+- Wolf RPG (https://wolf-rpg.com)
+-- Forum: In Character: Roleplaying (https://wolf-rpg.com/forumdisplay.php?fid=5)
+--- Forum: Archives (https://wolf-rpg.com/forumdisplay.php?fid=11)
+--- Thread: Wheeling Gull Isle bermuda, bahama; come on, pretty mama (/showthread.php?tid=22220)
bermuda, bahama; come on, pretty mama - Coelacanth - June 17, 2017
@Stockholm ♥ This post got away from me.
It was easier for the atramentous sheepdog to lose herself when evening fell, and tonight was no different. She tiptoed to the water’s edge with her nose aquiver, her movements timorous and cagey as though the gently lapping waves held within their depths a beast of nightmares. Suddenly distracted, she tilted her head to glance suspiciously at the night sky, her Neptune eyes tracing the edge of the moon’s grin. It filled her with relief to be able to look at the sky unobstructed, her catlike paws executing a slow, prolonged series of pirouettes like a music box ballerina, without the sinister canopy of a fang-infested ceiling.
The relief fled, however, when she glanced toward the dreaded mainland.
The sodden mass of cream-colored fur Coelacanth espied was unmistakably unfamiliar, and she barreled across the sand to meet it, slowing only when she could clearly discern the dark blaze that slashed evenly between his weary eyes and widened to swath his broad muzzle. When no immediate threat was offered, she crept forward on tenterhooks, the feathers of her sharply sloping breast attracting grains of sand that glinted silver in the moonlight. If she had met the wolf before, she did not recognize him — but, oh, she had been mad; mad! Her panicked flight to the coast had left her with fragments of memories that she recalled in fits and starts as frenetic as her steps.
A low, toneless whine fell like a sigh from her lips. She whuffed softly, tufted ears pricking alertly. She had found him, this great bear of a creature who seemed to defy her rudimentary sense of taxonomic classification. Although in some realm their ancestors may have worked in tandem or at least in parallel lines — his brethren guarding the livestock while her slimmer, more streamlined counterparts tended and drove them — Seelie had never met an Armenian Gampr or anything remotely resembling one. She had found him, and he belonged to her now, and she would let no wolf take him away. A nervous little growl ticked in her throat, frail as a kitten’s first purr, as she obsessively scanned her surroundings for usurpers, then settled back on the wanderer with a reptilian glint in her Neptune eyes.
The relief fled, however, when she glanced toward the dreaded mainland.
The sodden mass of cream-colored fur Coelacanth espied was unmistakably unfamiliar, and she barreled across the sand to meet it, slowing only when she could clearly discern the dark blaze that slashed evenly between his weary eyes and widened to swath his broad muzzle. When no immediate threat was offered, she crept forward on tenterhooks, the feathers of her sharply sloping breast attracting grains of sand that glinted silver in the moonlight. If she had met the wolf before, she did not recognize him — but, oh, she had been mad; mad! Her panicked flight to the coast had left her with fragments of memories that she recalled in fits and starts as frenetic as her steps.
A low, toneless whine fell like a sigh from her lips. She whuffed softly, tufted ears pricking alertly. She had found him, this great bear of a creature who seemed to defy her rudimentary sense of taxonomic classification. Although in some realm their ancestors may have worked in tandem or at least in parallel lines — his brethren guarding the livestock while her slimmer, more streamlined counterparts tended and drove them — Seelie had never met an Armenian Gampr or anything remotely resembling one. She had found him, and he belonged to her now, and she would let no wolf take him away. A nervous little growl ticked in her throat, frail as a kitten’s first purr, as she obsessively scanned her surroundings for usurpers, then settled back on the wanderer with a reptilian glint in her Neptune eyes.
RE: bermuda, bahama; come on, pretty mama - Stockholm - July 06, 2017
He was tired. How long he had trudged heavy paws through the sand after awaking on the shore he did not know, time was a fleeting thing he could no longer grasp. His memories of the events leading up to this point were fragmented -- the storm, the waves swallowing the boat like a great sea monster, dragging him down with it, filling his lungs with water as he fought to the surface and swam circles in the driving rain looking for the Man. Waking on the shore, wet and cold and disorientated. Walking, endlessly walking, searching. Driven by instinct and fierce loyalty to find the Man.
