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+--- Thread: Blackfeather Woods young artists have gotta starve (/showthread.php?tid=23432)
young artists have gotta starve - Kitsch - October 08, 2017
After all this time, Kitsch was still too obstinate to change.
Being a part of a pack, even a pack as creepy-horrible as Blackfeather Woods, kept her alive. She was not a woman meant to be alone in the world. Life just took so much energy, energy that she did not have, and certainly she would have died by now had she not bobbed from caretaker to caretaker, pack to pack. As much as Kitsch wanted to blame her parents for raising her in such a unknowing fashion, she knew her anger was gravely misdirected — so the kitten channeled her anger inwards, allowing it to stoke hot within her gut and giving her reason to feed her various impulses whenever they arose.
As it turned out, gomorrah could be quite a lonely place.
Her body’s voracious appetite for poppy had never dulled, especially with a woman as self-indulgent as Kitsch. She was able to find the plant plentiful in the spring and the summer — this was the only one of West’s lessons that really stuck with her — and Kitsch was not excited about the idea of the herb’s winter scarcity. In the back of her mind, the stratchitella girl knew the pack’s pharmacist might be a valuable resource but even so, Kitsch began to create her own stockpile with her crisp autumn findings. Somehow, her supply always seemed to be waning and Kitsch could not make sense of it.
Kitsch stalked about the forest during the dark hours of night. Her small, white form floated between the misted trees as would an eidolon — soundlessly, thoughtlessly drifting with no real direction or goal. Perhaps she had become a ghost of these woods, after all; she didn’t exactly know anyone within the ranks, nor had they every sought her out. It was no matter — being a lovely ghost was quite alright with her. It was not the center of attention that she normally preferred, but with these wolves, Kitsch could appreciate being marginalized.
However, even a lovely ghost needed to eat and the kitten soon found herself seeking the carrion left by others. It was a habit she gave into more than she would like to admit, but she was often left without another choices. Flesh was plentiful, if one was not picky. With ease, she found the meal she sought and ermine girl settled upon the moist forest floor. With the haze of the poppy thick on her mind and a unknown animal’s bone between her forearms, Kitsch lay beneath a willow and ground away at the remains with her molars, a sickly pink peppering her cheeks as if it were blush.
Being a part of a pack, even a pack as creepy-horrible as Blackfeather Woods, kept her alive. She was not a woman meant to be alone in the world. Life just took so much energy, energy that she did not have, and certainly she would have died by now had she not bobbed from caretaker to caretaker, pack to pack. As much as Kitsch wanted to blame her parents for raising her in such a unknowing fashion, she knew her anger was gravely misdirected — so the kitten channeled her anger inwards, allowing it to stoke hot within her gut and giving her reason to feed her various impulses whenever they arose.
As it turned out, gomorrah could be quite a lonely place.
Her body’s voracious appetite for poppy had never dulled, especially with a woman as self-indulgent as Kitsch. She was able to find the plant plentiful in the spring and the summer — this was the only one of West’s lessons that really stuck with her — and Kitsch was not excited about the idea of the herb’s winter scarcity. In the back of her mind, the stratchitella girl knew the pack’s pharmacist might be a valuable resource but even so, Kitsch began to create her own stockpile with her crisp autumn findings. Somehow, her supply always seemed to be waning and Kitsch could not make sense of it.
Kitsch stalked about the forest during the dark hours of night. Her small, white form floated between the misted trees as would an eidolon — soundlessly, thoughtlessly drifting with no real direction or goal. Perhaps she had become a ghost of these woods, after all; she didn’t exactly know anyone within the ranks, nor had they every sought her out. It was no matter — being a lovely ghost was quite alright with her. It was not the center of attention that she normally preferred, but with these wolves, Kitsch could appreciate being marginalized.
However, even a lovely ghost needed to eat and the kitten soon found herself seeking the carrion left by others. It was a habit she gave into more than she would like to admit, but she was often left without another choices. Flesh was plentiful, if one was not picky. With ease, she found the meal she sought and ermine girl settled upon the moist forest floor. With the haze of the poppy thick on her mind and a unknown animal’s bone between her forearms, Kitsch lay beneath a willow and ground away at the remains with her molars, a sickly pink peppering her cheeks as if it were blush.
RE: young artists have gotta starve - Ganondorf - October 10, 2017
As his mother's due date approached, Ganon spent more time outside the Glen, seeking out a claim for himself. It made no sense to be there any longer, for many reasons, but this was the breaking point. Her anger at her seemingly fatherless birth had not gone unnoticed by him. She hated the children she was about to bear. He did not know about the failed abortion, but he would not be surprised by it.
For the moment he still did not have a proper home. For the moment he was fine sleeping under the thick bushes of the Redgrove, but he knew that a den, deep underground, would be necessary soon. But before any of that, he was hungry. His stomach gurgled and he followed its call to the nearest slab of food he could find, which he eventually saw was already occupied.
