Wolf RPG

Ah ah, no! Hold yourself up, right there.

Secluded within a den were the two sisters. Viridian, still lethargic from illness. And Lazuline, who was trying to tend to her wounds. It was no easy task. Most of the injuries lay face down to the floor, and her sister could barely lift a paw, let alone her whole body. Once again it fell upon Lazuline to do the heavy lifting, quite literally in this case.

That’s it.. She’s gotten her sister propped up atop her crown. The healer slowly lifted her medicinal paste-covered paw towards a particularly hard to reach shoulder wound.

That’s it!

And right as she was about to apply it, Viridan’s body slipped downwards. Her paw was crushed under weight.

Damnit. God fucking damnit. Lazuline muffled a scream into her now slumbering sister’s fur.

it is the cursing that rouses ingram's curiosity and ultimately brings him to the the main denning area of the acolytes. for a moment, ingram hesitates unsure if he was welcome to just pop his head in to check on what was going-on or not. still, the sounds of struggle had been evident the closer he'd drawn.

a heartbeat is spent, analyzing the quiet between the words. another heartbeat —

is everything alright, acolyte? the keeper inquires from where he lingers outside — deciding that he was definitely not the type to intrude.

The question came seemingly from nowhere. Lazuline’s head shot up. The hairs on her crown were untamed as though she’d just woken from a deep rest. She ripped her paws out from under her sickly kin. Her pads and claws are coated in a deep green paste.

She was, quite simply, a mess. To be gawked at in this state was nothing short then humiliating.

She answered with a tongue as sharp as a blade. Yes. Everything is peachy. Lazuline’s eyes locked with the smokey boy’s for no more than two seconds before abruptly yanking her head back down towards her sister. She needlessly picked at her fur.

A tense silence grew around them, cut by her words. Don’t call me acolyte. I’m not an acolyte.

the woman's response is biting: but ingram keeps the urge to bare his teeth locked away. he is the keeper and arguably highest ranked below only the listener herself. but she is an acolyte, he tells himself: likely, she does not know. is not yet privy to the inner workings of the blackwater druids. her stinging words are met with his go-to stony silence; seaglass gaze hard but impassive. though the urge to return with snark of his own is strong, he too lets that pass him by.

it would do no good.

that is what all newcomers to blackwater are titled as, ingram explains; as if that offers in simple and uncomplicated terms that she was, indeed, an acolyte. whether or not she thought so about herself doesn't matter to him. to him, this is stark black and white with no grey to expand between the two. thus, you are.

a pause is given. if you'd rather be addressed by your name, that is fine. but he does not know it and would not be giving his own; at least not his personal name. i am the keeper. he offers her. do you need assistance? he tries again to offer his help, this time favoring clarity.

The response she got was nothing but a stare that could not be read and words with a tone as flat as the seastone’s that lay just outside. Pity. She would’ve enjoyed to have further reason to snap at him.

Lazuline. She gave her name with a click of her tongue. There, now don’t call me acolyte.

To his offer she grinded her teeth. My sister thinks so. She grumbled to the air more now than she did him. My sister’s a fool.

Lazuline threw her head over her shoulder and looked at the keeper from her peripheral. Have you met her?

lazuline. ingram repeats, testing it out upon his tongue. it is a strange name, to him, and he is unsure if it's syllables as they rise and fall upon his vocal chords. nevertheless, that is what he will call her, as per her request.

he watches her with muted sort of curiosity, unsure what exactly was taking place besides an attempt to heal — though even this healing was not within his realm of understanding. nor did it particularly interest him.

your sister? the rhetorical question breaches the air. no. there are many 'newcomers' to blackwater that the keeper had yet to meet; and slowly but surely, sought to correct that, even if he was not known for his company nor his sparkling conversation.

Cerulean. Looks like me. She nodded towards her sister who now lay unconscious in the gritty dirt. Like her. More like her than me. They both have pretty little blue eyes. Prettier than mine.

She breathed in deeply. They’re not as skilled as me though, not with healing. Cerulean especially. Back home she could never master a trade. Then she bit her wandering tongue.

I’m great with herbs, she knows this. I could’ve done this on my own. Lazuline turned to face him now. How many medics are on this island?

ingram is quiet, yet nevertheless attentive as she describes what the missing sibling looked like: choosing not to comment upon the pretty eyes situation. it wasn't something he tended to notice — though says he noticed anyone other than the listener was a lie. ingram offers a small grunt when she mentions that cerulean never mastered a trade: wondering if that would affect her event induction into the druids.

but then brushes it away. that is not for him to decide as the keeper.

there is the wispmother, ingram replies. though she is presently preoccupied with her children. which meant he wasn't sure if she'd be able to help. and bridget. another acolyte. those are the ones he knows off the top of his head.