He'd never been in a place so dark, had never spent so long under shadow. Warsaw had been a vast and open place, aglow with the light of the sea and unhidden by trees or mountains. The shores in these wilds were much the same, and as in Warsaw, he'd never found any reason to stray.
But that was... that was before. He could never go back to the ocean, now.
So he struggled through the woods, the wound on his neck cracking and bleeding and clotting in a seemingly endless cycle as he pushed himself to his limits, wandering without purpose, and sometimes, crossing his own scent. How did the inland wolves navigate these hidden terrains? How would he ever learn? Could he?
Maybe not; maybe he should just lay down and give into the fever. Let the waves of dizziness and pain that have been lapping at his heels these many miles finally overwhelm him. It was as much as he deserved - for what he'd done to sweet, innocent Siren, and for everything else.
Almost as soon as he began to consider the option, he came upon the borders of yet another wolf pack. His paws dragged as he approached, and his eyes were dull as they swept over the expanse of ever-extending forest that looked much the same as the rest that he'd been through. They were nothing like he'd seen before, almost alien in their scents and appearance. The way the trees seeemd to knit together a sky of their own sent tiny - but incredibly painful - tremors down his back, and he couldn't help but wonder at their otherworldiness.
The sea had been a jealous god, but he'd turned himself away from her. Marbas supposed he'd have to get used to worshiping the spirit of the woods, now.
Without trepidation - for he had nothing left to lose - Marbas lifted his head as much as his wound would allow and gave a low, tenuous howl.
Please, it said,
I am at your mercy.
The howl resounded across the thick pines of the forest – a summon unlike those he was used to when someone requested the presence of the woodland wolves. A thoughtful frown came upon him, and while he had been about to head in to see his family, the cinnamon wolf quickly averted his direction, his large paws falling upon the frail needles of the floor.
He quickened his pace – though it was still moments before he located the other, and he noted the distinct scent of blood upon the air, causing the large wolf to stiffen as he emerged from the trees. Scimitar studied the stranger before him, his eyes trailing along the swarthy fur to see where the blood might come from. “You’re on Never winter Forest’s borders,” he rumbled, his form taking a pace closer. “We do not have healers here.” It was not words spoken to reveal his disinterest to the male – but it was clear the stranger was in need of a medic.
Lights were fading fast; he could hardly see the wolf that approached, and heard his voice as if he were underwater, and the strange male was calling to him from the surface. And, as was the case when submerged, Marbas found that breathing in came with great pain and terrible difficulty. The air that surrounded him was prickly and hot - did not want to be drawn into his lungs, was at loathe to offer him more oxygen with which to fuel this useless endeavor that had become his life.
Suddenly, it all just seemed so funny. That he should grow up in so bloody a place as Warsaw; that he should be able to leave it behind without ever facing death, but here? Here, he would meet his fate.
"Then I may be at an end," he gasped, the words eeking out of his burning throat with great difficulty. May be at his own end, that is, but it was all so strange, so hard to tell. It felt as though all he'd done, the life he'd lived, every memory from the past, the endless pain the plague him now - all of it was roiling, converging, rolling up into this dark, angry mass. And all at once, the mass - and the earth - rose up to meet him.
The last thing Marbas saw was lightning - bright, bursting stars behind his eyes. And then, unconsciousness swiftly overtook him. Body no longer plagued by mind, his heartbeat began to steady and his breathing began to ease.
Scimitar studied the stranger warily -- the drift in his stance, the wobble of limbs. He was not steadied, and the large wolf glanced once more towards the blood upon the neck -- was he losing more? Words were spoken, and before the agouti Frostfur could respond, the wolf collapsed upon his borders, and Scimitar stood motionless for a moment.
There was a decision to be made, and swiftly. He did not place favors or kindness upon those he did not know, and yet as his eyes fell upon the blood seeping from the man's wound, he was painfully reminded of Whittier -- if his son could have been saved by someone, wouldn't he have done anything to have it so?
Tipping his muzzle up, the Alpha called for his wolves -- anyone with any hint of medicinal knowledge -- they would do their best for this stranger.
