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+--- Thread: Stone Circle stand next to the spire of my crumbling (/showthread.php?tid=23784)
stand next to the spire of my crumbling - Wardruna - November 10, 2017
Wardruna slipped from the den he shares with Noma quietly before the sun has risen, telling her to stay in the lingering warmth of the den and set out to hunt. Ever since Mur’s meddling Wardruna’s pushed himself to his boundaries and then over the edge of them to prove to Noma that he can provide for her. Not that the northerner actually understands why he wants to show her that he can care for her …she’s his thrall and the idea that he wants to prove anything to her would be humorous to him if it wasn’t true. But it is. It’s absolutely true and the ferocious desire does not ebb. Wardruna has hoped that it would pass as their routines returned to normal but it doesn’t. It goes nowhere; and that it remains utterly perplexing and frustrating to him. Wardruna manages to come across a fat fox — a rare sight, he thinks — and his mood lifts as he grasps it’s neck betwixt his jaws: the alignment of bones feeling so fragile in the crush of his teeth as he crushes it’s windpipe and jerks his head back and forth to kill it. The body goes still and then rigid in his grasp and he returns to the den he shares with his thrall. The sun has risen just above the smallest mountain and it works to slowly unthaw the world around them. Wardruna is contented to bask in the warm rays for the moment as he sits the kill down at his paws and lets out a low chuff to wake his thrall if she is not already awake. “@Noma, I have brought you breakfast.” Wardruna’s lilting, accented voice is soft when he speaks and breaks the silence briefly held from his chuff, beckoning her out of the den that the pair call home ( however tentatively ).
312 words
RE: stand next to the spire of my crumbling - Addie - November 11, 2017
Noma does not stir when Wardruna leaves the den, deep asleep as she often is. If she isn’t being forced to follow him around in the cold, she stays in the den curled up and asleep. She wakes when he makes her, forcing her to eat something, and it has put a little meat on her bones but she is still grossly thin and it has become difficult to care as much as he does. She’d have long since passed away if it hadn’t been for his intervention of her travels and she thinks about it often, wishing he’d left her alone that day. This is no way to live, either, as she takes what little pleasure she can in dreams. In an alternate reality, perhaps she is happy. Perhaps she has all the things she needs and she doesn’t feel pain. Every so often it is interrupted by the occasional nightmare but she takes relief where she can.
When Wardruna returns, calling out to her, Noma still does not move. Her ears are relaxed against her head, legs curled into her form, and the rest of her is lax while she stays in a sleep deep enough not to hear him. Even the scent of blood and fresh meat doesn’t draw her out and despite the new chill in the den without the absence of his thick fur, she remains unfazed.
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RE: stand next to the spire of my crumbling - Wardruna - November 12, 2017
His thrall does not rouse from within the den. His ears flick and twitch but there is no sound of scuffle as she unfolds herself, no sound of nearing footfalls. It has been some time since Wardruna has worried over her dying on him: with her form filling out from the food he brings her his worry had gradually lessened. “Noma!” He chokes out in a barely audible whisper with a tremble to the sound, hating the waiver of his voice. Still, she does not rouse. Dread fills him: icy cold and adrenaline pulses through his veins, increasing the beat of his heart as it threatens to beat from his chest and into his throat. He does not want her to leave him …in any capacity. It never actually occurred to Wardruna that during the process of nursing her back to health and caring for her that he would actually grow attached to her: that he would actually come to feel things for her. That he would need her — mostly because that wasn’t how it was supposed to go but damn the gods if his life has gone all askew. So, of course, why wouldn’t this, too? Developing feelings for a thrall; how far the mighty commander has truly fallen, Wardruna thinks bitterly. A discovery brought to light by the unpleasant fear that he’s failed and that she’s perished in his care.
He barges into the den without preamble, a tremble to his legs that he tries to ignore as he wills them forward, his functioning eye focusing upon her silhouette in the dark. He presses his muzzle to her cheek intrusively, heaving a sigh of relief to feel that her flesh is still warm, still soft beneath his touch. She is not a corpse. Annoyance at himself, at the situation, at emotions and attachment that is far out of his control grows in equal measure. He wants her to prosper, to grow into her potential at his side but he also wants her to stay and Wardruna has no idea how to ensure both. The realization that he’s way more involved and invested in his thrall then he wanted to be, than he expected to be only …complicates everything. Does he tighten his reigns or loosen the hold and pray to his deities that she chooses to stay? He has given her no reason to, admittedly. He is not a beast born of gentle things and he does not know how to be kind.
