Wolf RPG

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@Memory (forward dated to about 4/26/2020 - 4/28/2020)


Though the irisvar had managed to prove her worth with a tiny pharmacopoeia of midwivery medicines, the scant pile of herbs would not sustain the needs of the Empire. Not if her suspicions rang true and the various heats resulted in numerous litters. 

This need proved so urgent it led her beyond the borders of her precarious safe haven. Far beyond. 

Nimbling on nervous, numbing paws, the pallid sylph picked her way across grassland and glen to the unexplored east. A cool wind whipped her sleek fur against scarred flesh, threatened to tug the rabbitskin wrap right off her shoulders. 

The thick, dark tangle of a forest was a welcome respite from the bitter bite of the wind and the rain gently soaking her coat. Shaking the damp from her snowy tendrils, the wyvern padded on cautiously - wispy auds rising and flickering as misty orbs scanned the shadows. 

Though there wasn't much growth to speak of along the damp floor of the woodland, Awenfen had higher hopes for flora within the depths. 

Tiny form picking up with optomism, the nomad trotted north through the thicket - strawberry nose twitching curiously.
It was an honor to be asked to accompany his Alpha- and friend- to Moonspear. It surprised him he had never ventured this far north- he truely was a homebody. Something in him told him that needed to change. Something deep in his chest, a stirring he hadn't felt in a very long time. 
He was captivated by the beauty here, the herbs and flowers in full bloom with the onset of spring. The smell was tantalizing, and he couldn't resist a chuckle as he chased a ground squirrel across the ground.

Within the innards of the forest, a delicate scent teased her receptors - the tantalizing odour of raspberries, sharp and unripened. 

Her crown of hoarfrost lifted and a gaze of spring lit upon the brambles. Nerves lit with excitement, her body took up a quivering shake along its length - prancing cheerfully on her paws as trembled racked her muscles. 

Turning, the sighthound gingerly took hold of the hide draped about her and tugged it, laying it out upon the ground. Awen edged up to the shrubbery, leaning up and nipping a few select clusters of leaves with tedious clips of her teeth. 

The berry leaves rained upon the ground, showering the rain-softened loam with verdant raindrops. The fruity scent of the plants was heightened in the rain, setting her at peace and lending a sense of contentment to her quiet gathering. 

A faint rustling, however, drew her mind elsewhere as it grew louder - the Peasant straightening alertly, ears perked as she peered unsuccessfully into the forest's gloom. Only moments later, the druid's suspenful wondering was answered as the ground squirrel skittered across the clearing in a panicked zigzag. 

Trailing after it by mere seconds came the man, a tattered canvas of cappuccino smeared by shades of ochre and scorched by umber. 

The battered woman found herself stunned still, perched in tension with taut limbs - a single paw lifted up in alarm as ghostly, owlish eyes blinked at him with surprise as lips parted to release a soft , startled little gasp.
He was so intent on chasing the squirrel he hadn't been watching where he was going- something unlike him. He was still adjusting to his newly altered sight. Thankfully his mouth was useable again. The hanging bit of what was left of his lip was shrinking away.
At the quiet gasp he looked up, self conscious over his scars...He wasn't the type to want to frighten wolves he wasn't planning to kill. 
She was pretty, for a shewolf, her wide eyed stare giving her an aura of innocence. She was also younger than him, by at least a year or so, with the long legs and gangly appearance of a yearling. "Sorry. I really should learn to watch where I'm going. Uh...Hi. I'm Memory." 

Though his sudden appearance had caused the pale wyvern alarm, it was just as rapidly dispelled (save for the lingering, heavy thud of her heart) for the male didn't appear to be a threat. 

In his own surprise, he turned his countenance fully towards and allowed the wintry waif to drink in the ruins of his features fully. Half crumbled, earth split asunder: the pit of his mouth and crater of his eye blackened with some tragedy. 

Mayhaps it was queer of the midwife but she held no qualms about the sythr's appearance. Quite the opposite; the fawn felt some self-conscious piece of her settle, as if at ease within the scarred man's presence. The refugee knew only to well the probing, roaming eyes - silently rubbernecking at the horror carved upon one's flesh, uncontrollably gawking in dark wonder. 