Finally, he did. And for a long time he stood there, staring down at the lifeless body as the waves crashed on the shore and the rain beat down on his back. He understood, he was no stranger to death. But still he stood, waiting, as if something might change. As if he might awaken from this nightmare he had been thrust into.
How long he stayed there, he didn't know. The rain subsided, the ocean calmed. He chased sea-gulls from the corpse and lay in the sand guarding it until finally a hard-wired instinct to survive drove him from the location and he continued down the shoreline in search of food.
And so he walked on as the sun sank low in the sky and the moon replaced it, stars glinting against a void of black. With his gaze cast down at the ground in front of him, he didn't see Coelacanth until he was almost upon her -- if it hadn't been for her sudden movement he may have missed her completely, but the flash of motion catches the corner of his eyes and snaps his gaze up, stopping in his tracks as tension flitters across his body in preparation to defend himself if need be. But the strange creature before him only creeps forward, gazing up at him with curiosity and something that he would almost think was possessiveness.
His ragged ears twitch forward as he stares down at the inky female, deep golden eyes weary and lost. Gradually the tension in his muscles fades and now that she has interrupted his mindless forward movement he slowly sinks to his haunches, exhaustion racking his body. He wants to ask her who she is, where this place is, but the words escape him, which isn't too out of the ordinary but exacerbated by his condition. Instead he offers her a soft chuff to convey he has no ill intentions.
RE: bermuda, bahama; come on, pretty mama - Coelacanth - July 06, 2017
She reads within the manuscript of his stiffly-etched framework that he is as unprepared for their interaction as she — perhaps even less so, if she is to make assumptions based on the brief flicker of alarum in his goldleaf eyes. There is something dark about those eyes — a patina grave and bitter enough to encapsulate eons of gnawing sorrow — that pulls at her in a way her tormented psyche can scarcely comprehend. She ought to be frightened. He eclipses her in height and breadth, and there is nothing about him that welcomes her company; she has cowered and run from and warned off wolves far smaller and more kindly than him.
She cannot turn away from his pain.
He sinks to his haunches like a soldier who has walked through warzones, over bodies; he slumps like Atlas, bowed beneath the weight of the world. He offers her a low chuff, the set of his shoulders betraying that this aural olive branch is the most and best he can offer her, and something flickers in her greedy, wary eyes. Keeping her distance, she closes her senses to the outside world and opens herself wholly to Stockholm: tufted ears tip forward upon her gently sloping crown, each feathered bulb cupped attentively toward him; bright cerulean eyes search dusky gold; and she takes the first tentative step in a slow progression of tentative steps toward him. The intensity of her sheepdog’s stare is still ambiguous — even Seelie doesn’t know, at this point, whether she seeks to comfort him or lay claim to him.
She cannot turn away from his pain.
He sinks to his haunches like a soldier who has walked through warzones, over bodies; he slumps like Atlas, bowed beneath the weight of the world. He offers her a low chuff, the set of his shoulders betraying that this aural olive branch is the most and best he can offer her, and something flickers in her greedy, wary eyes. Keeping her distance, she closes her senses to the outside world and opens herself wholly to Stockholm: tufted ears tip forward upon her gently sloping crown, each feathered bulb cupped attentively toward him; bright cerulean eyes search dusky gold; and she takes the first tentative step in a slow progression of tentative steps toward him. The intensity of her sheepdog’s stare is still ambiguous — even Seelie doesn’t know, at this point, whether she seeks to comfort him or lay claim to him.
RE: bermuda, bahama; come on, pretty mama - Stockholm - July 06, 2017
Despite the hazy cloud of exhaustion, hunger, and sadness that seems to blanket his thoughts like a heavy fog, curiousity flickers in his eyes as Coelacanth takes a tenative step foward towards him. In his homeland, his interactions with other canines had been scarce with the exception of interlopers he drove off from the flocks he guarded. He had learnt early on how to exist in solitude, to think independently and be self sufficent. But that seemed like such a very long time ago. Things were different with the Man.