Despite her disappointment in not being able to join Donnelaith alongside her great bear of a brother, the soot-stockinged Ansbjørn found that her gray mood was short lived — she had never seen the ocean before, and her intention was to visit it and frolic in the granules that looked from this distance as if they ought to feel like churned snow. There were lessons to be learned and joys to be found in all things, even in rejection — plans were meant for changing and agendas for revising. She hummed a tune she’d heard once — “birds flying high, you know how I feel; sun in the sky, you know how I feel,” — and drew a deep breath, setting it free on a rich, rolling laugh. The world was wide and she was a foolish young girl, despite her big-boned, buxom musculature; she would find a place for herself elsewhere and visit Lærke as often as she dared. All was well.
A sudden cry went up, the voice low and masculine, and although the call was not for her, the note of urgency spurred Lotte’s long legs into purposeful motion. Medicinal knowledge was Tove’s area — Lotte was a damage dealer and a warrior — but she possessed enough of it to be useful instead of detrimental in most situations. Tipping back her head, she heralded her appearance with a melodic, undulating howl — she was not one of the requested parties, but perhaps this was a sign that she was going somewhere she was meant to be. Grabbing up some sphagnum moss, for Lotte’s rudimentary knowledge was in wounds sustained in battle and therefore specifically for rips, tears, and cuts, the argent-eyed girl ambled over the unfamiliar terrain she’d traversed not long ago and soon came upon the scent of blood, metallic and fresh.
What was that plant that Tove always kept handy? Echinacea was the best one, and it was easy enough to come by if one knew what to look for — but Lotte hadn’t brought any with her. She did, however, come across some marigold flowers that would prove useful enough, and a few sparse sprigs of yarrow. Tove usually crushed them between her teeth and then applied them to the wounds after they were cleaned, then covered the wounds over with oak leaves. Shrugging, Lotte tucked the moss under her chin to hold against the thick cowl of ash fur that ringed her neck and shoved the celandine and the yarrow into her mouth, beginning to chew. It was probably fine that she was mixing medications, right? Right. Well — Tove wasn’t here, and clearly neither was anybody else with the correct knowledge, so Lotte was what Scimitar would get.
She arrived on the scene with her mouth full, her bright mercury eyes glimmering friendliness, and used the poor, battered, unconscious wolf as a temporary coffee table, spitting the ball of herbs onto his hip alongside the moss. “Rakeet, wolf of the wood!” she said, her low, rich voice warm with unsung laughter despite the gravity of the situation. Her Finnish accent, though not prominent, caressed each syllable with a melodic lilt. “My sister Tove is the one with the true healing knowledge, but here I am to do what I can!” She peered at the sodden mess of wolf. “This one is old,” she remarked of the wound on his nape, “and infected.” She bent to his body, her fangs expertly closing over his various limbs, checking the bones for breakage, but it seemed that his wounds, although grave, were largely of flesh and muscle. It was possible there was a break here or there, but his ribs seemed intact. “A moment,” she begged, and lumbered off with the moss in her mouth. Finding a nearby source of freshwater, she submerged herself and the moss, then carefully returned.
“Ai, he burns with fever,” she clucked, and used the water cascading from her body to sluice over the wounds. With the moss she cleared away the purulent material from the neck wound, making a moue of distaste at the foul odor and strings of white that came away. She was so absorbed in her work that she quite forgot she had an audience.
this is kinda sorta a cameo post? feel free to skip me if i slow things down any, pasha is nosy.
Pasha, who had been travelling in the wake of his father's footsteps out towards the border, stumbled across the scene no more than moments before the dark sylph had taken off. He lingered somewhere in the brush, torn between making a full appearance then and there and staying where he was. But when the seconds turned to a painful wait, he realized he could not dawdle any longer and slipped from his post quietly, sidling up alongside of his father wordlessly to survey.
It was at that point that the dark sylph, this healer that had come along to spill all her herbs across the unconscious fellow at their doorstep, chose to return. So caught up in his study of the injured wolf, the she-wolf gave him a start that rattled a growl loose. He stifled it and found his gaze turning to Scimitar, an imploring wonder as to what exactly was going on. Not even back for long and suddenly, madness at the front gate—who would have thought? At this point, however, Pasha presumed they were par for course.