Her paw drifted back to the earth, small stature shifting to a calm stance. 

"Zat's alrigh'," the botanist lilted softly in response of his apologies, lips curving with reassurance and spine with a slight, instinctive bow. 

"Blessed day, Memory," she greeted him in turn, straightening as the gentle murmur fell from her lips. "Zey name me, Awenfen." Ghostly eyes blinked solemnly as this familiar, literal line trailed after. 

"Fergive me fer askin' if it is offensive to ye..." the broken mother edged nervously, shifting daintily on uneasy paws. "..but does it 'urt?" 

Awen's ivory muzzle tipped faintly towards his ravaged face, concern evident in her own. "Maybe I could 'elp?"
He had only Known one way of thinking. One way of being. Doomed forever to be the outcast, the freak. The Unnatural. Drawn to his own sex, and his own sex only. So why did this Fae, this being that neither looked nor completely smelled like wolf, draw his eyes over her body so wantonly? 

She stared at him, wide eyed, as though he had hung the moon around his neck. For a moment he expected her to recoil in fear or disgust...and yet she stayed. 
Instead, she seemed to relax, a soft smile on her face. 
"You...are... absolutely beautiful..." He breathed. He blushed, pinning his one good ear, Bashful. Her name was as Etherial as the rest of her countinance, and for a moment he resisted a laugh- her, an angel, and he, a devil. 
At her question he was snapped back to earth, and shook his head. "A little tender still...but I'm alright. I...I'm used to nursing my own wounds." 
There was a note of sadness to his voice, and he caught himself wondering how this enchantress had managed to bespell him so well...

The battered woman's pale gaze rose slightly, only to drop once more as she caught the glint of bronze caressing the length of her body. 

Heat rose to her cheeks and her throat bobbed silently, doubt doubling the pace of her heart - wondering if the shy, fumbling male truly was a predator. Maybe there really were nefarious intentions hiding beneath the veneer of kindness. 

Seelie optics snapped up to meet honey, the ivory hart's protective mask knocked clean off by Memory's exhaled proclamation. 

"Oh," she wisped in shock - the concept one that was new to the fae. Much like her newfound admirer, Awenfen had always been the oddball: small and slight, bird-boned, and far too doglike - a trait that was oft considered ugly. 

"I..zank ye," the scarred sylph uttered, just as shyly as her companion. 

"I vould not min'?" She ventured, brows rising ever so slightly in empathy. "I am, eh, 'ow you say? 'ealer?" 

Perhaps there was some kind of herbs she could offer, to ease his pain. The girl knew there was little hope of piecing his features back together, they'd already healed too much for that anyhow. But mayhaps she could make him a little more comfortable, improve his quality of life.
As her eyes finally met his, he saw something there... something familiar. A glint of a haunted past. The look of someone running from some terrible thing their nightmares would never let them escape. 
And there, just there, on the curve of her delicate neck, lay a scar that matched his own. 
He took a shaky breath, eyes wide. Again she offered to treat his wounds and this time, like a moth to the moon, like a unicorn tamed at the breast of a Maiden, he surrendered. 
"I...if you want to. I uh...I don't mind. I'm mostly worried about my neck- I can't reach it to groom. I've just been smearing honey on it...and my pack's healer has worked on it when she has time.." 
He moved towards her slowly, hesitatingly, and lowered his body before her. "Your accent...where are you from, beautiful?" 

The waif felt a pang of guilt pierce her heart as the guyya stuttered out an agreement - thinking perhaps she had been too forceful in her proffering of aide. 

"I vould be 'onored," the Saluki reassured gently as she took an equally measured step towards his prone form. "It is my pur-pose, to 'elp people." The words were vaguely hushed, on accounts of their close proximity, completely sincere. It was of the druid's belief that the stars had woven her to heal, to mend the broken. 

