Wolf RPG

melancholic clouds speckle a once sunny sky from where she flew. mandarin orange joins the other pastels of yellow and pink and blue in their ubiquitous spread across the rolling grasses. 

there is a song that Pancakes thinks, but thinking for a butterfly is always out loud. for a butterfly is an honest and true being, while many may think they lack intelligence, they merely lack a directive nature so many other animals in this world obtained in their youth and carried to their crumbling bones and ash.

Pancakes is a true butterfly, and therefore she sings as delicate and spindly black legs come to pass over the blooming petals with a loving touch. the slight breeze lifts her wings, and perhaps even her tiny voice may be heard by those who come near. perhaps with a sharp ear, they would hear the symphony of the other butterflies as well.

one recounts Shakespeare, comparing thee to a summer's day. a sootywing flirts dangerously with an admiral.
one sings Madonna, and certainly, she was a material girl! a tiger butterfly roared out her notes and greedily drinks up.

through all the noise, Pancakes' voice joins the rise.

"she's a sunrise dressed like dusk!"
(oh Pancakes, you silly thing, it's only morning so far– she must be talking of that admiral butterfly)

"going out, she's getting into something."
"he's a moth drawn to a flame"
(normally butterflies don't really talk to moths, but Pancakes was always an exception. and besides, sooty wings weren't technically moths)

"he's going in, he's going all or nothing!"

With a slow hum of some old wolven song, Grackle padded through the field. This place wasn't all that bad now that she was out of that bit with all the disgusting water, and this piece of landscape was particularly beautiful. Her large ears flicked to and fro, focusing on all the different songs flitting about her. She, confessedly, was one of the party to think of butterflies as foolish, scatterbrained creatures, but their poetry entertained her nonetheless.

The tall black wolf pulled herself down into a deep bow, stretching her toes out in front of her, before rolling onto her back. She had traveled long and far, and there was no one here to bother her. What would be so wrong with a little rest? She wiggled among the flowers, drinking in their scent with a contented smile. This place was no forest, her preferred type of terrain, but this field was a pretty nice alternative (even if the lack of trees was rather alarming).

Oh butterflies, She called from her place between the flowers, Sing to me so that I might trade you a story of my own. Grackle, admittedly, was no bard, although she did admire them quite a bit. Their ability to spin and weave stories from thin air was nothing short of praiseworthy. While she lacked the creative genius to come up with anything original (or at least original and good), if push came to shove, she would recite one of the old stories her mother told her as a pup.

a tall shadow looms over the choir of tiny voices, and yet there are only 2 things that ever seem to silence butterflies: birds and rain.

birdsong and the pitter-patter of raindrops both held their own beauty, even to the somewhat thoughtless butterflies who only repeated what they heard. some would pick up rhythms that mimicked the very thing that they feared, for it was their nature to do so without a thought for the repercussions or consequences. but perhaps the only punishment was to no longer be afraid of things then.

the shadow comes to ask of something, perhaps toppled by the beauty that seemingly teems around her. and while many of the others are too busy with their own tunes and lullabies, Pancakes takes heed to what she is told. a song for a story seemed like a fair enough trade, and so the clementine of a bug comes to take her flight above the shadow, gliding and flickering to see just who it was that asked for her tunes.

for all that Pancakes could hear, this soul didn't sound sad. so it was only fitting that the little tangerine would find a way to sing something happy, perhaps she would then get a happy story in return!

and so Pancakes starts off, fluttering near the ears of the sooty woman so that she may be heard individually rather than lost in the mix.

"happiness, hit her like a train on the track."
(oh bother, that sounded a bit dark, didn't it? but it gets better!)

"coming towards her, struck still–– no turning back!"
(wow, maybe this wasn't the best song...)

"she hid around corners, and she hid around beds! she killed it with kisses! and from it she fled! the dog days are over, the dog days are done!" a joyous laugh at such a notion. butterflies often knew of what they sang to a certain degree, but that wasn't a promise that what they repeated was in the correct order!

