Wolf RPG - little w[o/a]rri[e/o]r

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Find Skellige.

Now, more than ever, it was important that the youngest of the Cairn brood find the eldest. Descending from the cursed water of the corrie loch, Szymon’s large paws strove north and west — hitching in their gait, furtive as the ever-present twitch of his tail. Ksenia was here. The taste of her name upon his tongue, although unspoken, burned like battery acid and kerosene. Hackles trembled to life along the ghostly wolf’s spine, lit with a subtle flicker of cream and ginger — he picked up his pace, tongue lolling from his jaws to flick cautiously at the tip of his nose and muzzle. The inky rib cage markings that stretched from his slinking spine to his sternum — crouched so low it brushed the earth — mapped the exaggerated inhale and exhale as he paused.

Salt.

Here was an idyllic place — the tall, soft grasses beginning anew to dominate the plateau were dusted with salt crystals carried windward from the sea. Scarcely daring to believe what his nose and eyes told him so plainly, Szymon dipped his quivering muzzle and parted his jaws, serpentine tongue just barely caressing one of the delicate blades. Salt. Truly. He wasn’t far now. Despite the haphazard sweeps of taller foliage, Szymon didn’t feel closed in here. A rare flutter of peace bade the boy relax, and for several precious moments he was a creature transformed — the hunched curve of his back smoothed out; the harsh clench of his shoulders unfolded; and he rose to his full height as he tipped back his narrow skull and breathed deeply. The agitated twitch of his tail slowed to an occasional, catlike flicker as his sulphureous eyes roved the area.

He was safe here. The crash of the sea was an audible thing; the tang of its salt was in his nose and on his lips and all around him; and he was hidden from a certain pair of soulless, colorless eyes beneath the undulating engulfment of grass and shrubbery — sparse and thin as it was. A smile, precious as the feeling that engendered it, shaped Szymon’s black-lined muzzle as he dug furrows into the soft earth with his muzzle. The earth here seemed to be healing from some terrible wound — much of it was new growth, and now and again there were patches of land with nothing growing at all. But Szymon was a seafaring wolf — he felt no injury or attachment to these inland territories.

The tiny smile remained on his muzzle as he padded to the plateau’s edge, craning his neck to scan the horizon — and what he saw bade him to do what he rarely ever did. “H-H-Home,” he breathed in a surprisingly deep, alluring timbre. It was a voice to woo with — a voice made to soothe and seduce with startling efficacy — and wholly wasted on the likes of the youngest Cairn boy.

Dropping to his stomach — he felt incredibly comfortable, the combination of warm sunlight and cool sea breezes melting his tension like butter — Szymon watched the waves with wide golden eyes. To sleep now would destroy every vestige of the peace he now felt, for whether he dreamed in nightmares or memories, he was sure to wake up in terror and confusion. So he remained awake, still as a statue, staring at the sea. He was sure to find Skellige now. This wild coast was practically designed with the Cairn brood in mind.

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renewed after the ceremony, it seemed happiness was not out of reach for the youngest mayfair. lasher was with her, always; he tousled her long locks, watched from above. o'erhead was her greatest protector, who would not leave her side, who came as she called to him. still, sometimes to feel him brought a great sadness to her. she could no longer lean against him as once she could, or feel his comforting caresses as he assuaged her fears. and so it was to the plateau she went to, close to donnelaith, a place so different from home that would not remind her of the man she had lost.

the angelic deirdre was a bewitching beauty, even so young. she appeared to any eye to be an adult, grown into her body quite early in girlhood. many might assume by her physique alone she was a woman, truly, but she was not yet to such a point. such beauty was oft a hindrance; most recently, she had been coveted by a stranger who had lost his tail for his admiration. he had wished to steal her, and the man the white wolf sought had saved her. her mind wandered to his savage features, and as her eyes drifted she caught a being who could be that wolf in stature alone. but his eyes were a violent yellow, and his furs not so pale... ah, but the markings there! familiar, so familiar to her eye! they moved to lay, and the thought was passing; she moved slowly toward them, her gait smooth and unbroken until she was not too far from him at all, but nor was she too close.

her admiring of him was innocent, and utterly open. her craft was not at all in false guises, young as she was. she remained where she was, and then thought, i am being so rude! before a soft, embarrassed laugh came from her lips, bubbling forth like seafoam. i am sorry--you... there was something about you, it seemed so familiar to me! flustered, deirdre lifted her head, as though someone might be pulling the reins backward. i... i'll leave you be, she nodded, and then shifted, preparing to do just that.