He didn't recognize the girl at first, and felt his hackles raise in indignancy, but as he approached and caught her scent he relaxed slightly. The smell of Blackfeather Woods was heavy on her, even though he had not seen her before. He approached cautiously, even though the carcass she was near was long since dead, she could be defensive. But for the moment, she seemed content to gnaw on the bone instead. He took her haphazard chewing as his opportunity to tear a bite of flesh from the half-recognizable creature, eyeing her all the while.
For the moment he still did not have a proper home. For the moment he was fine sleeping under the thick bushes of the Redgrove, but he knew that a den, deep underground, would be necessary soon. But before any of that, he was hungry. His stomach gurgled and he followed its call to the nearest slab of food he could find, which he eventually saw was already occupied.
He didn't recognize the girl at first, and felt his hackles raise in indignancy, but as he approached and caught her scent he relaxed slightly. The smell of Blackfeather Woods was heavy on her, even though he had not seen her before. He approached cautiously, even though the carcass she was near was long since dead, she could be defensive. But for the moment, she seemed content to gnaw on the bone instead. He took her haphazard chewing as his opportunity to tear a bite of flesh from the half-recognizable creature, eyeing her all the while.
RE: young artists have gotta starve - Kitsch - October 11, 2017
As much as Kitsch wished she was actually was a ghost, she was never really that skilled at sleuthing. Stalking about, unheard and unseen — up until now, Kitsch didn’t even know that was something she would ever desire. Maybe if things hadn’t turned out the way they did, she might still be young and boisterous! Young she still was, but her energy had turned — spoiled even! — into something she did not truly recognize. The kitten was quiet and aloof and actually preferred the solitude of her own mind to the companionship of her nihilistic cohorts…. and the scariest part of it all?
She was completely okay with it.
Though Kitsch had never been a woman who really pushed for what she wanted, she found the part of silent-captive to be quite a fitting. Food was not scarce and she had to do almost nothing for it, except not run away. There were other bondservants who rebelled against these walls, so the girl happily let all the attention slide from her own self to those other wolves in their care. She didn’t let them in, didn’t want them to know her or her story, didn’t want them know that she really didn’t know anything at all.
It was safer, this way. Let them use her how they will — at least she wasn’t going to die here. or would she?
When a male approached the carcass and boldly took a portion for himself, Kitsch eyed him strongly and initially said nothing. He, unlike her, was not a slave and could whatever he wanted — this, too, was something the ouzo had to come to terms with. It all made karmic sense, really… had her parents not pushed the same type of hierarchy upon all their subjects? Kitsch very clearly remembered her servants and nurses, but had never given their free will a second though until now. Her time to lead was over, and now was her time to serve. Kitsch no longer worried about it.
“It doesn’t taste very good,” she piped up, wanting to give him a fair warning.
RE: young artists have gotta starve - Ganondorf - October 18, 2017
@Kitsch sorry for the wait!
She said words of warning. He was surprised that she had shown much concern for what he partook in, his eyebrows raising at her briefly before he tore into the flesh. He had to hold his face to prevent him from gagging — it did. He swallowed it as quickly as possible, then gasped.
When he had eaten as much as he could bear, he sauntered over to her, plopping himself down near the strange wolf.
I didn't really expect it to,He muttered, licking his chops.
But hunger has much more precedent over personal taste at the moment,He reluctantly took another bite, chewing and swallowing it just as quickly as the first.
When he had eaten as much as he could bear, he sauntered over to her, plopping himself down near the strange wolf.
Who are you again?
RE: young artists have gotta starve - Kitsch - October 20, 2017
Kitsch watched unmovingly as the boy ate, responded to her admonition, then continued to eat. It was strange to be looking at one of these blackfeather wolves, to speak one-on-one with them. It was a rare thing that they acknowledged her existence [and, in truth, the kitten liked it that way]. In fact, she moved about the territory somewhat freely despite the fact that she was still, indeed, their captive. They just didn't seem to care — seemed to be preoccupied with more pressing matters — but Kitsch was always the captive of something, whether it be social status or the pursuit of beauty or the need to feel grounded and safe, or that healer-woman, West, or the poppy, or anything. Perhaps the Blackfeather wolves knew she wasn’t going to run away, and that’s why they were more lenient on her. After all, she needed them much more than they needed her, this white-and-black spotted nothingness.
“Hmm,” she grunted lightly, tipping her chin down several degrees and flaring her nostrils. To watch another indulge upon the putrid flesh easily, and quickly, cured the girl of her appetite and she jabbed the carrion away from her with two delicate ink-pointed paws. It would likely be several days before the impulse to eat would return; her appetite was a fleeting thing, nowadays. The caliber of food she was proffered [which, largely, was whatever she was able to find strewn about the forest or left around the mouth of the cache, for she did not dare enter their stores] simply did not facilitate hunger, nor did her largely high and sedentary lifestyle. But this boy was royalty with access to all the best foods, as far as the kitten was concerned, and did not need to join her in her meal — or move closer to her once he was finished. Kitsch could feel red-hot apprehension flare deep in her chest, suddenly concerned as towards this boy’s intentions.