Seelie takes another step forward, ears cupped towards him and alert, so very focused on him and he hasn't a clue why. This time, he is the interloper. The stranger who should, by all rights, be unwelcome in this place.. wherever this place is. She should be trying to chase him off, shouldn't she? But her movements are non threatening and despite the intensity woven throughout her body her posture is almost welcoming. She is a mystery to him.
Maybe she is lost, too.
And that thought helps pull him from the mental fog more than anything else. Perhaps because it is easier to focus on something -- or someone -- else other than his own sorrows. He dips his head down and extends his neck, putting them almost nose-to-nose, and draws in her scent while allowing her to do the same. The Man was gone, he could no longer look after him and protect him. But he could protect her.
RE: bermuda, bahama; come on, pretty mama - Coelacanth - July 06, 2017
She is serpentine and lithe, and she places each paw with care so meticulous it could be mistaken for poise or certainty; but when the behemoth dips his head and stretches his muzzle toward hers, her nervousness is made plain. A wild trembling takes up residence in her gamine musculature and her tufted ears fall submissively against the elegant slope of her skull. Neptune eyes blink, the rise and fall of delicate lashes slow and easy, and remain shyly half-lidded. Her body curves eloquently for him, the scalloped gradient of her ribs turned toward him to approach him in an appealing, nonthreatening manner, and the crenellated bridge of her spine dips so that her tail beats an eager tattoo against her spindly hocks.
She does not know why he is sad, but the feeling emanates off of him in waves of hurt — and although the base desire to claim and keep him still lingers, it is swept away by the need to comfort. She tilts her head to the side, angling her muzzle just slightly, to timidly press up and along the steel of his jaw and the plush of his cheek. She breathes in his scent and buries her nose against the heavy muscle over his collarbone, and she leans against him sideways — hips and shoulders tuck against his breast as she tips her head back, twisting it at what appears to be an impossible angle to look up at him. Why are you sad? I will make it better.
She does not know why he is sad, but the feeling emanates off of him in waves of hurt — and although the base desire to claim and keep him still lingers, it is swept away by the need to comfort. She tilts her head to the side, angling her muzzle just slightly, to timidly press up and along the steel of his jaw and the plush of his cheek. She breathes in his scent and buries her nose against the heavy muscle over his collarbone, and she leans against him sideways — hips and shoulders tuck against his breast as she tips her head back, twisting it at what appears to be an impossible angle to look up at him. Why are you sad? I will make it better.
RE: bermuda, bahama; come on, pretty mama - Stockholm - July 14, 2017
The tiny Groenendael trembles when he leans in towards her, and her submissive nature further appeals to his natural desire to protect. She makes herself vulnerable to him as she curves her body towards him and it lights a fire in him that had been temporarily extinguished by the ocean's wrath. Stockholm's eyes flutter closed briefly as Seelie buries her nose into the thick tangle of his fur, and as she tips her head back to gaze up at him he lowers his, draping his neck over her body as a soft rumble emanates from deep in his chest. I will keep you safe. I have lost everything, but I will not lose you.
He allows himself a moment to relish in the warmth of her body against his, the feathery strands of her fur tickling against his nose as a gentle breeze rolls across the beach before lifting his head to glance down the shoreline, amber gaze scanning for the presence of threats lurking in the dark. But they are alone aside from the distant cry of a night bird and he brushes his muzzle against the top of Seelie's slender head.
"Hungry?" His voice is a deep baritone, and it takes him a moment to find it. He tilts his head as he gazes down at her, the night is young and if they are lucky there may be good forage washed up on the shore from the storm. That was originally why he was out here trudging through the sand, but his own hunger is now secondary to his self-appointed duty to look after the inky Belgian.
RE: bermuda, bahama; come on, pretty mama - Coelacanth - July 21, 2017
The trembling of Coelacanth’s body eases, but only slightly, drawing intermittently across her spine in timorous waves. A warm, thrumming purr hums blissfully in her throat as Stockholm envelopes her in his warmth, and in homage to him she touches the wet of her nose softly against the fur of his cheek. If he is her protector, then she is his acolyte, sworn to heal what hurts she can — and to use her teeth against those who have earned his enmity. There is a protective streak in Seelie miles wider than the set of her thin shoulders, and what she lacks in brawn she more than makes up for in speed and wiliness. He is hers now.