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So enraptured was the boy that he noticed not the approach of another — a voluptuous creature cloaked in a purer white than his own, drawn finely with the exaggerated and stylized lines of a forest nymph. The soft, embarrassed laugh that spilled from her innocent lips lit Szymon like a live wire — his reaction was wholly instinctive. Shoulders hunkered down, back arching in the center like a guilty gravestone, as his twitching tail nested firmly betwixt his crouched hocks. White fur. It was the first thing he saw, and his previous meeting with Ksenia had him wholly on edge. Canting his muzzle low to the ground, he peered obliquely up at the creature — the woman, too finely sculpted to be real; too otherworldly to be merely wolf — and noticed something very, very important.

Green eyes.

Living green, not deadly mercury.

It must be stated that Szymon frankly stared, far ruder than Deirdre thought herself to be, not making eye contact but fixing upon some middle ground while he groped futilely for words that hovered out of his grasp and disappeared into the horizon like so many balloons on greased strings. “There was something about you, it seemed so familiar to me!” Familiar. Was it possible? Could it be possible? Skellige was inky-black where Szymon was pale; Skellige was large in stature where Szymon just barely managed to keep himself out of being deemed “small” — if there was one similar thing between them, it was the rib cage markings that blazed down his narrow flank. And if that was something the girl found familiar, it had to mean —

Was he dreaming? Szymon couldn’t tell.

The seraph shifted, turning to go, and Szymon couldn’t help the instinctive motion to waylay her. Like a man halfheartedly hailing a taxi — a man who believes his chance has already passed but is merely going through the motions — he stepped forward with one paw, his golden eyes beseeching her with a certain childish desperation. “W-W-W-W — ” he stammered out, the syllables dancing with torturous ease away from his stumbling tongue. Please don’t go! Wait! Squeezing his eyes shut, he grasped again for speech: “P-P-Pleassssse,” he managed, the deep, rolling timbre trailing off into a sibilant hiss. Shaking his head at his failure, Szymon uttered a low, dejected whine. Please don’t go. Stay.

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she was swift enough to move past him before he had risen, but she heard his movements and one ear cupped backward to listen for them. he spoke, and deirdre ceased in her movements to look to the male she had been prepared to let alone. there was a desperation etched onto his features now as he bid her to wait, and deirdre worriedly stepped closer to him, her heart twisting as he fretted.

the closer she drew, the better she saw the pattern upon his furs. skellige, she thought again. are you alright? she murmured, that being the most important thing to her. he seemed worried, stressed, anxious, and that caused her to fret for him.

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Buried down deep in Szymon’s tortured soul was the golden child of his youth — curled in the corner, bruised and bloody, wings too clipped and tattered to fly to Neverland. In his darkest moments, it was to this small, pathetic creature that he reverted; but this time, with this particular female, he was not so far gone. The druid’s daughter paused, drawing near to the wretched creature so unlike the Cairn boy she already knew, her green eyes alighting upon the rib cage markings that swathed Szymon’s thin sides like a mackerel tabby cat’s stripes. Recognition filled those innocent, unsullied eyes, but could not cloak the concern weighing down upon her selfless heart. That she should feel such for Szymon — oh, weak and worthless youngest sibling! — puzzled him entirely.

Drawing air raggedly into his lungs, Szymon trembled — and knew that he ought to have kept his fool mouth shut and let the silver-limned apparition go. What was he to say in response to her solicitous query? Mutely, the boy’s scarred nuzzle dropped and rose slightly in an affirmative nod. Yes — I am all right. Gifted with a beautiful voice, cursed with an insurmountable speech impediment that made using it impossible, he had little he could offer the otherworldly nymph who stood so near.

