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+--- Thread: Whitefish River some sad singers, they just play tragic (/showthread.php?tid=24640)
some sad singers, they just play tragic - Olive - January 05, 2018
the twilight danced, and the mice were at play,
and the winter winds rustled through the trees
and Olive concealed herself amongst the silvered grasses, watching those dancing mice at play, waiting for the right moment and wondering why she was here. Her courage had ameliorated to an amount that she found leaving her winter den to be entirely within the realm of possibility, so she had indulged. After her unceremonious departure from Moonspear and all the memories held upon that mountain, she had staked a small, masochistic claim to an enclave of rocks and shielded herself from the worst of the snows. Then she had simply stayed put, unsure where else to go and what else to do. But this night, the sylph exited under the auspice of her beloved mother moon, avoiding Ravensblood Forest and found a well-worn path alongside the rushing water to the east. She picked her way across the landscape, drifting upon featherlight toes and pale coat glowing luminously in the moonlight, looking almost too ghost-like for comfort.
Her travel was slow, and her surefootedness was long gone; soon she was fatigued and hungry and, to be honest, a little cranky. Soon the lamb yearned to be back in the solitude of her den, the security of those earthen walls — but before long had become entirely distracted by the family of field mice in front of her. The small, warm bodies scurried amongst the dead grasses and cooled earth, gathering frostbitten seeds and storing them in a nest of woven sweetgrass. The mice seem oblivious to her being there — so involved in their winter preparations, were they! — that the pale shewolf could sit and watch from mere feet away. Once she had seen them, Olive found that she could not look away.
Her hunger soon became a forethought, as hunger tends to do, and Olive found her tongue moistening at the sight of the tiny busybodies. Hunting, in any shape or form, was not something that came naturally to Olive, so this reaction was something unfamiliar. In fact, it was something quite offensive to her and she often went to great lengths to avoid the carnage involved in killing... but, it was entirely within the nature of the wolf to make a meal of rodents, wasn’t it? How could something that came so naturally be truly, inscrutably wrong?
Maybe this lonely, cold winter was an ever-present concern in her mind. Not that last winter had been any better — the memories of Dakarai losing his memory plagued her almost nightly — but now it seemed that Olive needed to look out for her own good, as no one was there to do it for her. She no longer trusted anyone to do it for her.
Olive gritted her molars together, clearly in the grips of uncertainty. She felt her stomach keenly, knew that a wolf who couldn’t hunt was a dead wolf indeed, but she couldn’t. Her ivory visage turned sharply away, not wishing to be the harbinger of another’s demise. She was sure that the mice would feel the loss of one of their family as keenly as she felt the loss of hers, and Olive would not live to cause another such pain; it was simply too heavy a load to bear. In a rush, Olive retreated, heels skittering behind her as she darted away from the rodents’ winter stores.
It was only in her departure that the mice took notice of the shewolf and they too retreated to their warm home, oblivious to the angel of death that passed o'er their house that night.
RE: some sad singers, they just play tragic - Coelacanth - January 14, 2018
Let’s get drunk and eat things. Massive powerplay of @Stockholm.
Between her tightly clenched teeth, the tiny Groenendael gripped the wiry husk of a coconut, holding it up and away from her body as much as possible. Now and again, it thumped painfully against the frail swell of her breast, but she stubbornly endured the pain lest Stockholm attempt to relieve her of her prize. Bright cerulean eyes eagerly sought her towering companion, widening briefly and then crinkling at the corners in a happy dog smile as her eyes roved with feline possessiveness over his heavily-muscled frame. Since she’d found him that day on the Southern Strand, the pair had become virtually inseparable — and even when her natural capriciousness drove her to venture out on her own, she never went out of earshot. Though they were already close enough for his fur to tangle pleasurably with hers as they walked, she pressed closer still, nearly dropping the coconut in her excitement to rub her cheek against the moving target of his elbow.
The Gampr had a hefty burden of his own: a pumpkin that Seelie had slow-cooked by wedging it between a crevasse in the nearby hot springs for a day and a half. It was too soft now for the pale-furred wolfdog to hold the charred flesh of the fruit between his teeth, so he was forced to carry the unwieldy thing by its stem. The plan, conveyed in her odd amalgamation of whispers, whines, and body language that Stockholm now understood with perfect fluency, was to fish from the river she’d spotted on her way to freedom from her imprisonment in the “bad forest” — and, if they were so inclined, to explore the glittering cavern she had spotted during her brief stay.