Her tufted ears flatten to the sides to accommodate the broad jaw that brushes lightly atop her gently sloping crown, and she makes a silly, cross-eyed face as she attempts to lick at his chin with a frantically wriggling tail. “Hungry?” he asks, and she looks at him with incredulous wonder at first — because how could she possibly be hungry for corporeal food when her heart is so very full? — but then her stomach answers for her with a gritty gurgle that makes her grimace. She shakes her head — “no, no!” — and leans up to prop her dainty, diminutive forepaws against his shoulder as she indelicately smashes her face with abounding love into his thick ruff. A happy whine trills tonelessly from her lips and gets lost in his fur.
She wants to show him all the things, especially what a stellar fisher she happens to be, and she bounds like a fawn a few paces away from him, craning her neck to look over his shoulder and encourage him with a whuff and a sneeze. Then she remembers that she does not know what to call her new friend, and she issues a verbal greeting, complete with introduction, for the first time in her life: “Coelacanth,” she sounds out very slowly in a frail, tremulous whisper, the final consonant blend coming out more like a prolonged “f” sound. Her voice is barely audible as she clarifies: “Seelie.” Her bashfulness is easily discernible in the lowering of her long lashes and the shy way she angles her tapered muzzle down and away.
For him, she soldiers on bravely. “Name? F-F-Friend?”
Her tufted ears flatten to the sides to accommodate the broad jaw that brushes lightly atop her gently sloping crown, and she makes a silly, cross-eyed face as she attempts to lick at his chin with a frantically wriggling tail. “Hungry?” he asks, and she looks at him with incredulous wonder at first — because how could she possibly be hungry for corporeal food when her heart is so very full? — but then her stomach answers for her with a gritty gurgle that makes her grimace. She shakes her head — “no, no!” — and leans up to prop her dainty, diminutive forepaws against his shoulder as she indelicately smashes her face with abounding love into his thick ruff. A happy whine trills tonelessly from her lips and gets lost in his fur.
She wants to show him all the things, especially what a stellar fisher she happens to be, and she bounds like a fawn a few paces away from him, craning her neck to look over his shoulder and encourage him with a whuff and a sneeze. Then she remembers that she does not know what to call her new friend, and she issues a verbal greeting, complete with introduction, for the first time in her life: “Coelacanth,” she sounds out very slowly in a frail, tremulous whisper, the final consonant blend coming out more like a prolonged “f” sound. Her voice is barely audible as she clarifies: “Seelie.” Her bashfulness is easily discernible in the lowering of her long lashes and the shy way she angles her tapered muzzle down and away.
For him, she soldiers on bravely. “Name? F-F-Friend?”
RE: bermuda, bahama; come on, pretty mama - Stockholm - July 26, 2017
The audible rumble of the tiny sheepdog's stomach contrasted with the way she shakes her head no in response pulls a smile across his lips and he huffs softly as she buries her face into the ruff of fur around his neck, turning his head to rub affectionately against hers.
His ears perk as she suddenly bounds away and he immediately rises to his feet, tail curling upwards in a lazy arc and slowly waving back and forth as he steps forward to follow her. When she speaks, her voice is a whisper and the tone is one he recognizes as a voice that has been touched by the interference of man through something he has heard called debarking. It piques his curiosity a great deal that the obsidian beauty before him has also known the world of humans.
"Coelacanth," he echoes. "Seelie." It seems she is like him, not used to using her words perhaps, and he dips his head down to brush the top of his muzzle against the underside of her jaw. "Friend," he reassures her then ponders, briefly, before gently leaning his shoulder against her and taking a step forward, gesturing with the incline of his head for her to lead the way. "Stockholm, is the name the Man gave me. On the other side of the sea my name was Tovarisch. But that was.. a long time ago." He's not sure why he confides this information to her, it is unnecessary, and he tended to be the kind of dog who didn't elaborate needlessly nor share personal information easily... but perhaps it is an instinctive gesture of trust. He has just met her, but he already knows he could never keep anything from her. His life, his thoughts, would be an open book to her if she were to ask.
