outside. “Are you always this… rude?’” This response was somewhat more bellicose than she wanted it to be, but her distinct vulnerabilities wished for him to take blame for this failure of a connection and not let the weight fall solely on her shoulders. He seemed to unperturbed by the whole thing — and she felt ridiculous.    

Dune could have sworn he saw her emotions boiling up right to the surface as she stood there, apparently struck mute by his question. Funny, considering he was typically the one accused of being mute. He remained where he was, waiting for her answer with all the patience in the world, when she finally sputtered a few words, the last of which was a question that asked if he was rude. Had he been rude? Dune pondered this for a moment, trying to remember if anybody had ever called him rude. Dumb, mute, and slow (at least mentally) were all accusations he was used to.

"Not rude," he replied, having come to the conclusion that no, he was not always this rude. Quite frankly, Dune did not think he was being rude now, nor had he ever been in the past to his recollection. Question answered, Dune began to make his way around the flustered female, hoping that she would let him go this time.

Again the brute answered tersely, making it known that he disagreed with as few words as possible. Before that moment, Olive wondered if he would even care enough to disagree, or if he’d just dismiss her once more, as if she were a fly buzzing around a piece of meat! But at least she had gotten something out of him, and she didn’t make her feel like more of an idiot, trying to talk to a brick wall. It was possible that he might just be stupid — but Olive, who was decently intuitive when it came to knowing others, looked at him and knew there was intelligence beneath the austere facade… but there was also a certain belligerence that had caught Olive in a particularly agitated state that day. 

Must have been all the nightmares.

The pale stranger picked up to exit the scene once more. Not willing to let him go that easily [for she was invested in this, now!] Olive’s tail lashed and she called out in a voice more emphatic than normal. “No, see, right there! That’s rude!” At least, in this, Olive knew she was correct. Even Arturo, who was literally her mortal enemy, did not treat her as such. So, how could he possibly claim that his actions were not boorish? Did he really not know, or must he be a liar, too? Olive’s head swam with the possibilities.

“Hey —”

The spiced druid barked as he shuffled past her, and she stood as tall are her featherlight frame would allow, ears swiveling in confused, twitching manner. The lamb didn’t really understand her emotions right then [didn’t have enough time to process it] but somehow continuing this interaction stoked a certain fire that she had not felt in so long. It felt good — and bad — but mostly good. She sneered. “i’m   t a l k i n g   to you!”    

She began yelling at him, and Dune could feel his patience waning. He was typically a very calm, very level-headed wolf, but she was blocking his way for no good reason, and he was done with it. Just as the last word left her mouth, Dune's lips curled back in a ferocious snarl, flashing ivory teeth. His eyes were no longer dull and mildly perturbed, but quite angry. She had no right to keep pestering him, and this was the only warning he would give.

Dune stood there, towering over her, still as a stone, emitting a low growl that she would be smart to avoid. He would not chase her if she fled, and honestly, that was the preferred outcome. Dune wanted to be left alone, and he didn't understand why she failed to see that. Perhaps words clouded her senses.

:0

Oh, the man did not like that! The spectral, stoic brute broke his facade and released a snarl that raked across her hackles and snaked in shivers down her spine. The bravado that she felt not even five seconds before vaporized from her soul and the waif was left with nothing but fear and dread. Immediately she was reminded of the reason she did not provoke wolves or draw unnecessary attention to herself, and why she slunk about the shadows of the night and actively sought her solitude. She was no good when interacting with others, for she intuitively understood the nature of the wolf, but her brain was stupid and jumbled up her emotions until she was not in control of her own reactions. Why had she bothered this man who so clearly wanted to be left alone — why had she followed him and yelled at him — how could she have lost her temper, and how could she have felt good while doing it — and now, he was going to hurt her for it.

The man pulled himself up, menacingly tall. The brute much bigger than her and towered over her small form which, for a second, appeared smaller due to an instinctive flinch, recoil, and turn of the head. That growl; it grated in her mind and Olive found it was hard to think of the next best move, could not make sense of why he was punishing her for trying to speak, wasn’t sure what she had done to deserve his incivility in the first place. Was this how he solved his problems, like a fucking animal? Why wouldn’t he just use his words?

Well, two could play at that game.

Lightening quick, the ashen fae’s entire demeanor changed and a snarl flashed across her features, flews pulling back to expose dainty fangs [not used to being exposed in fits of rage]. Sadness, yes — but rage? Never! Olive herself was surprised when she felt her entire body tense, and even more surprised when she thrust her weight forward, springing upon her twiggy hindquarters, and lunged at the man — and she was most surprised yet when she clipped her snapdragon jaws at him, attempting to grab some fur or skin or anything — but, at its essence, it was an attempting to mitigate her extreme frustration in the only way that felt natural at the moment.  She would certainly pay for such disobedience, either at the behest of his fangs or the retribution of the gods... but, here, mid-charge, the woman could not find it in herself to care.