Marbas stirred as the sting of water on his wounds sent volts of pain throughout his body - his limbs convulsed sickly for a momet before a became fully away, and took control of the bunching muscles in his extremities. He stayed on the ground, though, too hurt and too tired to rise after so little rest.
A dark figure swam above his vision, sterling eyes shining out of a black face.
"Am I dead?" he asked, breaths stuttering as they left his body. "Why does it still hurt?"
I'm so sorry for the wait. <3
Perplexed, he waited, his howl fading across the expanse of trees and for a moment that seemed to stretch in to forever, Scimitar found himself in complete silence – no bird called, no wind rustled the pines of the thick woodland trees. No wolf answered him back. Helplessly he watched the wolf before him – a wolf dying – and he wondered if his son had felt this helpless before death had taken him too.
“Whittier,” he mumbled softly, not realizing he spoke the words aloud, but grateful there were none conscious to bear witness to the sorrow that grazed his voice. But he was met with a voice – a vision before him, dappled in dark tones, and as if an angel from above to save the man that had fallen at his border, she came forward to investigate.
Someone had answered his call.
“I don’t know who he is or what happened,” he offered, pulling back and offering her space as she fussed over her patient. Pasha came within the view from the corner of his eye, and he gave a nod to his son, his ears splaying back to his skull.
“Can you save him?”
No sooner did the words leave him did the wolf speak, and Scimitar fell to silence, allowing the knowledgeable one before him to answer.
The forest wolf — a leader, surely, for his scent was everywhere and his bearing was regal and tall — seemed gripped by a barrage of thoughts and feelings Lotte was not privy to. The scent of him was healthy and masculine, rich with the sweet milkscent of new life — she peered behind him, eager to see his little ones, but realized her blunder with a quick shake of her head. “Tietenkin, hän ei olisi tuonut niitä pitkin, älytön tyttö!” she thought, and summoned a smile for both agouti wolves in an attempt to assuage their concerns. “Hm,” she murmured thoughtfully, continuing to sluice what water she could over the poor boy’s wounds, “who he is…why, he is someone’s son,” she said cheerfully, “tai ehkä someone’s father or brother or mate. As for what happened…” She trailed off, looking thoughtfully at the charcoal-patterned wolf with a shrug.
“Am I dead?” he breathed then. “Why does it still hurt?”
Clucking her disapproval, Lotte smoothed her tongue briskly over the crown of the male’s head with compassion glimmering in her mercury eyes. “Dead?” she repeated, her lilting alto warm with bemusement that buried the worry she felt. The strange wolf’s wounds were grave, but he was alive. Whether she could keep him that way, though, depended on how much fight he had left in him and how well she could remember Tove’s methods. “If you were dead, you’d not be bleeding all over these kind wolves’ doorstep, would you? And hurting besides?” Someone’s brother. Lotte couldn’t imagine something so horrible happening to her own kin, especially Dagfinn — her kaksonen. “Ai, who did this to you, pikku leijona? May he suffer from the bites of deer ticks in the most inconvenient of places.” She eyed her work critically, edging nearer to the mahogany-eyed wolf. “I am going to hurt you more before I am through, little mud puddle,” she warned bluntly, “but be warned, if you try to hurt me back, I am trained in the ways of the soturi — and I will not allow it.”
With these last words, she redoubled her efforts, laving Marbas’ wounds with her tongue as gently as she could — pausing only to suggest with a smile of deference to the agouti leader, “It will be a miellyttävä häiriötekijä if you speak, suuri kuningas,” with an ingénue’s careful sweetness, her small, triangular ears pinning respectfully back against her skull as her tail whup-whup-whupped the earth. She was only a month older than Pasha, making her the second youngest wolf in attendance, but Lotte had always been a decisive, motherly creature — and she could not help the instincts that made her take control of the situation. Surely it would help distract both the perturbed agouti wolf and her wounded patient if the forest king were to delve into a little talk.
Most of the shewolf's words were drowned out by the drumming in his ears, but Marbas found himself able to focus on the sound of her voice, and even enjoying the rich accent that tumbled from her lips. Weakly, his tail beat the ground - it was the only part of him that didn't seem to be in pain, but he rather thought that might be due to loss of feeling in the area.