"Ach," the ruin of a mother tutted softly as she took a good glimpse at the honey-smeared gash - not unlike her own rosy tattoo of violence. "Zat is nae good, 'oney vill only clot vith dirt - draw bugs," her raspberry nose crinkled slightly as she softly instructed. 

"Zis may 'urt," Fen apologized, grimacing, as she leaned forward cautiously. The healer lapped at the wound gingerly, not wanting to harm Memory, as she cleaned the crust of blood, honey, and grit from the wound. 

It was not a savoury flavor - that of a wound - but neither was it unpleasant; the herbs she typically used had a worse palatable quality by far. It was the taste of war itself: the copper of crimson, gunmetal, ash. 

She cleaned the warrior's wound, going so far as to bathe his ear with the same bashful tediousness. It felt the flames would never stop licking her cheeks, warmth spreading over her features and down her snowy neck to sear its way into her heart - plucking discordant notes on its strings. 

"Nort'," she answered uncertainly, unsure of how to relay her unusual upbringing, voice wisping as the word brushed his skin. "Grinestone Ravine vas za first pack I serve'," the former slave added for some sort of explanation, nodding once - somberly - as she stepped back from him.
They were close now, her standing over him, voice and eyes gentle, nurturing. It was a position he had not been in for years. He swallowed thickly, her scent wrapping around him. That primal insinct of wrong again rose.. but how could that be so? How could Nix order the death of someone like her? Like Clarence? No..there had to be something missing. Something others didn't understand. 
she chided him about the honey and he gave a wry smile. "My mother was a healer, if you can believe it- I'm better with poisonous things...and killing. I'm very good at that." 
He held no pride in those words, Mercenary was a trade. A job. A use and title placed upon him. 
He gasped as her tongue caressed his flesh, and his heart raced against the walls of his ribs, his stomach flopped about excitedly. Who was this incubbus? She was as non masculine as one could be...and as her breath wafted against him he wanted to spend every day with her. The pack she named was not one he knew, and his tail thumped the ground. 
"Im from the south. Black Cliffs... outside of this range. It's...a long story."  He wanted to tell it. And he wanted her to tell hers. And he wanted to know everything about this other pack she smelled like.

The woman turned as he spoke, drifting back to the abandoned pelt and forgotten leaves, eyes downcast demurely and a vulnerable curve to her frail build. 

Slowly, Awen gathered the raspberry leaves, piling them upon the wrap. Her wispy ears cupped in Memory's direction, bouncing as they twitched with attentiveness. A fond smile was turned in his direction as the warrior mentioned his mother. 

At the next string of words, however, the mirthful expression faltered and her head ducked once more as adrenaline rushed through her nauseatingly. A silent gulp bobbed in her throat as the smile slipped slightly, appearing more forced now. 

Did he imagine it would impress the gentle druid? Or was it truly said so nonchalantly, this proclamation of violence? 

"Is zat 'ow zis 'appened?" The waif dared to whisper, glancing towards him apprehensively. Was she healing the last terrified struggles of some victim? 

As if suddenly remembering herself, or rather her place, the broken healer hunched submissively. Slender muzzle dipping ever down, icy crown bowed as fae optics clung to his forelegs - watching for some oncoming threat. 

"I'm sorry," she murmured, soft as silk, "me tongue got away from me." 

What was she thinking? Asking a man such a thing, especially one who had identified himself as an assassin. 

A horrible thought struck her then. 

"Did 'e send ye?" the horrid lilt wisped from her tongue, hollow and haunted. Had it been a ruse? Some cruel trick to lower her guard, make it easy to carve out a few pieces for Aliroth?
And just like that she looked at him like a monster. Why shouldn't she? 
He only knew one trade. One purpose. To take lives. But he wasn't..."This? No. This was an accident. Spar that got out of control. No, Clarence is very much alive." He did his best to stay still, watching her. She backpedaled, suddenly timid and submissive. 
"You have just as much right to speak as I do...it's ok. Anyone would be... afraid..." He had never met anyone like her. She spoke like one of the slaves Nix had kept for breeding and den duties- soft, timid, frightened. 
And there it was. Her eyes darting anxiously, waiting for him to lunge at her, or for some unseen band of killers to lunge at her. 
"Fen...if it's ok for me to call you that?" his voice was soft, trying to be as gentle as he could be, rolling to his stomach but still staying below her. He was like some rennaisance portrait, a demon laid down at the feet of an angel. 
"Who hurt you? I know that look. That feeling like something horrible is just behind you, something no one else sees." He wanted to protect her. He wanted to destroy whatever had reduced such a kind being to a trembling, shrinking thing.