Where others might have fallen silent, Kitsch’s stress always manifested itself as well-meaning indignation. “Why are you so hungry?” she inquired, looking at him through the corner of her watchet gaze. After a moment’s silence, she introduced herself. “Kitsch.”
“Hmm,” she grunted lightly, tipping her chin down several degrees and flaring her nostrils. To watch another indulge upon the putrid flesh easily, and quickly, cured the girl of her appetite and she jabbed the carrion away from her with two delicate ink-pointed paws. It would likely be several days before the impulse to eat would return; her appetite was a fleeting thing, nowadays. The caliber of food she was proffered [which, largely, was whatever she was able to find strewn about the forest or left around the mouth of the cache, for she did not dare enter their stores] simply did not facilitate hunger, nor did her largely high and sedentary lifestyle. But this boy was royalty with access to all the best foods, as far as the kitten was concerned, and did not need to join her in her meal — or move closer to her once he was finished. Kitsch could feel red-hot apprehension flare deep in her chest, suddenly concerned as towards this boy’s intentions.
Where others might have fallen silent, Kitsch’s stress always manifested itself as well-meaning indignation. “Why are you so hungry?” she inquired, looking at him through the corner of her watchet gaze. After a moment’s silence, she introduced herself. “Kitsch.”
RE: young artists have gotta starve - Ganondorf - October 24, 2017
He groomed himself, fluffing out the thick mantle of firey fur and his cream-toned chest. His winter coat was growing in. He knew that his grandfather was an Arctic wolf, and that mother had inherited a lot of his visage, but as for his father? If he asked his Mother about each and every man she had mated with, he would get a vague estimate. He could only guess that the man was Arctic, or from far in the north.
He watched as the smaller woman tore off a few more slivers of flesh for herself, his eagerness seemingly encouraging her own. The silence between them did not last long, for as soon as she finished, she turned to him, quipping back.
He watched as the smaller woman tore off a few more slivers of flesh for herself, his eagerness seemingly encouraging her own. The silence between them did not last long, for as soon as she finished, she turned to him, quipping back.
'Cuz I'm a growing boy,He fluffed himself up, smirking.
I know you've been hanging around here for sometime, but why? You haven't really participated in anything as of yet, have you?She wasn't training — she wasn't even an official member. All she seemed to do was skulk about. Sometimes he caught her scent near the herb stores, but saw little of her. This was the first time he had ever seen her up close, let alone speak to her.
RE: young artists have gotta starve - Kitsch - October 27, 2017
He was a vain thing, always grooming and fluffing himself up! The oujo watched keenly as the russet male continued about lackadaisically, retorting and asking after Kitsch’s relative obscurity. This, Kitsch didn’t like — this whole ‘having to explain herself’ thing. It was one of the nice things about her current arrangement; they were all pretty laissez-faire if she did not encourage their explicit interest. Ganandorf — she knew his name because she did not only live amongst the Blackfeather Wolves, but she listened to them and she learned their conversations — could prove to be a threat to such a strange tranquility.
Kitsch’s ink-stained brows knitted in kittenish consternation. “Well,” she chirped haughtily. ”No one bothered to invite me.” It was true; whatever these opportunities to participate were, news of them had never reached her ears. This would have been a problem for the Kitsch of old, but new Kitsch was fine with it. With sudden fire, she cut a twist of a smile towards Ganondorf. “It’s whatever, though. You all are so weird.” It was a small joke, but behind it, there was truth. You know. Don’t you? she thought to herself. You have to know how strange this place is.
Kitsch’s ink-stained brows knitted in kittenish consternation. “Well,” she chirped haughtily. ”No one bothered to invite me.” It was true; whatever these opportunities to participate were, news of them had never reached her ears. This would have been a problem for the Kitsch of old, but new Kitsch was fine with it. With sudden fire, she cut a twist of a smile towards Ganondorf. “It’s whatever, though. You all are so weird.” It was a small joke, but behind it, there was truth. You know. Don’t you? she thought to herself. You have to know how strange this place is.
RE: young artists have gotta starve - Ganondorf - November 09, 2017
He rested himself on his stomach, his paws stretched before him, his paws tucked near his stomach. She watched him. It felt strange, knowing that this woman had been here the whole time, simply watching them. Leeching off of them. And what did she provide? What use was she? Nothing. And yet she remained. He was suspicious, as anyone would be. He merely chuckled at her.
He laughed heartily. Not at the joke itself, but the mere statement.
Next time I'll invite you,To exact what he did not know. To a torture session, to show her what would happen if she dared cross them? No. She surely must know already.
He laughed heartily. Not at the joke itself, but the mere statement.
We are, aren't we?He chuckled, smiling lazily at her.
But you must be no different, seeing as you decided to stay rather than leave us weird folk for some normal people,