As the sound of singing water reached her ears, Seelie bounced excitedly — and in doing so, lost her grip on the coconut with a soft, jarring click of her incisors. It rolled down a nearby incline and through a warm hollow that smelled tantalizingly of field mice; but the sheepdog was too focused on catching up with her prize to be tempted, let alone to realize that there was another smell there as well — one that ought to be intimately familiar, despite being blurred over with time and loss. She followed the roughhewn sphere until at last it slowed to a stop, and when at last she realized that a very familiar, very wolf-shaped silhouette stood before her, she too slammed on the brakes. The sound she made, not quite a growl but more guttural than a whine, was low and uncertain; she huffed out her breath on a soft boof! and allowed her hackles to prickle like inky quills as she made herself small and skittered backwards, keeping distance between herself and the unknown as she tried to remember who Olive was and whether she was a threat.
The Gampr had a hefty burden of his own: a pumpkin that Seelie had slow-cooked by wedging it between a crevasse in the nearby hot springs for a day and a half. It was too soft now for the pale-furred wolfdog to hold the charred flesh of the fruit between his teeth, so he was forced to carry the unwieldy thing by its stem. The plan, conveyed in her odd amalgamation of whispers, whines, and body language that Stockholm now understood with perfect fluency, was to fish from the river she’d spotted on her way to freedom from her imprisonment in the “bad forest” — and, if they were so inclined, to explore the glittering cavern she had spotted during her brief stay.
As the sound of singing water reached her ears, Seelie bounced excitedly — and in doing so, lost her grip on the coconut with a soft, jarring click of her incisors. It rolled down a nearby incline and through a warm hollow that smelled tantalizingly of field mice; but the sheepdog was too focused on catching up with her prize to be tempted, let alone to realize that there was another smell there as well — one that ought to be intimately familiar, despite being blurred over with time and loss. She followed the roughhewn sphere until at last it slowed to a stop, and when at last she realized that a very familiar, very wolf-shaped silhouette stood before her, she too slammed on the brakes. The sound she made, not quite a growl but more guttural than a whine, was low and uncertain; she huffed out her breath on a soft boof! and allowed her hackles to prickle like inky quills as she made herself small and skittered backwards, keeping distance between herself and the unknown as she tried to remember who Olive was and whether she was a threat.
RE: some sad singers, they just play tragic - Olive - January 18, 2018
you get olive’s 400th post, my beautiful friend!
The sylph was in the midst of her flight when a coconut, chocolate-brown and wired, rolled past her. Actually, it did not roll as much as it did bounce in a rather comical way, and Olive came to a skidding halt to marvel at it. A coconut, here? How could this be? She was so very far away from the beach. The woman of ash and bone had seen these things before — had cracked one open and indulged in their sweet nectar too, and immediately Olive was appreciative of her sudden good fortune. Perhaps this was a god's gift, though it made no sense; it was so random that it could only be a sign that she was on the right path.
Olive laughed. Was she that desperate for universal reassurance? She was truly grasping at straws now. She took a step towards the coconut, preparing to grasp it, when something far more interesting suddenly came onto the scene. Little did Olive know, but Carina’s reappearance heralded a time of many reunions — this would be the first, of many. The fae immediately recognized the gamine, inky dog. Again, for the first of many times to come, her mouth fell open in sheer shock of it. Carina… was alive?
Suddenly, it was as if all the breath rushed from her — and to replace it came the memories, as vivid as daylight, illuminating the truth of the relationship that laid before her. Once her closest confidant, traded by the mummer queen for her own life — and the lives of her newborn babes. It had almost been a year since the worst day of her life.
The small wolfess prostrated herself in front of the skittering girl, who seemed to have as many issues swallowing this as she did, by throwing herself upon the dirt and stifling a small sob. Olive thought often about what became of her nursedog, and being alive had not been assigned a high likelihood. What horrors had she seen — where had she been — what had befallen her? Olive did her best to look a pity, but it did not take much work because she was so very, very sorry. She didn't know what else she could say. “I am so very, very sorry,” she supplicated, thrusting her gaze upwards beseechingly, pleadingly. Olive needed her forgiveness more than she needed her next breath. “It was not my choice. It's not what I wanted...” she managed to choke out, voice quavering and cracking, her heart wrenching over the pain she had brought upon yet another innocent being.
