the afternoon is hot, muggy. sticky. even the seabreeze of the sound can not entirely combat the humidity that hangs heavy and thick in the air; syrupy. the dreadfather moves like a shadow borne from the sea; fur wet with saltwater that clings to them. it is the only reason, they suspect, that they have not felt the full brunt of the opressive heat.
a soft shake of their pelage is given before they continue their prowl of the beach. a glimpse is cut towards blackwater islands; something unnamed and unacknowled brewing deep beneath their skin, in the cavern where their mortal, flesh heart beat.
they ignore it. cast it away; incorrigable in their stubbornness to listen.
seaglass gaze cuts back to the path before them: familiar but not so intimate that would suggest they've spent copious amounts of time here.
Ashpaw was dragging. Her body heavy, sodden even. She was sticking near the ocean, anxious for both the ocean and to keep cool. She stared up at the oppressive sky with azure eyes, anxious, irritated.
In her maw she carried more herbs. She was searching for a cliff face near the area. Somewhere she could sacrifice these herbs. This time she had willow bark and poppy. She would toss them for the Gods to enjoy.
A movement in her periphery caught her attention and when she caught on who it was. She drew herself up tightly and tightened her body. She wasn't willing to fight today it was too hot. She had not neared his land. She had stayed away, why was he here.
Her nose gave a ghost tinge of pain. The red line sharp and deep against her muzzle. It was healing and scarring. Her leg as well.
She stood still, body quivering, but not in fear. It was a spike of adrenaline and irritation that stirred beneath her breast of tawny and black and soot.
a figure moves along the sand; more suited to camouflaging against the tawny sands than their smoke and obsidian pelage. at first, they pay no mind but something about the stranger tugs at their mind; sharp. demanding.
not a stranger, they realize as their seaglass gaze settles upon her. the brazen one; of whom they were pleased to note no longer haunted blackwater islands.
the one whom spoke of something called an atka and sos. salmon pink tongue drawls across their jowls. she is not close to his islands but the fact remains that the sound is the easiest way for them to move to and fro the mainland.
they make no attempts to call out, remembering none too fondly their last encounter. given how the memory sours on their tongue like rotten meat they cannot help but wonder why the wraiths of the void have seen fit to force their and her paths to cross once more.
She eyed him, for a moment. Easily seen against the backdrop of sand. She licked along the seam of her muzzle, tracing the long thin scar that as building there. His teeth, and claws had put that there. It had been a good fight, but a fight none the less. Distasteful. Foul.
She is not near his islands, so he can say nothing to her. She tilts her head and looks around her, wondering if perhaps there is a reason for this meeting. Perhaps it was deigned that they meet again for some reason or another.
So with queenly air, she moves forward, eyeing him. She stopped 10 feet from him, lifted her head high, she refuses to drop her head to him. Though she does keep her figure neutral.
Dreadfather. Yes? Clearly Atka and Sos have decided we shall meet again. Perhaps this meeting can go more, ahem, tamely.
the dreadfather watches her approach; holding herself like a queen and barely resists the urge to snicker: for there is only one queen to them and it is their nightwife. they are carved from cruel rock and crueler cultures: both the one they were born to and the one they have chosen. not an excuse, perhaps, but they care little for making excuses for their behavior.
it is who they are and they have made and will make many enemies.
a low noise of affirmation is given, pleased despite theirselves that she remembers their name. perhaps,
the dreadfather allows. again, she speaks of her atka and sos and instinctively they rebel against the idea that there are any gods — in mortal flesh or otherwise — besides the daedric.
He doesn't attack her, good. Perhaps this can be a--well, not a good meeting, but one that ends in less bloodshed. The last encounter was distasteful, and a small part of her who was her father's daughter felt horrible that there had been a fight and she had hurt him as he had hurt her. And yet another part of her, the part who believed in queens and gods and feminity, refused to cowl to any man, especially one such as this. Perhaps if a wolf with Kingly air and traits came along, she may bow her head a little. She did not believe herself a queen no, she had known a queen, her auntie had been one and she was everything Ash was not, demure and kind to all an any, selfless, Ash paw was not self-less, and nor was she demure. She was kind to only those that were kind to her.
