Wolf RPG

Through the brief intervals of sleep since his mother's death, Dacio's dreams had been vivid enough to prevent him from resting for too long. Their content differed every time: from another invasion of countless Rusalka demons to Portia's murder by Sequoia, he often roused with a wild fear in the frantic thrum of his heart. Anxiety and exhaustion crept into the young Gona's bones and still he maintained distance from what was left of his family. While his physical wounds were healing well, Dacio could not say the same for his mental state.

He padded quietly through the foliage along the edge of Drageda's claim, refreshing the pack's scent markers here and there, and pale eyes scanned the forest for any sign of intrusion. The boy had slacked in his duties since the discovery of his dam's body on the beach, but he'd found some comfort in his lonely patrols in more recent days. There'd been a sense of routine to his trailing of the borders once before and, although Dacio was loathe to cast thoughts of his late mother aside, he longed for normality.

A soft pitter-patter on the canopy above alerted him to the beginnings of rainfall, and the young Drakru wolf acknowledged it with a mere flick of a lobe. He pressed on with a deep frown, trying to focus on the task he appointed himself, and slid alongside the tough tree bark to cock a hind limb and urinate on exposed roots.

Many of the motions were just the same as they had ever been for him. He patrolled, trained, patrolled more, interspersed with other tasks now and again as duty dictated.. but the absence of what once was still stung. He supposed it was easier every day to rise and get moving, but wasn't it still painful? He ached more deeply than any flesh wound had cut him--as pained as he had felt when the Rise fell and the Giamalvas finally lost and then some, for he was not so spry and resilient as he had once been moons ago.

He missed the quiet moments, the early mornings before the hustle of the day set in, the walks to the beach, nosing around the garden, and finally, curling comfortaby where she fit so perfect, cozy, warm, beloved.

Maybe he struggled more than he let on. 

After Portia's waterlogged corpse had returned to them.. their last two young seemed to want their distance. He didn't blame them, and maybe even understood. Loss after loss cut deep, and scars took time to set in. He was so proud of them.. for persevering and staying and then fighting with the pack against their invaders, yet he couldn't let himself crowd them, even if they were the most tangible reminder of what was now gone. But he was there for them--to help clean the blood from their brows after the fights, and make sure they may rest soundly at the end of it all, and he hoped that they knew his love was there, always.

It was a routine patrol, otherwise, and despite the cloudy thoughts (and skies above), all was as he had last left it. When his route began to overlap onto fresh trails of Dacio's, he was, in truth, quite relieved and picked up his gait enough to hopefully overlap them soon. 

When familiar silvery furs shifted between the trees, he trotted closer to the boy's work. The wocha was glad to see him out, and for his son, he chuffed a low greeting before joining his company in otherwise silence.

They fell into stride together beneath a singular goal. Despite all of the silence that consumed the moment on their walk, he took his comfort from it all the same; he was at ease there, and beside his son? Even better. When the sorrow was removed, it was routine--expected, and just as it should be. Now the part that was missing remained their loved ones who were no longer waiting for their return to spend the downtime in their welcome company. He tried not to dwell--so he told himself, but it had become woven down to his very core, part of who he had been, and still was today even without.

None of it was easy. His ears fell back, and he nodded. I do too.. he sighed, part because of the subject, and in part due to how badly his tiredness seeped out into his words. Everyday, always, he added, quieter. While the closure of her death had resolved some worries, it had given him new pains just the same.

Dio had lost his other half, but Dacio and Opalia had lost their mother. He worried about them, and kept an eye on his silvery son for probably longer than necessary after he answered. His hurts had to be unimaginable. The wocha had no concept of his own mother, or what it meant to lose her--he had been orphaned too young to even remember her for anything more than warmth and a pale white coat. I know it's not easy without her. How have you been..? he asked, seeming almost careful about his phrasing.

His answer wouldn't be easy, but he was glad he kept going on thanks to even the simplest moments like these even if they ailed, ached, and suffered together.