“Vaknaðu Þyrnirós,” Wardruna murmurs the northerner words into her ear, his teeth grazing the velveteen tip of it in a small nip. An attempt to rouse her from her deep slumber. He’s almost envious of her ability to sleep like the dead and wonders if that is just how she is or if she feels secure enough in his presence to trust that he would not turn upon her and that he would, accordingly keep her safe ( as best he could anyway ). Wardruna makes no attempts to flatter himself with the last consideration though: likely, he thinks, she’s just gifted with the ability of deep slumber.
He barges into the den without preamble, a tremble to his legs that he tries to ignore as he wills them forward, his functioning eye focusing upon her silhouette in the dark. He presses his muzzle to her cheek intrusively, heaving a sigh of relief to feel that her flesh is still warm, still soft beneath his touch. She is not a corpse. Annoyance at himself, at the situation, at emotions and attachment that is far out of his control grows in equal measure. He wants her to prosper, to grow into her potential at his side but he also wants her to stay and Wardruna has no idea how to ensure both. The realization that he’s way more involved and invested in his thrall then he wanted to be, than he expected to be only …complicates everything. Does he tighten his reigns or loosen the hold and pray to his deities that she chooses to stay? He has given her no reason to, admittedly. He is not a beast born of gentle things and he does not know how to be kind.
“Vaknaðu Þyrnirós,” Wardruna murmurs the northerner words into her ear, his teeth grazing the velveteen tip of it in a small nip. An attempt to rouse her from her deep slumber. He’s almost envious of her ability to sleep like the dead and wonders if that is just how she is or if she feels secure enough in his presence to trust that he would not turn upon her and that he would, accordingly keep her safe ( as best he could anyway ). Wardruna makes no attempts to flatter himself with the last consideration though: likely, he thinks, she’s just gifted with the ability of deep slumber.
524 words
RE: stand next to the spire of my crumbling - Addie - November 12, 2017
The moment teeth tough her ear, her heart lodges into her throat, blocking off her airway and she startles awake, gasping for air. Her eyes widen and pupils dilate and instantly she’s on her feet, springing forward and crashing right into the one to wake her. She cries out a yelp in surprise before she’s sent backwards, stumbling into the wall with uncoordinated and weak legs. Despite the extra meat on her bones and her strength returning, she’s still far from in good condition and it makes it easy to send her back to the ground, crumpling in a mess of a wolf on the den floor. There isn’t much room for her to move with him inside the den and it only takes a few second before it’s over and she’s heaving for breath, trying to return air to her lungs once more while she tries to sort through her tired brain about what happened.
Noma remains still on the ground, afraid to move, before she registers where she is and who is in the den with her but she doesn’t acknowledge him. She hasn’t felt such a strong emotion of… anything in so long that she isn’t sure her body can handle it. Her heart pumps her blood heavier than before, feeling it throb in her ears , and she tries to reign it in and calm down by staring at the ground, trying to keep things in one piece while she focuses on a steadier breath.
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RE: stand next to the spire of my crumbling - Wardruna - November 17, 2017
Noma does not react in any sort of desirable way and whatever Wardruna had been expecting ( for some reason it did not occur to him that she would react with fear ) it hadn’t been that. She yelps, crashes into him and then goes still upon the ground. For a moment it threatens to ruin his jovial mood, the dark clouds threatening to roll in and storm upon him. He frowns tersely down at her, seized by a sudden flare of anger that she is so fearful of him. Where was the fire? That burning defiance that though it undeniably frustrates him he cannot help but like ( and truly he’s tried not to )? He feels …insulted. He does not think he’s hurt her — at least not physically. Blackmailing her into being his thrall well that was a technicality. They’d bet upon it, after all, and Wardruna had won. As far as the northerner has cause to be concerned: he had every right to ensure his prize stayed as such. “You sleep as the dead do,” He remarks with bite to his tone, brooding in the sting of bad mood her ( perfectly reasonable and normal ) reaction had given him. ”Come. Eat.” Wardruna tries to make these words softer, to craft them as an invitation in lieu of a command but the words force themselves out briskly enough to lean more towards something that teeters in the in-between ( but undeniably closer to command ). He flicks his tail as he turns abruptly in the small space and shrugs out of the den, stepping around the plump fox he’s brought to her.