Ash paw settled tensely to her haunches. She looks reposed, but deep inside she is screaming at herself not to sit, to move, to stay further away. The scar on her nose gives a phantom pain and she twitches once despite herself. But she calms enough to speak.
Last time we met.
She licked along her muzzle. You spoke of your druids. I am interested in this, and them. What are they? And why did they l leave?
A part of her, the immature part, wanted to ask if it were because he was a jerk. But she knew that would end in more bloodshed and she was determined to have a better meeting this time.
for a moment, they consider once more the last time they'd met — the want to push her and her false gods out to sea, off of their island in an effort to protect their ego. they had both spilt blood but as far as the dreadfather cared to see it victory had been theirs in the end despite that she'd won the initial scrimmage.
an errant glimpse is sent to blackwater islands and their distant nightwife and shadowchildren before it settles back as cold and mercurial as the sea upon the woman before them.
she asks of their druids. who they were and why they left. they left because that is the way of things. nothing but the void is eternal.
and their obsession, their dark affection, their love ( twisted as it perhaps is ) for their nightwife. the druids pledge themselves to the magicks and the ways of the daedric princes. and when they have reached the skills of a druidpriest they are sent to spread word and convert.
Pride got in the way of many things. It was why her grandmother had been so fearful of others. Afraid of her own shadow, too prideful to ask for help before it was too late. It was why her auntie had died alone and sad, because she ahd been prideful and her mate had been prideful and ambitious. It was why Ash paw in first meeting had spilled the blood of another in a horrifying way of meet and greet, and it was with pride that led to her shame. Now to proud to let the male be. Because of her own burning need of knowledge and information.
Ash Paw studies him, he always returns his eyes to the island, as if his very being belongs there, but does it? Is he happy? Or just obsessed.
Love or obsession, her auntie had taught her the difference and it could be disturbing.
Ash Paw wrinkled her brow, But if they have made it their home and they are happy there why leave? To spread word certainly, but to never return? I left to walk with auntie, and because there was nothing left for me there.....This way of thinking,
She sighs in thought. It befuddles me.
So they have all gone to recruit or did they not receive the accolades and titles, and just.
She lifted a paw and made a graceful movement.
Disperse?
She frowned. I ask, because despite my own beliefs i find other beliefs fascinating.
And that was all she was willing to share at the moment.
the woman asks many questions — several and more that the dreadfather cannot concretely answer. it is not their duty to keep their druids upon the shores of the accursed blackwater islands. for all of their flaws ( in this there are many ), making prisoners of their druids was not one.
and ...they had came too late.
their nightwife had flourished with their druids until things had begun to fall apart. trust placed in the wrong wolves, the dreadfather is wont to believe.
speakers that knew not one what they dabbled with and too many cursed ones.
it is the way of the tides. they come and they recede.
and the dreadfather is not too broken up over it. it is because of their nightwife that they remain: lonely and ironbound. though, they suspect the listener would find them no matter where they venture to — and the idea of planting seeds of the daedric princes in other packs, collecting faithful acolytes that could be moulded into druids is a ...tempting one.
they do as the daedric princes command,
a lofty shrug is given. there are more beyond myself and my nightwife; many that live within the voidrealm.
His answers did not help her. As such they made her a bit more frustrated. Not at him, no. Just simply that she didn't understand. Perhaps it was because she didn't understand many wolves in general. She had been quite sheltered. Living with just her small familial unit, the occasional passerby that needed a warm place to sleep or food or healing.
She wondered briefly if he and whomoever his mate was, this nightwife that he spoke so reverantly of. If they were ever lonely. She would be lonely, even now truth be told part of something, she was lonely, because she hadn't formed the proper bonds yet.