Everything that didn't hurt seemed rather numb, really. It was not a pleasant feeling, but he supposed he prefered it to the alternative. For the most part, he tried to ignore what plagued him and simply listened to the dark wolf's voice.
She spoke softly – soothing the wolf as she tended to him, and Scimitar lingered nearby with a wariness. His eyes would drift to Pasha every so often, and at the mention the woman was trained with the ways of the soturi, he allowed his eyes to linger further upon her ward, reassuring himself the greyscale man would do his savior no harm.
It was unorthodox – even more so that Scimitar had allowed either to remain upon his borders, but his heart wrenched once more at the thought of his own recently lost son – whether it called to his compassion or to his despair, he could not dissect the emotions.
He remained quiet for now, awaiting direction – his bright eyes focused upon the two.
I fell asleep four types times in my chair trying to finish this. I apologize for the crappy quality. So, so tired.
At long last, the mahogany-eyed wolf was clean enough for Lotte’s meticulous standards. The foul stench of infection had been wiped away, replaced with the honest, metallic scent of fresh blood; as much as she could, she’d debrided the wounds with thorough, somewhat unforgiving sweeps of her tongue and nibbles of her fangs. When she could manage it, she talked to the three silent men — but more often than not, her mouth was busy. She thought, not for the first time, that being able to tame a raccoon and keep it as an assistant would be incredibly handy; their deft little paws could manage things that made a wolf’s jaws look clumsy and ill-equipped by comparison. Another trip to the water source loaded her thick fur with chill water that she dumped rather unceremoniously over the wolf — “little mud puddle, what is your name?” she asked immediately thereafter, hoping to catch him in a window of coherence — and then taking up the poultice she’d made from sprigs of celandine and yarrow, she spread it into every wound she could find. She didn’t have oak leaves to cover them over with, but she stepped back from the boy nonetheless. “I need medicine for his fever,” she said without preamble, her tail whisking as she bent her head to Scimitar and Pasha, “but these lands are new to me — where might I find a willow tree, please, great lords?”
So entranced was he by her strange accent, that he did not - at first - realize that a question had been addressed to him. This was also due, in part, to being addressed as 'little mud puddle', but Marbas could hardly remember his own name; what did he care if she called him the wrong one?
"Marbas..." he said after a beat, more question than statement. Who was she? Where was he? What were they doing here? The questions, though, seemed insignificant in light of his pain. "What... what's happening? Where is Siren?"
But his mumbled words were not heeded - all too soon, she was trying to get away!
One ear would flicker in the direction of the rambling and injured wolf, though his eyes would remain upon the slender form of the healer before him. She requested a willow tree, and blinking, the dark agouti wolf paused for only a moment as he considered such whereabouts. “This forest is made up of evergreens – the only willow trees I’ve noticed in the valley are to the north of here, and across the mountains.” Whether there were others nearby or not, he did not know, and so the Frostfur cast a glance at his son, wondering if the youth had noticed any within the nearby region.
Skipping Pasha with permission. ♥
The similarly patterned agouti wolves confirmed Lotte’s suspicions — she would have to travel an extensive distance to find willow bark. There was nothing for it but to cool Marbas’ fever with repeated trips to a cool, freshwater source, and although she was not opposed to this, she did not know how long her welcome at these territory borders would last. It was folly to think he would be permitted to remain here on their doorstep for the duration of his healing. “Marbas,” she mused in her low, rich alto, “are you a demon lion, then? Do you know where your name comes from, little mud puddle?” She felt a sense of conflict — “I don’t know who he is or what happened,” the great lord had said. Still, having given Marbas his aid, was the forest king now permitted to take the mahogany-eyed wolf as a thrall?
Despite her roguish nature, Lotte was capable of being utterly forthright. “Will you keep him as orja — ah, a thrall — suuri kuningas?” she questioned, her silver eyes focusing in on Scimitar’s dignified visage before flitting away with demure respect. Before she knew it, though, the impulsive Ansbjørn girl was trying to bargian. “He would be worth little as he is,” she said with an apologetic glance to Marbas. “If you find no use for the pikku leijona, forest king, might I keep him? I am trained in the ways of the soturi and I can be of use. For your kindness, hyväntahtoinen johtaja, I can humbly offer five acts of valor — you may call upon me for healing, hunting, protection, or singing, and I will bide in the nearby neutral territory until I see them done.” Her tail whisked hopefully; Lotte hadn’t even bothered to ask Marbas his own opinion of his future. Yet she felt sure she could heal him to full vitality if only he was given completely into her care.