276 words
RE: stand next to the spire of my crumbling - Addie - November 18, 2017
It takes a long moment before she’s able to focus on anything else. Wardruna moves around her a little, saying something that she barely registers. Finally, when she is able to take slower, even breaths, she closes her eyes and focuses on the rest of her body. Her stomach churns and her mouth waters in a way that does not invite her to eat, licking back but unable to slow it down. He demands for her to eat and she stiffens, lifting her nose to note the scent of blood in the air. It does not help the new sensation in her mouth and the way her stomach tightens into a hard knot. “I am not hungry,” she says, carefully, her voice soft and low in a way that means it. The thought of food all of a sudden makes her feel weird and out of place and she can’t think of a good reason, she has a hard time thinking at all, and she scrunches her eyes together and turns from him (without leaving the den), and sits awkwardly. Her chest flares at her diaphragm and her stomach contracts, her waist thinning while her belly threatens to heave.
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RE: stand next to the spire of my crumbling - Wardruna - November 20, 2017
His attention, diverted to the mouth of the den, his ears swiveling to the side as he swears he hears the snap of a twig underfoot — the traffic around their den has been increased and he grows more agitated by the day with the unwelcome interference of the Easthollow wolves ( how is he meant to make her better when they keep shoving their presences down her throat?! ) — but no one appears. Which is likely a good thing, he thinks as his head swings around to look at Noma as she declares that she’s not hungry. For a moment, he thinks she’s back to refusing what he gives her and a swell of anger rises in him. In a wash of exhaustion he wonders if it would not be better to simply free her. To relinquish her title as his thrall: he has fought and provided and risked to no avail. It feels like every good step forward they take something occurs to place them back at step one again. He’s tired of being at square one, tired of being watched. He needs to leave this place before he does something …regrettable. He almost argues with her, the air works it’s way up his windpipes from his lungs but his teeth click together as his muzzle snaps shut. Arguing would only draw attention and he already has more attention than he has made clear that he wants. Easthollow’s meddling was like poking a hibernating bear and eventually Wardruna was going to snap; and Noma was wearing him down. He thought things were good and then everything shifts so wholly to prove him wrong and the northerner does not know what to do. “Fine.” He draws in a deep breath and lets it out. “Fine.” He reiterates and moves to lay down but away from the mouth of the den so she could eat if she did have the urge of hunger. “I am tired.” He announces grumpily, rests his head upon his paws and closes his eyes; unfortunately it wasn't a tired that sleep could cure.
349 words
RE: stand next to the spire of my crumbling - Addie - November 20, 2017
Noma looks away when he starts to respond, able to feel the new anger coming from him. Her ears tighten on her head and she flattens them, staring at the ground when he gives in and accepts her words for what they are, whether or not he believes them. For a few minutes she sits there as he settles on the ground away from her. A gust of wind touches the fringes of the den, causing her to shiver, and she slips out of the den for a moment to tug the kill inside so no one stopped by and thought to take it.
She drops it as soon as she can, closing her eyes to steady herself, and she moves further back. This time, she does not stop and force herself between the den wall and his thick furred form, but instead in front of the way he’s facing. It isn’t as warm, with the mouth to the front, but it’s close and she tucks her feet beneath her and lowers her head to the ground.
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RE: stand next to the spire of my crumbling - Wardruna - November 26, 2017
seems like a good place to wrap this up so i just wrote up a little conclusion and archived it. :-)
Wardruna does not look up as she exits the den but knows she did not go far as he hears her pulling the meat instead. She does not eat it, though, and his ears flatten against his head, tucking his nose beneath a large paw. The northerner offers his thrall no other words. Instead, he stays true to his word of being tired. He closes his eyes and before he really has time to think about it he is asleep.
80 words