A word caught her attention that he had spoken of much. Even the first time they had met. If memory served, which it may not. She could be making inference's.
She wrinkled her dainty nose, the long thin scratch on it clear and white. What is a daedric Prince? I have heard you mention this many times.
her curiosity remains fixed upon the daedric princes, circling back and highlighting upon their continued mention of them. the dreadfather settles upon his haunches; settling in to give the lesson ...for there was no easy nor simplified way to explain the daedric.
the daedric princes is a common title, though some of the druids will call us daedric lords or more simply, the old gods.
they pause to draw their salmon pink tongue across their jowls; tasting the linger of seasalt. there are seventeen of us in total and we each rule of our own realms. before entering this vessel, i existed in the void predominately. now, i wear this flesh and command these mortal bones.
though, the dreadfather thinks, it could be worse.
Ash Paw gave a small cursory smile at his settling. He wasn't so bad when he was teaching and listening. Though he was still much larger than she, even sitting. It made her a little self-conscious, but she kept her head up. Refusing to cowl. Though she was giving him the respect due as a teacher.
Ash Paw blinked and then settled her eyes on the horizon, past his head, as she thought through what he said. Gentle pink tongue lining across the thin line that marred her muzzle. Then she met his gaze, carribean to Azure.
Seventeen. Which one are you? What realm do you hold sway over? This one, the mortal coil as you are want to call it?
She was not surprised of this. There had been stories of what she could find. Of gods and goddesses coming to earth. To raise children, or act wolfish or other animals themselves. Though she doubted slightly that such a wolf as this would have been a god, or a daedric prince as he so dearly thought. She also did not wish to anger a god or goddess with her thought process, and she could be wrong, there was a chance she was. Maybe.
seventeen was a generous number, the dreadfather thinks to themselves. it was given because they were being nice; some of the lesser daedric princes weren't often counted.
i have many names. the dreadfather,
the name they favor when introducing themselves. padomay, sithis, ingram.
they rattle them off with an errant twitch of their ear; though the last uttered name almost caused a sly twich of their lips. they school their expression before it can make itself present upon the lines of their face.
the void, prior. still though only in dreams and induced waking dreams.
the dreadfather offers; a lofty, if haughty shrug of their shoulders given. and now this mortal realm, i suppose.
it wasn't their dream to linger here: in this place of light and color. there was comfort in the dark throughs of night and there is almost an internal surprise at themselves at the fact that they were not more nocturnal.
Ash Paw tilted her tawny and black head, mind running a mile a minute. Trying to process everything. She knew nothing of Daedric anythings, but she found it fascinating all the same. Truly.
Ash Paw wrinkles her nose. I believe I like Ingram and Padomay best. They seem to suit you, but my opinion is of no consequence.
And she did like those two the best, Dreadfather would probably be next. She just wasn't fond of Sithis, it felt....strange.
Prior? Do you mean the past?
Did he mean the actual past or was Prior name for some other realm that she wasn't privy too. It was entirely possible after all, she was still fairly new to learning of any gods and goddesses other than her own.
they disagree with her opinion, but because it is an opinion, they do not give voice to it. favoring dreadfather over any other name they bear made their feelings on it apparent enough. what do they call you?
the dreadfather asks suddenly; unsure if she had given them her name before. perhaps she had, but they had not cared enough to take note of it.
this meeting was much more civil; though perhaps they did not feel the need to be so cruel off of the islands where posessiveness and surliness are their constant companions.
yes,
they reply. it is where i reigned and ...lived.
if one could call the void a livable space. existence was different there. comfortable and cruel; land of their own creation so very long ago.
Ash Paw was fairly certain she had already given her name, but it was entirely possible she hadn't. In the first meeting, it was probably forgotten in the aftermath of the fight.