Still and silent she becomes, as if this could save her. Old habits do die hard, even if they've failed in every past lifetime. 

A tinny ringing echoes in her ears: the sound of rocks bouncing off ice, or glass singing musically. A quiver has taken hold of her, unsuppressable, as if she might splinter into a thousand tiny shards. As if tiny fractures are cracking all over her skin, the agony of repressed trauma threatening to tear her apart, from the inside out. 

She feels like the word shatter.

It takes a moment for his words to register, distant and hollow in her ears. Numbly, she nods, muted as vague relief soothes the drumming of her heart. 

Her tongue rasps against her chops anxiously as she nods again, giving the sythr permission to call her such. Awenfen's attention is drawn to him, gaze flickering uncertainly to him but not quite meeting amber as he stretches his vast length along the ground. 

At his inquiry, dread leadens her and her gaze shutters - terror of the consequences raising her guard. Only Reiko knew, only Reiko could know. She couldn't bear the thought of his pity, or worse his rage - suppose Dredguild did send a party after her, suppose he tried to confront the wyvern's captor. 

"Non..non," the girl stuttered wispily, forgetting for a moment, words mistakenly lilted in the harsh tongue of the winterlands. 

"I am, I'm fine," she tried to murmur convincingly, attempting to compose herself. 

"I shoul' fin' 'erbs, fer yer woun'," she whispered, bending somewhat shakily to gather up the rabbit hide.
He watches her intently, watches her crumble apart and struggle to hold every scrap of herself together, and a rage fills him. He steels himself, trying to show no outward sign of his anger. Who did this to her? When I find him Im going to rip his throat out. 
He moves gently, slowly, rising to his paws, eyes on hers and body as submissive he could be. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. I won't hurt you- I promise. And I won't let anyone else hurt you, either." 
The lie crossed her lips so easily, but her body told a very different story. Her eyes, so sad and full of fear and pain. The shudder that ran through her tiny body. Still, it was her story to tell. And she clearly doesn't trust him enough to tell it. "You...you can go if you want. I won't force you to help me. But...I would like to see you again, if you do."

Something fragile inside of her, what's left of her heart maybe, breaks at his rose-colored promise. 

He means well but that aching, damned aspect of her - that intuitive, intelligent piece of her - knows he can't keep her safe. No one can keep anyone safe. Monsters don't hide under beds, they disguise themselves in wolf flesh; hell isn't waiting in death but here. 

"Please.." she hunches slightly as if to hold her fragments together, the word trembling with more brokenness than the angel's and devil's combined. 

"Don't," a forlorn grimace of a smile graces her lips as watery eyes lift to him. "Zis..vhat I am, it is nae yer fault," wispy auds shook in unison with her head as she denied him the blame. 

"Non," Awen repeats, slightly more sternly - if anything she ever did could be considered firm. "I vould never turn me back on a patient," she quipped, half flatly, as she attempted a better smile. 

Bundling the leaves she'd come for into the pelt, the sighthound twisted and lay it over her shoulders - giving them a little shake to nudge it into place. 

"Vould ye care to valk vith me? I vould like to 'ear abou' zese Black Cliffs...if ye are villing, of course." The fae's muzzle canted down gently, obligingly, though she very much hoped Memory would follow - that she hadn't ruined things so soon.
The tension was palpable, but he could sense it dissipating. At the very least she no longer seemed afraid. 
"If you ever want to talk about it, I'm here. Well, there, down in the haunted woods. Or around...I suppose..What I mean is, I'm here, uh... supportively...for you..." He realised he was rambling nervously and gave a bashful look. 
And there, there he can see the fire under all the fear, and it captivates him. She is so immeasurably good that for a moment he thinks himself unworthy of her. As she takes the lead she asks about black cliffs and he recoils. "No. You don't want to hear about that....place. let's just say it was painful. I mean...some places I guess were alright. At the top of the ridge there was a spot you could see the sunrise..." 