The wolf, being a well wolf, could not see orange. But that didn't take away from her enjoyment of the little creature flitting around her. She thought it's burnt yellow hues, white spots and dark stripes rather beautiful in their own way, even if she could never see her in her full splendor. 

A song that she had never heard before, a lovely, wispy tune that cemented the grin upon her maw. She closed her eyes as to better focus on the butterfly's singing, lifting one large black paw into the air so that the bug might too rest if she wished. She didn't understand what the words meant (What was a train anyway?) but it didn't take away from her enjoyment. 

Wonderful, Grackle hummed, Thank you, butterfly. Do you have anything else? She opened one big marble like eye to peer at the monarch.

did she have anything else? 

grackle might as well have asked if an elk has beautiful antlers, or do honeybees make honey! the songs and lyrics know no end within the heart of a butterfly, for Pancake would most likely leave the world singing when her time came. and thankfully, butterflies never truly worry about their mortality.

should grackle be as kind as her voice is heard, Pancakes would come for a landing on the bridge of her nose. if the shadow woman was still, then perhaps the clementine bug would come to taste her very essence and give her a reading. but if her companion did wish to pass as a landing pad, then Pancakes would do nothing more than continue her tiny aerial dance with the others in the grassy parts, her own little laugh sprinkling through all the noise.

"you! rare as Georgia snow! falling, hard, quick! candle shadow." 
(Would you believe Pancakes if she told you that she heard this at a slam poetry show in San Francisco?)

"nothing stays! i want to watch you walk the hall! to the cold tile bathroom. all night, a lifetime!"
(surprisingly, butterflies were incredible romantic lovers)

a tiny little somersault, a twist in the air as her wings come to gloriously close for just a second before sprouting once again. she likes her audience this day!

As the Butterfly landed on the bridge of her nose, Grackle froze, the only movement was the wind ruffling her dark pelt. Both large, seaglass eyes were transfixed on the tiny bard now. She did her best not to sneeze from the pollen she swore hadn't been bothering her just a moment ago. But then the butterfly took flight and the spell was broken.

The dark creature threw her head back with a laugh befitting an old Hollywood star, Oh, Butterfly, you flatterer! She rolled onto her side, so that might look around better  Is this how you treat all of your audiences?

Pancakes, like many butterflies, knows her world through song and through taste. and when she shared the moment of tasting what this Grackle had to offer, she was certainly swept into a whirl of sensations. this little marmalade-winged friend has been on many things–– the finger of giggling children, their bright red lollipops that they beg their mother to buy for them, an accidental spill of a spicy lemon-lime soda–– truly, Pancakes has tasted her entire world!

and so what she can taste on Grackle is something a bit unexpected, but surprising in the most wondrous way. Pancakes can taste her alluring air, it did not beg for attention as the fresh flowers that covered her sooty coat did. no, this taste is something quiet and mature, like the fine bottle of cabernet that has just finally reached its peak of aroma and flavor to be enjoyed. and with this, Pancakes thinks of dark chocolate and cinnamon, of those colognes that fine men wear in hopes of courting fine young ladies in sultry red lipstick.

a beloved taste upon her feet, even in just these few seconds. there is a bright gem in Grackle, but she does not need to be a diamond lost amongst the rhinestone world! no, this was a ruby, a garnet, a stone that can do more than just dazzle the hungry eyes.

and so Pancakes comes to land on a nearby grass blade, molten wings now coming to fan open and close in a cat-like stretch. without missing a beat, she comes to answer the question.

"love possesses not nor would it be possessed
for love is sufficient unto love."
(in a non-direct answer, Pancakes means to say yes)

"love has no other desire but to fulfill itself."


it is the way of the butterfly with a beat of her wings. and now the creature grows quiet and outstretches her own tiny arm. a rare moment of butterfly quiet, it serves as an invitation for Grackle to share what she once offered.

Thank you for the show, Butterfly. It is one I'll remember,  The wolf chuckled again before raising one large paw to her chin in thought. What would be a good poem for a butterfly? What could you offer a creature that had heard everything before? There was a long pause as she pondered this.