I am called Ash Paw. Though most simply call me Ash.
She motioned with the sooty petite paw. I followed my auntie Thistle Cloud and cousin Gunnar here. Auntie was coming to die. I buried her a few weeks ago now. Gunnar has settled elsewhere.
Ash Paw found herself slowly relaxing, the tightness of her body loosening. The pinch in her brow smoothing out, and she found herself more willing to share her own information with this Dreadfather. Something to give him for what she had taken as it were. It was only fair to give knowledge where knowledge was gathered.
She frowned. It sounds as if it would be lonely. I suppose though I can understand.
And she could, even in the pack she was part of, she felt the loneliness like a burr. She was so different than the other wolves that made their home there. Though she couldn't blame them for seeking her out. She could be prickly, haughty, even downright callous.
ash paw; a clever name given because of the inky color that marked her paw that she moved. it catches the dreadfather's attention; briefly. whether they would remember should their path and her's cross again ...that was anyone's guess.
i believe i met her.
wallowing in their own obsessions took up much of their mental capacity these days; filled with rituals and items for rituals. seeking answers to questions they do not dare yet ask. trying and failing to battle the yearning of their mortal heart for their nightwife. she came to my islands on her way.
it was not everyday that one met another knowing her death was not too far off.
it only sounds lonely. it is filled with souls of the dead. sometimes it is too loud.
Ash had never liked her name at least not as a child. To be named after her body parts, was frustrating. However, she had grown to like it she supposed, it was certainly unique. She wasn't certain how she would feel if the other didn't remember her name, but that was for a different day.
Ash Paw allowed a brief sad smile to light up her face. Auntie basically raised me after she left the Teekon. It was sad to see her go, but also peaceful I suppose. She only wanted to join Ragnar. Her love for him, well.
She grew quiet and said no more. It was not polite to speak ill of the dead, and what she had to say wasn't entirely ill. She had heard the stories. She was certain their love had been all encompassing, but both had made mistakes, but she could see this being an outside onlooker. So to speak.
Ash Paw raised a brow. And you did not chase her off? I suppose i Should thank you, she was not entirely able to fight had there been one.
Ash frowned. I can imagine that. Sometimes even silence is too loud.
a contemplative quiet settles over the dreadfather; a familiar, perhaps even comforting feeling. for so long their vessel had thrived in such silences. it was only recently, with the dreadfather's takeover that talking felt comfortable. natural, even. the story of love does not touch the dreadfather as it might've touched another. they do not experience love as most do. it is more of an all consuming obsession; possession. toxic, just as the traits that have plagued them since their creation.
there was no need,
the dreadfather replies, when the question rises of whether or not they chased thistle off. i am ...perhaps kinder,
the word feels like poison as it leaves their lips; the urge to wrinkle their scarred muzzle at the word being applied to them in any manner was strong. thinly resisted. to those on the cusp of life and the void.
she had been heading to their realm, after all. she was, in a way, my responsibility.
like it was charons' responsibility to ferry the dead across the styx. to the dreadfather, this is the same concept.
Ingram/Dreadfather was not a talker. Ash was fast realizing, but there wasn't anything necessarily anything wrong with that. She wasn't exactly a conversationalist herself, but it did rankle at times when she herself wanted to be talkative and the other would not join in. Were she privy to the other's thoughts she could have told him in a way that had been the love between the drotting and the king. They had loved with an all consuming passion that sometimes destroyed each other. But that would be wrong to say such things and her auntie hadn't seen it that way.
Ash Paw studied him and she gave a soft sigh. Well for what it is worth. I appreciate that you were there for her in the end. Auntie wasn't one that asked for much, so to know that someone was kind to her before she went to Valhalla. I appreciate it all the same.
She looked back the way he had come. I know you must get back to your nightwife, so I shall take my leave.
She stood slowly and looked him over, offering him a small smile. Thank you for the conversation, Dreadfather. I wish you well.