RE: some sad singers, they just play tragic - Coelacanth - January 18, 2018
The sheepdog’s eyes were wide and watchful, and shock predominated over any other emotion she might have felt upon seeing Olive again. All at once she was back in Ravensblood Forest —
no, bathing in the star-dappled river, rejoicing in her new name —
no, in the dead of winter, trying to feed three hungry mouths —
no, beside the sea lions’ shoals, and Doe was on the ground, screaming —
NO!
Doe’s exit wound was still raw; Seelie’d always had a penchant for hanging on to things. It never seemed to be enough, though. If she’d held on just a little harder to the golden-eyed siren —
Not even a creature like Coelacanth, whose shoulders were built for carrying guilt, could weather the knowledge that she had failed to protect not only the witch doctor’s children but the witch doctor herself — so the door holding all that guilt and all that failure back slammed shut, creating a rip current of consciousness that thrust her back into the present so heartily she rocked on her feet. She backpedaled furiously, flinging up her head with a whuffle of panic when Olive threw herself to the earth, but she could not bring herself to flee altogether.
“I am so very, very sorry,” Olive quavered, and the tiny Groenendael’s expression drew taut with confusion. Up until now, she had regarded Olive as utterly blameless. Those present at her abduction were not to be trusted — Dakarai had summoned her, Lotte had driven her away, Arturo had sanctioned his corrupt queen’s decree, and Chusi had done as much by holding her silence — but Olive had remained unsullied in the little crossbreed’s eyes. Despite her intelligence, Seelie was a simple, naïve creature who tended to believe that other creatures were innocent until proven otherwise. Olive’s apology now struck the sheepdog as a particularly suspicious act.
Suddenly distrustful, the selkie’s daughter swept elegantly forward, her tufted ears pressing forth upon her skull in an uncharacteristically demanding display; the tip of her tongue darted out to taste the air in a manner that was almost reptilian. The rest of Olive’s words were carefully, meticulously stored away, but Carina made no outward response. She believed the mist-shrouded druid to be a peaceful creature — trusted her to refrain from physical harm. Though Olive was taller and older, two things that automatically demanded the dog’s respect, the prostrate position of her body called to something wild and primal that had been awakened during Seelie’s imprisonment.
Stiff-legged, she circled the Shakti woman, her feathery fur bristling — and although her fangs remained firmly behind her velveteen flews, there was a tightness to her mouth that betrayed the effort of keeping them there. “Did you know?” she wanted to demand. “Did you know, when your husband called for me, that I would be sent away? Do you know what I have suffered? I was alone! I was alone and cold and hurt and sick and did you know?” Her touch was invasive as she drew nearer still, the tip of her nose pressing insistently into the pale fur of Olive’s nape.
She breathed in the woman’s sorrow, her aloneness.
Coelacanth, the littlest Corten, the pacifist, wanted very much to score Olive’s flesh with her teeth in that moment — to make a prisoner of the woman as she had been made a prisoner. Experimentally, she mouthed at the tender hollow at the base of one perfect, petaled ear — but with her lips and tongue only. Again that not-quite-a-growl, not-quite-a-whine susurrus stirred in her throat, tickling hotly along the wolf’s cheek. Her feathered tail waved slowly, but there was something tensile and predatory about it that suggested Olive would be wise to remain quite still.
no, bathing in the star-dappled river, rejoicing in her new name —
no, in the dead of winter, trying to feed three hungry mouths —
no, beside the sea lions’ shoals, and Doe was on the ground, screaming —
NO!
Doe’s exit wound was still raw; Seelie’d always had a penchant for hanging on to things. It never seemed to be enough, though. If she’d held on just a little harder to the golden-eyed siren —
Not even a creature like Coelacanth, whose shoulders were built for carrying guilt, could weather the knowledge that she had failed to protect not only the witch doctor’s children but the witch doctor herself — so the door holding all that guilt and all that failure back slammed shut, creating a rip current of consciousness that thrust her back into the present so heartily she rocked on her feet. She backpedaled furiously, flinging up her head with a whuffle of panic when Olive threw herself to the earth, but she could not bring herself to flee altogether.