Still trembling, the twitch of his tail an endless and intermittent betrayal of his nervousness, Szymon dropped to his stomach and inched closer to the girl. He hoped she would understand she meant no harm — he hoped she would speak again, in that voice so unlike his wicked sister. He entreated her with the frenetic waver of his tail and his obligingly slicked back ears. I mean no harm to you. A low, guttural sound midway between a moan and a growl slipped from his quivering jaws as he focused his sulphureous gaze on the horizon overlooking Donnelaith — the direction from whence Deirdre had come. It bore a questioning inflection, drifting up the vocal scale and dissipating into a forlorn whine. Is that your home? Is there a wolf in that forest with markings like mine? The thoughts came to him so clearly.

Drawing air carefully into his lungs, Szymon attempted speech a third time: “S-S-S — ”, he hissed out, squeezing his eyes shut as his shoulders tightened reflexively, bunching beneath his pale fur. He tensed as though he might, through sheer will alone, force the words from his tongue in a recognizable, understandable way. Damn his brother for having a three-syllable name with “sk” as its opening consonant blend. Skellige — my brother! Have you seen my brother? he thought at her desperately. The calm he’d found so briefly seemed to have come to an end. He hated this. He couldn’t bear to open his eyes — couldn’t bear to see her eyes looking upon him with derision or disgust or pity the way his siblings sometimes did. It would completely undo him. She would leave him soon, he felt, and he couldn’t blame her. Had he the choice, he would have left his weak body at the bottom of the sea, where it belonged.

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she was glad to see he was well, for he nodded rather than spoke. perhaps he could not speak at all except for syllables and simple letters, but of that the young witch could not be sure. deirdre could not help but watch him, her eyes tracing the outline of those stripes he bore. she yearned to say the name, but felt it might diminish the importance of meeting this one, who was his own entity, his own individual.

he drew toward her submissively; deirdre, who would soon establish herself in the hierarchy, felt a part of her unknown be pleased by this, though such a thing was tempered by innocent confusion. she was a child still for all her behaviors, and soft and sweet and meek herself when the time suited her. they were not upon donnelaith, they were by the sea, and though some of it was of the forest packs domain this portion here was unclaimed and free. but she did not wish to offend him, or cause him any fear, so she lingered as his body told her what she presumed. the body, she had heard the wind say, was what would betray you. the voice could be trained, the eyes, too, and the features... but the body? 'twas honest and true.

she herself lowered her head some, ears flattening uncertainly atop her head. she did not mean harm, and her own plume swayed laxly behind her, assuming no dominance before him at this place. the alluring girl moved to nose his brow softly, affectionately. deirdre felt for this one already. once, they had been kindred spirits in their fear. deirdre had been raised to stand above it. and the truth of it was her courage was simply just fear that had said its prayers. but she was blessed, was she not? while not all of her prayers were answered, this one had been.

he tried to speak again. there was a hint of something wonderful as he spoke, but it could not emerge fully from his lips. deirdre did not look confounded or confused, but looked warmly upon him still. it will come to you, deirdre believed, her voice kind and patient.

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Skellige was not a kind wolf. Savage and wild, ruthless as the sea he so loved, he was feared by those who opposed him — if they still lived, which was doubtful — and often even by those who loved him. His wrath, once incurred, was merciless — the spirit of the Great White Shark lived within the eldest Cairn and it was of no surprise to anyone that he survived the drop with enough spit and vinegar to test the mettle of his siblings directly thereafter.

Szymon, on the other hand, was slower and clumsier and smaller than his littermates — a Tonka truck among war machines. That he survived the drop had shocked and startled his family. The golden child knew what it was to be bloody and bruised before he could confidently walk a straight line, and in the Cairn way, learned that he was responsible for fighting — and winning — his own battles. A burst blood vessel in his eye from the force of his tiny body hitting the water had stained one of those sulphureous eyes red and rendered him half-blind for several weeks until it healed, and still Szymon had demonstrated a will to live and thrive that earned Skellige’s regard. A day hadn’t gone by without him being bowled over or shaken, and every single time he’d picked himself back up and kept on going. Like the Sea Turtle spirit he called his own, Szymon was a quiet, placid creature, armored with understated tenacity.