His offer halted her tracks, spring gaze lingering for once - brazenly - upon the congealed molasses of Memory's, both exposed and still clinging to the projected image of collectedness that had kept the terror-riddled girl from falling to fragments. 

Pink lips part, close, part again as those ghostly eyes blink, debating. There's no words she can give, no string of sentences that can explain her reluctancy to reveal her ruin. It's been stuffed down, bottled up, for the sake of survival - the grief too strong, too much. To lift it from her shoulders and examine it in the light of day would have destroyed her. 

The fear of that destruction holds her tongue, even now. 

She doesn't wish to admit that she might never be able to talk about it. So, the seelie nods, lips quirking ever so briefly at their corners in gratitude. 

The waif has taken but a step forward, drawn back on her haunches as the dreskar recoils - causing a flinch of her own to mimic his movements. 

"I am sorry," Fen murmurs, eyes soft with empathy and octaves with contriteness. "Ve nee' nae speak o' it, if it is unpleasant to ye," she continues, reaching out hesitantly as if to brush her raspberry nose against his dark shoulder comfortingly. 

Thinking better of such a bold move, her muzzle dropped and she moved to lead the Nightwalker into the forest - faerie eyes scanning the surrounding growth for the proper herbs. 

"Vhat place vould ye call 'ome, zen?" She tried again, voice hushed within the shadows of the glen.
A pause, and a nod, is all he recieves in return for the offer of commiserating, and that is enough. 
There are things that he did in his past, things done to him, that he only just was able to share with others- and only a few certain others, that knew his pain. This one, small and delicate and easily frightened, could never possibly know the shadows of his past. 

Her flinch matches his and his heart swells again...and there, her touch. He leans into it, a hum settling deep in his throat, and he casts a look at her, cautious, curious. He's never courted a female before, and feels exposed; uncertain. 

All too soon she pulls away and he's left wanting, following eagerly after her. 
"I've never had a home, really. Not one that was necessarily good. I grew up in a meadow on the edge of a forest. It was beautiful. Then...uh...Black Cliffs happened...and I traveled for a bit...and Found the Nightwalkers and it's....ok I guess." 

Silver traced his features as her gaze found him, calculation in those seelie eyes as the druid considered his tentative words. "Ye do nae soun' certain," Fen murmured curiously, wondering if there was something amiss with these Nightwalkers he spoke of. 

"Are ye 'appy zere?" the girl lilted hesitantly as they strolled, pace slow and dragging - focus centered upon the conversation. 

"Ah," she exhaled wispily as she spotted a few strands of goldenrod creeping along the trunk of a tree. 

"Zis vill do nicely," the midwife commented, mainly to herself, as she stepped up to the tree and examined the garlands of yellow flowers with a keen eye. Choosing a particular vine, she began chewing at it with delicate little nibbles.
She was right, of course. "Im happy enough. I have friends. And there's pups. I never saw myself having a family anyway. Nix always said family was a distraction, a liability."  But a killer wasn't all he was anymore, was it? He had left the Nightwalkers once already, and quickly discovered he had nowhere to go. But still...there was a siren song, a voice that sounds disturbingly like that of his mother telling him he was more than just a killer. More than just a warrior. 
She seemed to pick out an herb, nibbling at it like a rodent. "Here, let me help."  He wrapped a paw in the vines and tugged, pulling too hard and stumbling backwards to fall on his rump when the stubborn growth came free. "I uhh...meant to do that." 

The sylph welcomed his help, yet she pulled back in shock as the male ripped at the foliage (which came free with little resistance) and tumbled backwards - wide eyes surveying the scene in mute surprise. 

Her features aligned into an amused smile as she padded to Memory's side, gently tugging the tendrils free of his earthy coat with a soft chuckle. 