Permission to PP. 8D

At first, she cowered, and Dune thought she had gotten the message. Just as he was about to let up and give her space, she changed her attitude completely and actually leaped at him. Clearly, she was an idiot. She clasped onto the front of his shoulder with her teeth, but her grip was weak, and Dune reared up onto his hind legs and fell upon her, teeth gripping her scruff as he forced her to the ground.

He was seething, breath coming out in angry puffs from his nose and the sides of his mouth that weren't full of fur and skin. Dune did not break her skin, being in no mood for bloodshed. Instead, he simply stood there for a moment, keeping her down. Once he was satisfied, he released his grip on her and backed away. "Go," he commanded. There was an implied "or else" tacked on to the end, amplified by the ferocity in his eyes.

wow! So, that’s what it was like! Up until now, Olive had spent her life in eternal pacifism, consecrated to solve the world’s evils with love and respect, not with weapons and poison. It wasn’t that difficult for her, either. For the most part, she was happy to do it; any violent impulses the druid experienced were limited to her periodic depressive episodes, and usually turned upon herself when in the pits of her despair. Prostration, however, was different than this. It wasn’t so much rage as it was frustration, jumping out at the nearest target; the closest creature that stood in her way and made her life more difficult and unpleasant for no dang reason. For no reason! It was just unfair! 

Her fangs found purchase and honestly, she was surprised. The waif would never kid herself by saying that she maintained any semblance of fighting prowess; no, her skills were a more intellectual kind. She had never fought or sparred before. Hell, she never even really played with her brothers as a cub. Oh, the mouthfeel of the brute’s thick skin, rolling in her jaws, felt foreign and creepy and alive; almost as immediately as she latched on, Olive parted her maw and surrendered her grip. However, it was no matter — there was a rush of limbs, a collision with the earth, and a sonorous ringing in her hears that vibrated outwards and racked her entire body. The brute swatted her down as if she were the aforementioned insect buzzing around the aforementioned meat.

The breath had rushed from her body and she gasped to regain it, all the time flinching and cowering into the ground, tail pressed closely to her rump and trembling between her legs. Olive expected pain, next; she expected to feel his teeth upon her, or his talons to rake across her face as the Blackfeather matron had one done, and she knew it was going to hurt and that she deserved it. She always deserved it. The things that came to her were not a mistake, but a destiny of her own making — for these things, she could do nothing but take her punishment. Olive could not close her eyes, wild and swimming with fear… but retribution never came. 

The fae held her breath in her chest, creating a container; she feared any sound or movement she made might tip the beast over the edge.... but the second she realized he wasn’t going to do anything was the very same second that she scrambled from beneath his grasp and darted several yards away, body held close to the ground, ready to leap away and use her speed in order to flee should the man try to accost her again. He told her to go and Olive replied with a lift of her lips and a feline hiss, ears splayed hard against the nape of her neck. How disgusting! How dare he attack a woman! How could he use his teeth against her — even if she had started it? He caused her harm, and wished her even more — oh, why did so many people do that? To Olive, it didn’t make any sense. She was good! Her voice, usually downy and breathless, came sharp. “oh my god! What — WHY ARE YOU SO MEAN?” as she screamed at him, all sense of decorum lost long ago, she readied herself to make an hasty exit, if it was needed.     

She screamed at him, and Dune's ears flinched, but he did not budge. If he was mean, then she was an idiot for thinking so. Perhaps if she had used common sense and gotten out of his way, he would have been kind to her. Alas, she had done nothing but bitch and moan about how terrible he was, clearly missing the fact that she had done nothing but annoy the ever-loving shit out of him. Even now, when he had given her the chance to leave, she stood there and emptied her lungs at him. All bark and no bite.

Dune took a threatening step toward her, hoping that would be enough to invoke the "flight" mode in her, and his growl deepened, growing louder and grizzlier with each breath. This was her final warning before he would go after her again.

It was at this point that Olive decided that she was done. The ruffian took a heavy-handed step towards her, eyes ablaze, finally finding voice in the form of a snarling growl. Olive lifted her kittenish lip, albeit feebly [as it still felt quite foreign!], and returned his sentiments. The area at the nape of her neck, right above her shoulderblades, stung quite sharply despite the thickness of her skin. Still, she was so delicate — how could she have forgotten? She was Olive, peacekeeper and star-reader and humble servant of the gods; but this pale wastrel, cowering upon the permafrost, was not that wolf! She was mishandling herself again!

Without giving too much thought to it, Olive turned tail and abandoned the riverside, vowing to avoid the area forever — or until she knew this awful beast had moved on.