What Skellige gave Szymon was a deep, abiding love as fierce as his violence — it was wholly different from the gentle patience the youngest Cairn now found in Deirdre, but there was something about it that felt the same. It was this similar thread that settled his jumping nerves to some degree — but the fear that this scenario was somehow a trap kept him from fully relaxing. The touch of Deirdre’s soft nose upon his furrowed brow caused the boy to freeze — to stiffen, as one eye cracked open to regard her. In the dryad’s eyes was affection and kindness warmer than sunlight. Though his body was set to trembling at their close proximity, Szymon did not pull away or evade her touch. “It will come to you,” softly intoned the sylph, an undercurrent of belief in Szymon’s abilities coloring her sweet timbre. His twitching tail began to beat the earth in a gentle wag.

“Mm,” the splendidly deep voice sighed from Szymon’s quivering jaws as the muscles of his throat and muzzle began to unclench themselves. It was a pleasurable sound, a note of burgeoning trust. Carefully — attempting to trick himself by not actively reaching for words — he considered the best way to make himself understood using the least amount of words. Lifting his head from his paws and opening his other eye to look at the dryad directly, Szymon — somewhat clumsily, calling on the inclination for affection that he had suppressed his entire life — tilted his head to brush the bridge of his muzzle lightly along the underside of her jaw. A submissive gesture, for despite Deirdre’s youth, Szymon could manage nothing more.

Turning his head, he nosed pointedly at the inky markings that graced his pale fur, his eyes striving to remain fixed on Deirdre’s face. Once, twice, he butted at them with his nose, drawing air into his lungs and letting it free slowly. Skellige…brother… The words were difficult, and occasionally impossible. Szymon swallowed hard. Without removing his gaze from Deirdre’s, trying to draw strength from the warmth he saw therein, “S-S-S — Sk-Sk — ” he gritted out, his tongue thick and stupid in his mouth. Straightening his neck, Szymon looked like a creature in the grips of respiratory distress, but his golden eyes — although desperately ashamed — attempted to reassure the girl. This was just something that…happened. It was inconvenient and embarrassing, but it was all Szymon had. He tried another tack: “B-B-B — ” he ground out, pushing himself upright into a sitting position as though this might somehow help matters, “m-my — b-b-br-br — bro — th-th-th-th — rrrrr — ” Panting raggedly, he hung his head so low his muzzle bumped the earth, his sides heaving from the brief exertion of making himself understood.

Eyes glittering with the self-loathing that generally followed his attempts at speech, Szymon heaved a sigh and for a moment could not seem to meet Deirdre’s eyes.

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deirdre possessed not a hateful bone in her body, and when constructed it seemed patience was one of her primary ingredients. for she listened to the handsome, smaller cairn before her and as the words came, she translated them. she would not press him!

the hint of his voice, what it might be, lingered in the rich, honey and molasses lacquered mm. it was deep, and its timbre reached her and reverberated within her with clarity. the witches eyes fell to him, again, and her ears pressed forward in the slightest, not at all translating to the premise of aggression but keen interest. his plume had waved, and she withdrew to give him space and room to breathe both. she had been helpless to invade it, but full of good intent. i want to help, she expressed. deirdre could empathize, having lost so very much.

the man then brushed the underside of her muzzle gently, and deirdre knew already that she bore this wolf no ill will and would only seek to aid him. it was then he sought to speak again, and deirdre listened raptly. he suffered as he stammered through what it was he wished to say, but she was picking up the pieces, pushing them together, interpreting them! she was a linguist, and so to tear the word apart, to morph it, was something that she was more than proficient at.

he seemed deeply ashamed, and deirdre again reached gently for him. skellige, she tried, her voice gentle. your brother. i understood, perhaps only because she knew the elder cairn did she understand, but that thought did not even occur to her. you seek him?

“Skellige.”

There was recognition — a familiarity, perhaps an intimacy, in the way Deirdre’s tongue traced the syllables of the eldest Cairn’s name. Skellige was not a name one commonly came across, after all — but there was a warmth in the way the witch of the wood pronounced those guttural syllables that gave Szymon pause. He opened his eyes, their auriferous depths catching fire at her question, and nodded slowly. He locked gazes with the female, entranced by the countless shades of green he found himself sinking into — no matter how far down he fell, he would never run out of color or calm — and it was as though this odd communion pulled the words from his throat without his ever needing to reach for them. “I,” he murmured, ensorcelled, “a-a-a— l-l— alone.” He would find his brother — it heartened him more than he could eloquently express to believe Skellige was here — but he would do so without aid.