His ears perk as she suddenly bounds away and he immediately rises to his feet, tail curling upwards in a lazy arc and slowly waving back and forth as he steps forward to follow her. When she speaks, her voice is a whisper and the tone is one he recognizes as a voice that has been touched by the interference of man through something he has heard called debarking. It piques his curiosity a great deal that the obsidian beauty before him has also known the world of humans.
"Coelacanth," he echoes. "Seelie." It seems she is like him, not used to using her words perhaps, and he dips his head down to brush the top of his muzzle against the underside of her jaw. "Friend," he reassures her then ponders, briefly, before gently leaning his shoulder against her and taking a step forward, gesturing with the incline of his head for her to lead the way. "Stockholm, is the name the Man gave me. On the other side of the sea my name was Tovarisch. But that was.. a long time ago." He's not sure why he confides this information to her, it is unnecessary, and he tended to be the kind of dog who didn't elaborate needlessly nor share personal information easily... but perhaps it is an instinctive gesture of trust. He has just met her, but he already knows he could never keep anything from her. His life, his thoughts, would be an open book to her if she were to ask.
RE: bermuda, bahama; come on, pretty mama - Coelacanth - August 06, 2017
Consonant blends are still difficult for the atramentous sheepdog, and the first time she parrots the Gampr’s name there is a space between the “s” and “t” that doesn’t make much sense. “Stockholm,” she chirps, tongue tripping clumsily. She mouths it a few more times to herself. It takes her a minute to reproduce it perfectly, but she isn’t satisfied until she hits that mark. She leads the way toward the water, but her inclination has always been to follow. This makes for an awkward — and quite possibly annoying — trek to the shoreline.
Like the clip-eared guardian who walks beside her, seemingly unperturbed despite the hum of energy that keeps her lithe body in a state of constant movement, Seelie is curious. She, too, has a human-given name — but she doesn’t like it. She volunteers it willingly, but the flattening of her ears and guilty downward flinch of her muzzle betray that it was a name not often spoken in a kindly manner. “Little Girl,” she whispers, feeling anew the shame of her puppyhood and the fingers clamped around her muzzle. She surmises that Stockholm must have loved the Man even more than she’d feared the woman and wonders what it must be like to love one of the long-living gods who span lifetimes. “Tofariss,” she adds, butchering his other name as well, repeating it carefully until she gets it close to right. This name is harder and she can’t get it perfect — so she defaults to the god-given name: “Stockholm.”
As they near the collection of tide pools that seems to yield the most fish, Coelacanth peers down into the water. A smile that is inherently shy softens her features, but the glint in her Neptune eyes is somewhere between mischievous and confident. She mimes slapping at the water, indicating that Stockholm should circle around to the opposite side of the pool and scare the fish toward her — all the better for her to scoop them out and toss them ashore.
Like the clip-eared guardian who walks beside her, seemingly unperturbed despite the hum of energy that keeps her lithe body in a state of constant movement, Seelie is curious. She, too, has a human-given name — but she doesn’t like it. She volunteers it willingly, but the flattening of her ears and guilty downward flinch of her muzzle betray that it was a name not often spoken in a kindly manner. “Little Girl,” she whispers, feeling anew the shame of her puppyhood and the fingers clamped around her muzzle. She surmises that Stockholm must have loved the Man even more than she’d feared the woman and wonders what it must be like to love one of the long-living gods who span lifetimes. “Tofariss,” she adds, butchering his other name as well, repeating it carefully until she gets it close to right. This name is harder and she can’t get it perfect — so she defaults to the god-given name: “Stockholm.”
As they near the collection of tide pools that seems to yield the most fish, Coelacanth peers down into the water. A smile that is inherently shy softens her features, but the glint in her Neptune eyes is somewhere between mischievous and confident. She mimes slapping at the water, indicating that Stockholm should circle around to the opposite side of the pool and scare the fish toward her — all the better for her to scoop them out and toss them ashore.
