Wolf RPG

She counted two little spirits by her side- but there should have been three.

Every time she tried to leave the marsh, she felt herself pulled back to the place where she had died- the place where she had murdered her children. Perhaps as punishment, she thought- bound to a rotting corpse that would never move, and that was rarely (if ever) visited. The two spirits that floated by her side were faceless things- having never breathed air, she'd kept them from ever truly becoming a being of the mortal realm. Now, they were thoughtless, formless pulses of energy that dragged along with her, keeping her tethered to her resting place. 

But when the hallowed day came, they left; disappearing into the sky as if dissolving under the sun. She wondered if she might get to go as well, but if nothing else, she felt heavier than ever. Now, though, she was free of them- and there was one more place that she knew she could go to, one place that she had to go to.

As she crossed the edge of the marsh she did so with light trepidation, before carrying onward for the first time. She could not smell the borders of Swiftcurrent Creek but she knew where they were- and she knew that nothing could stop her. She drifted through the territory, making a beeline for the Creek so she could look in- seeing nothing but the blue sky reflecting back toward her. 

Even if someone had been within eyesight, she could not be seen. 

Still- at least she was no longer in the swamp. 

She thought of the third child, and felt something almost like a heartbeat within herself. 

It was still alive. It still had a heartbeat.

And if it did...Perhaps it might share its existence with her.

The dark form of the Mayfair snaked along the creek edge—gaze, every so often, lingering to the direction of the rapidly rushing waters. It wasn’t a body of water known for it’s calmness—no, it was as tumultuous as the pack that resided  near it, and he found a wane smirk pulling at his lips at the thought.

Still—there were oft times he would pause, watching the waters and feeling that sense of apprehension he tried not to linger upon. The day he had almost drowned, all those moons ago. Searching for a daughter—while his wife accepted his death and moved on with another.

Then, upon his return, the death of his wife. The absence of his other daughter… and now, three more failed children.

The weight of it was as much a punch to his gut as anything, and he slowed his pace now—feeling a wave of nausea as an air of coldness became more prominent. He looked tot he waters—his reflection—scarred, grizzled—stared back at him.

And he once more found that he wished Moss hadn’t bothered to save him, those moons before.