It was the Cairns’ way. Szymon would sink, or he would swim.

As long as she looked at him this way — as long as he was alone and adrift in the calm of those forest pools — he felt he could do the impossible. Helplessly, as though compelled to by the hypnotic quality of her presence, he let fall demands from his wooden and stammering tongue that no other had suffered at Szymon’s behest: “Y-Y-You — n-name?” he murmured, and with a quirk of his muzzle toward the woodland from whence the whitewater female had come, he asked a second thing. “W-W-Where?” he asked, a dual-sided query that could mean either her pack or her home. Any information was useful; it did not pay to be an ignorant wolf. Reassured by the knowledge that Skellige existed in this land, and that this female was somewhat familiar with him, Szymon forestalled the question that lay closest to his heart: how do you know my brother? If he could keep her talking, perhaps he could conjure up enough words to finally ask her.

you are not, she said warmly, with a smile--not anymore!--for he had known the name, and she would take him to where it was he wished to go. she hovered over him, as though a gentle will-o-whisp herself, but the beauty was tangible and real both, and this was certain.

he asked for a name, and deirdre gave it with a regal flourish of her thick-plumed tail: i am deirdre stella mayfair, of donnelaith. i can take you to your brother--he is on the bay, which is nearly beside my forest, she hummed warmly. what is it you are called? she asked in turn, taking a small, inviting step forward. shall we begin our journey?

The girl had misunderstood him — not an uncommon occurrence, given his debilitating stutter — but Szymon felt a flicker of comfort at her nearness and found himself unable to deny her and turn her away. If she wished to lead him to his brother, he would accept her company with something next door to pleasure. A dip of his scarred muzzle both accepted her continued presence and thanked her for it, though one tattered ear fanned guiltily to the side — a true Cairn would not have trusted or tolerated her so quickly. The monster within Szymon was no less predatory or bloodthirsty than the ones that drive Skellige, Jaglon, Jagoda, and Marbas — but it was roused far less frequently and with far more coaxing. Some days, he hated its existence, for it lurked, waiting, and wished only to destroy — and in lieu of foes to destroy, it sought to destroy its host.

Deirdre’s hovering, somehow both maternal and virginal, bade him to uneasily lick his scarred lips — but although his tail flickered like an uneasy cat’s, he felt she was safe with him. A tentative inward look told him that the demon was sleeping — at least for now — and so he dared a tenuous smile at the soft-eyed forest nymph with the impossibly long name. “Deirdre Stella Mayfair of Donnelaith,” he thought to himself, his attention immediately turning toward the faraway crash of the ocean at further news of his brother. Of course Skellige would be there; for a Cairn, the pull of the Sea was an undeniable, immutable thing. The golden-eyed, wither-hearted wolf could utter his own name with relative fluency, and answering her question was simple in that regard: “S-Szy — S-Szymon,” came his succinct reply.

He fell into step beside her, careful not to touch her. As he regained his senses, he regained too the reclusiveness of his nature. He dared not reach for her again, for she was purity incarnate and he dared not taint her lovely innocence with the defilement his touch could bring about. “D-D-D-Donnel — l-laith,” he choked out amidst gritted teeth, feeling as though sand had gathered in the pit of his throat, “y-y-your f-f-forest?” Was she a queen, then?

She answered then, telling the story of Lasher of Donnelaith, her deeply mourned father — of the magick that burned within the marrow of her bones and lived within every rock, tree, and creature of her beloved forest — of those fortunate wolves she possessed a fondness for. Szymon found himself enchanted by her as perhaps his brother had been, finding a rare solace in the bright and brilliant green eyes; it was the first time he had ever thought to pin the word “beautiful” to a female whose coat was as pallid as his sister, but Deirdre was otherworldly. She was so unlike Ksenia as to make the whitewater of Ksenia’s fur a dingy grey in comparison; indeed, perhaps it was Szymon’s weariness and desperation to find his brother talking, but the girl seemed somehow to glow with a halo of light. Her peals of laughter, when they came, were so foreign in their pure, unfettered joy that he found he could not understand them. Like those creatures who came to her for healing, Szymon found himself bewitched — and as they parted ways with the bay in his sights, he hoped he would see the girl again.