Marbas had nothing to say to her strange request; he heard little beyond her voice and understood even less. His failing body seemed somewhat strengthened by his time spent on the ground, but he was no eager to try and rise from his frail position. The dark angel stood over him without ill intent, and that was enough for him.
Marbas let out a pained and tired groan but did little else.
She questioned him again, and the large wolf lifted his brows in silent surprise – a thrall? It was a term he found used little, but from his early years of war and battle, he was certainly familiar with it. “No, we do not keep slaves in the forest,” he rumbled, his memory drifting back to Star, the tiny little wolf from his pack, Swiftcurrent Creek, who had been kept as a slave for Blackfeather Woods.
He did not wish to repeat those days.
“We’ve no use for him here – he is better left to you, who can care for him properly. It is not my kindness that should be thanked,” he murmured, his muzzle giving a light tip to the exotic creature. He wondered then if the healer was familiar of the angelic ghost-like girl his mate had come across – the one who she told him had saved their litter. These were tales he had chalked up to her imagination, but now, witnessing the she-wolf before him, he wondered if there were a myriad of healers that lived somewhere nearby.
“Do you need help moving him?”
Still taking stock of the situation, Marbas did not hear much of the conversation. Still, the male's words reached his ears, and he began to push himself clumsily to his paws, not at all keen on being moved by another's power. Eventually, he stood upright between the two, wavering slightly, but unlikely to fall again any time soon.
His eyes found Lotte's, and he studied her for a moment before dipping his head, shoulder hunching in shame. He was weak, to have inflicted himself on these wolves - he would go away without trouble, if he was allowed.
"Forgive me," he muttered, voice low in weariness and shame.
Short post to get this wrapped up. Last post from me!
“For your graciousness, great lord, forest king,” Lotte said carefully, “though you already have loyal followers of your own, know that I will avail myself to do your bidding should you need me.” She swept him a deep bow, touching her chin to the inside of her outstretched carpus as her other foreleg curled daintily to tuck against her thick ashen ruff. To his kind request, she politely shook her head — for Lotte was a warrior’s daughter, and although she was not a ruthless fiend, she felt it was Marbas’ duty to remove himself from Neverwinter’s borders. She would aid him, of course, but she hoped he would take the initiative to rise on his owns. His wounds were not so grave that he could not walk; she had seen a wolf once with the skin of its back completely degloved, and that wolf had walked. Marbas had to want to live. If he did not, Lotte could do nothing for him.
She was pleased, therefore, when he saw fit to rouse himself, unsteadily pushing himself to his paws. “The little lion will walk,” she said cheerfully, decisively. “I thank you, treelord, for his life.” The weak, fever-bright mahogany eyes that centered blearily upon her tugged at her heartstrings, and she wondered briefly if there was anything that rhymed with Marbas — but she buried her feelings beneath a comedic character’s blithe smile as she slid her muzzle, unafraid, beneath Marbas’ and gently lifted it. “Shh,” she gently soothed him. “I did nothing more than I wanted to do, pikku leijona,” she pointed out. “You have not inconvenienced me…yet.” Her eyes fixed on him playfully, mindful of their need to begin moving and patently unmoved by his shame. “Don’t be planning on it,” she said tartly.
“I thank you, bright-eyed king and wary watcher,” she concluded, looking from Scimitar to Pasha with her glinting argent eyes half-hooded in a respectful averted gaze. “While I may, I will have the sunlight with the little mud puddle. We go.”
There was little left to be said from the Neverwinter wolf – the she-wolf felt him gracious, but he had remained insistent that it was not he to be thanked in such a way. Instead, the dark girl coaxed the man to his paws, deciding they would leave and his further assistance would not be required.
“Take care.” With a nod to both, he allowed them to leave, his own large form sweeping to the side of his son, who he studied with bright eyes. The scenario had been unexpected, but the forest was in no danger form it – or so he had thought. With a nudge to Pasha, the agouti Frostfur would turn back to his terrain, making his way back toward the heart of his home.