RE: bermuda, bahama; come on, pretty mama - Stockholm - August 13, 2017
The pan of her ears and the way she tips her muzzle down speaks volumes to him when she tells him her human-given name. Stockholm had loved the Man, and the Man had never laid a hand on him to cause harm, but that didn't mean he hadn't witnessed the way other men treated their dogs -- everything in the gamut from the mutual affection he and the Man shared, to cruel and unwarranted punishment for no apparent reason at all. He did not like to think of someone treating the lithe shadow that way, it made the hackles ruffle slightly between his shoulder blades, but he knows it is in the past and not even he can protect her from that.
The soft smile that crosses her features as they reach the tide pools smooths his proverbial ruffled feathers though and he watches as she gestures with her paw, his brows arching upwards before it clicks with him what she wants. He gives a silent nod and departs from her side to circle around the pool, wet sand giving way under his paws as he steps into the shallow water, dragging his feet a bit as he first enters to stir up the fish then trotting in a semi-circle opposite of Seelie with a slightly exaggerated gait to disrupt the water and send the fish in her direction.
The soft smile that crosses her features as they reach the tide pools smooths his proverbial ruffled feathers though and he watches as she gestures with her paw, his brows arching upwards before it clicks with him what she wants. He gives a silent nod and departs from her side to circle around the pool, wet sand giving way under his paws as he steps into the shallow water, dragging his feet a bit as he first enters to stir up the fish then trotting in a semi-circle opposite of Seelie with a slightly exaggerated gait to disrupt the water and send the fish in her direction.
RE: bermuda, bahama; come on, pretty mama - Coelacanth - August 21, 2017
Tagging you because I have not posted in like fifty years. ♥
Coelacanth’s Neptune eyes gleamed greedily at the flickers of slick, silver-sided silhouettes that glinted and flashed at the heavy splash of @Stockholm’s paws. Quick as a bad idea, she plunged her head below surface and snapped her jaws hard against the press of the water that stung her eyes. With a slippery, surprisingly twist of muscle between her teeth, she flung back her head and reared partially on her hind paws, twisting her muzzle and releasing in one fluid motion as she tossed a fish over her shoulder. Before the school had time to settle, she bounced forward, throwing her weight back on her tucked hindquarters, and used one curved forelimb to bat another to the shore. The two fish, large ones to her great pride and dumb dog happiness, flopped desperately on the sandy embankment.
She fixed Stockholm with a saucy smile, a little spark of mischief dappling her cerulean gaze, and barked at him with sassy smugness. I are best fisher! clearly bespoke the strut of her high arched tail; she tossed her head like a spirited filly and trotted toward him with a Kennedy-like spring in her step. Then she sidled on past him as if she had somewhere very important to be, making sure her wet tail smacked him somewhere around the chops.
She fixed Stockholm with a saucy smile, a little spark of mischief dappling her cerulean gaze, and barked at him with sassy smugness. I are best fisher! clearly bespoke the strut of her high arched tail; she tossed her head like a spirited filly and trotted toward him with a Kennedy-like spring in her step. Then she sidled on past him as if she had somewhere very important to be, making sure her wet tail smacked him somewhere around the chops.
RE: bermuda, bahama; come on, pretty mama - Stockholm - October 23, 2017
Stockholm, who has never caught a fish in his life, is more than a little impressed at the skills of his new companion. He can’t help the broad smile that crosses his features as she trots towards him and opens his mouth to say something just as she parades past him and he gets a mouthful of seawater as she smacks him in the face with her tail. He blinks and his muzzle crinkles up at the taste of the water, curling his tongue against the roof of his mouth. Well. Rude. Have to get her back for that at some point.
He snorts, feigning indignance, and turns to follow her then pauses and deviates course to snatch up one of the still flopping fish. With a firm crushing pressure from his jaws the fish ceases it’s aimless struggling and he drops it briefly to do the same with the other. With some comical struggling, he manages to eventually scoop both up in his mouth to carry and then trots after the willowy silhouette of the sheepdog, more than happy to follow her wherever she may go.
He snorts, feigning indignance, and turns to follow her then pauses and deviates course to snatch up one of the still flopping fish. With a firm crushing pressure from his jaws the fish ceases it’s aimless struggling and he drops it briefly to do the same with the other. With some comical struggling, he manages to eventually scoop both up in his mouth to carry and then trots after the willowy silhouette of the sheepdog, more than happy to follow her wherever she may go.