"Aye," she rasped, mischievous expression belaying that she didn't believe him - not one lick. "Of course," she agreed, jokingly helping the warrior save face. 

"Ye know, t'at vasn't vat I 'ad in min' vhen I considered searching fer 'erbs to cover yer woun' in," the botanist teased playfully as she nudged the vines of goldenrod closer, stretching out comfortably as she settled in to make an ointment for his affliction. 

Fen took to chewing at the medicinal plant, working it to a paste in her jaws slowly, occasionally spitting a mouthful of the unsavory concoction onto a leaf for safekeeping. 

Her pallid gaze remained averted all the while, somehow vulnerable working beneath the shadow's keen honey watch.
Seeing the smile on her face brought out an unexpected twinge in his chest. He wanted to see her smile every day, wanted her to never carry that painful, anxious expression Again. 
"You have a beautiful smile...I wish I could see it all the time." He says gently as she once again is touching him, unwrapping the vine from around him. 
She teased him, and he laughed softly. "You'll learn pretty quick nothing goes quite the way you plan it around me." He watches her intently, sitting in silence for a while as she works. 
Finally he speaks again. "Thank you, again. You know...This might take a while to heal...and I might need you to keep treating me." It was a sly, but effective, way of saying that he wanted to see her again.

His words buzz within her chest, as fluttering butterflies or a flock of birds taking to wing. The caretaker, ever clinical and diagnostic, likens the warmth tingling along her cheeks and down the pale swath of her breast to the berry wine served at druidic festivals. The shallowness of her breath and the humming in her heart intoxicating, drunk. 

It stutters in her breath as she rises and pads to the soldier's side, timorously fiddling with the leaf of paste to avoid meeting his gaze. Drawn close, but a paw's length separating dark from light, gingerly spreading the poultice over his torn ear and shorn shoulder - starlight orbs can't help but to meet amber at the warrior's sly request. 

She doesn't say so but Awenfen would like to see him again too. 

"Zat vould be best," the sylph soughed in quiet agreement, gaze dropping as she pawed a wad of cobwebs out of the rabbitskin at her feet. 

" 'Oney vill not cut it," a smile curled over her lips as she glanced upwards, gaze sparkling with humor. 

"Me pack is within ze mount-ains, Rene-ian Empire," she revealed, octaves ahush with trepidation - as if fearful of spying ears.
Her breathing changes and he realizes she is just as enraptured by him as he is by her. 
The thought warms him, and he catches himself staring at her, a mix of curiosity and facination at her work. 
He had never considered the possibilities- of love, of a new beginning, of dreams. He could finally leave Nix, and the fighting, behind. 
"Hey I was trying my best." He teased back, smirking. He had no experience with healing, after all. 
Her invitation leaves him speechless, and he realizes he can't just run away from his problems. "Soon. Give me some time to say goodbye. And there's somewhere special I want to show you...I found it when I first got here and it's so beautiful." 

The botanist's expression fills with warmth, silent agreement in the nod she profers in response of his attempts. 

As she binds his wounds with sticky spiderwebs, the halfling starts slightly in surprise, realizing he's taken her words to mean that he should uproot himself in order to join her. 

Wide eyes of starshine snap up to him, rosebud lips parted in a silent 'o' of shock as the pale fawn scans his ravaged face for sincerity. He truly means it; he would give up his life to piece it into her own. 

Unsure of how she's inspired such devotion, such romance, the druid whets her split lips with an anxious little swipe of her pink tongue. 

"I vould nae exp-ect ye ta aband-on yer people, sythr,she breathes, fluffy auds shaking in unison with the slight denial of her frozen diadem. 

"I mean' ye might visit, so I might 'eal yer injur-ies," Awenfen explained tactfully, gently, not wanting to reject him in the slightest. Such was clear with her next words, "..yet, if yer 'eart is set on join-ing ze Empire, I'm cert-ain ze Lady Reiko vould velcome a soldier as yerself." 

"I too vould velcome yer prese-nce...and yer court-ship...if'n ye are so in-clined.." 
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