A poem she had heard as a yearling from her mother,
"The butterfly, small and fragile, flits and dances,
It's wings like stained glass, a being of infinite chances.
In the dappled sun, it flutters free,
Its beauty and joy for all to see."

Now for a second... All of the poems she most enjoyed seemed unfitting for such a joyful being. The paw tapped the chin again, then the marble-like eyes alight- the perfect verse for the tiny romantic:
"How can I find a love lost in time?
There's an answer in the stars for me
All the way across the galaxy, go on forever"

I hope I was able to offer new lyrics to you? Grackle asked, lowering her head to be closer to the Butterfly's level. The second was a bit on the nose, but hopefully she would like it anyway.

oh how her ears might have been bathed in gold to hear such wonder! like twinkling stars, glittering things, a beauty that one could hoard beneath themselves as a greedy lizard form fairytale might!

and if grackle's hearing is even sharper, she would hear a wondrous applause coming from Pancakes. now that she thinks about it, no one has ever come to share with her their own poetry and songs. for many butterflies, they learn from other insects and other beings in their world. but oftentimes, it is as silent listeners, wallflowers who are never once noticed for their desire to feed on the rich words from the lips of orators and plush lovely things.

no, not a soul other than a bug has acknowledged Pancakes and has given her something in return for her bardic traits. not until now! and what a joy it is today, for Grackle marks this land as not only worth of Pancakes tunes, but a place to remain! to even call home!

‘T is so much joy! ‘T is so much joy!"
(Truly, Pancakes is honored to be given new sonnets)

"Bliss is but bliss, and breath but breath!"
(It is time to add to her collection, for a moment she must think)

and when Grackle comes closer, Pancakes wears her tiny bug smile with glee.

"How can I find a love lost in time?
There's an answer in the stars for me"
(a bubbly laughter ensues!)

butterflies have a questionable memory for everything except their craft. and the words of grackle may come to live on forever in Pancakes, and perhaps in the other butterflies who hear and the other wolves whom this little creature may spread to. and if she is able to reach, a tiny spindle of a leg comes to caress the nose of her newest sensation.

"you lift my heart up." 

Her breath caught in her throat, and once again, she held very still. Afraid that even the lightest huff of an exhale would send the little creature tumbling into the field.

I'm so glad to hear that, Grackle murmured. Is there anything else I can offer you, little friend? She did not know how much her actions meant to the little storyteller. It hadn't even crossed her mind that one might only request a song. Of course you should make an offer in return for receiving something; it was rude to take without giving.

That wasn't, unfortunately, to say that Grackle was necessarily acknowledging as her entertainer had thought. It did not occur to her to offer The Butterfly her name or ask for one in return- or that bugs even had names to give. After all, their pitiful lives were so short. Did they even have time to receive names or build meaningful connections? She was just doing what she had been taught, and not taking the song for granted, even if she greatly underestimated and misunderstood the creature gifting it to her.

what more could a butterfly ask from a wolf besides to not become a snack? Pancakes lives an uncanny life through the tales of others, and for a moment she must think, think, think! marmalade wings open and close, and for a moment Pancakes grows quiet as she does more... thinking.

as you can see, this type of focused thought-processing requires perhaps all of the tiny brain cells that make up Pancakes. 

"don't forget about me."

Pancakes is destined to live 2 months perhaps, and there is a strong chance that many will not remember the existence of a single butterfly in their lifetime. but to Pancakes? these are friends that she has made over her lifetime.

"i think you would beat the moon in a pretty contest."
(flattery goes a long way for a hollywood star)

Grackle lay again, sprawled out comfortably among the wildflowers.  I think I will remember this for many years to come. She nearly purred, for after all, flattery does go a long way for a hollywood star, and the tall wolf was very like one even if she did not know it.

The dog days are over, the dog days are done, she hummed, closing her eyes. I like that one. The shadow said, opening one big green eye to look at Pancakes. Thank you for singing to me, little bard. 

"On the wings of a small, simple melody,
words take flight and soar, they carry me
a world we'll see..."

She continued her quiet song until she drifted off to sleep, a final thank you to the friend that had gifted her many wonderful verses to carry through her travels.