“I am so very, very sorry,” Olive quavered, and the tiny Groenendael’s expression drew taut with confusion. Up until now, she had regarded Olive as utterly blameless. Those present at her abduction were not to be trusted — Dakarai had summoned her, Lotte had driven her away, Arturo had sanctioned his corrupt queen’s decree, and Chusi had done as much by holding her silence — but Olive had remained unsullied in the little crossbreed’s eyes. Despite her intelligence, Seelie was a simple, naïve creature who tended to believe that other creatures were innocent until proven otherwise. Olive’s apology now struck the sheepdog as a particularly suspicious act.
Suddenly distrustful, the selkie’s daughter swept elegantly forward, her tufted ears pressing forth upon her skull in an uncharacteristically demanding display; the tip of her tongue darted out to taste the air in a manner that was almost reptilian. The rest of Olive’s words were carefully, meticulously stored away, but Carina made no outward response. She believed the mist-shrouded druid to be a peaceful creature — trusted her to refrain from physical harm. Though Olive was taller and older, two things that automatically demanded the dog’s respect, the prostrate position of her body called to something wild and primal that had been awakened during Seelie’s imprisonment.
Stiff-legged, she circled the Shakti woman, her feathery fur bristling — and although her fangs remained firmly behind her velveteen flews, there was a tightness to her mouth that betrayed the effort of keeping them there. “Did you know?” she wanted to demand. “Did you know, when your husband called for me, that I would be sent away? Do you know what I have suffered? I was alone! I was alone and cold and hurt and sick and did you know?” Her touch was invasive as she drew nearer still, the tip of her nose pressing insistently into the pale fur of Olive’s nape.
She breathed in the woman’s sorrow, her aloneness.
Coelacanth, the littlest Corten, the pacifist, wanted very much to score Olive’s flesh with her teeth in that moment — to make a prisoner of the woman as she had been made a prisoner. Experimentally, she mouthed at the tender hollow at the base of one perfect, petaled ear — but with her lips and tongue only. Again that not-quite-a-growl, not-quite-a-whine susurrus stirred in her throat, tickling hotly along the wolf’s cheek. Her feathered tail waved slowly, but there was something tensile and predatory about it that suggested Olive would be wise to remain quite still.
RE: some sad singers, they just play tragic - Olive - January 19, 2018
Olive locked and grit her jaws together, turning her cheek to not look upon Carina directly as the girl stalked about and circumnavigated the margins on their meeting. It was somewhat of a disturbing display, coming from that sweet little sheepdog, but Olive knew she deserved every inch of the inky girl’s ire… and more. Then came the tears — there were always tears, where Olive was concerned — and she became enrobed in the sense of pervasive dread that always came calling when her past happened to catch up with her.
She pressed herself further against the ground, trying to be small.
As much as Carina wished to harm her, did Olive wish to be harmed! She would buy her forgiveness with her flesh — for that was how one solved her problems, wasn’t it? She bartered with her corporeality, because that’s all she had: flesh to sacrifice to the highest bidder, whoever it the most. Hadn’t she sacrificed the beauty of face to the BlackFeather’s matriarch, and purchased Dakarai’s love with pups and endless lovemaking? It’s all she had to negotiate with, and the pain she felt was usually well-deserved; well-earned. Sometimes, it even lasted forever.
But what was most undeniable about it was how the fae wished for the hurt; felt the hellcat’s nose press against the nape of her neck and tasting her ear [as sinister as a serpent!] and, leaning into the dog’s unholy grimace, wished to feel teeth upon her hide. Oh, it felt good, in some crazy fucked-up way. It was similar to that night upon Moonspear, when she climbed to the highest of heights and mused upon her own mortality, the elevation’s high winds coaxing her towards the edge of that godforsaken bedrock. She hadn’t died that night [hadn’t died yet] because there was still more to lessons to learn, more pain to feel — but, in the end of things, she was just a body, and a body was impermanent. A body was nothing. Olive was nothing, yet she was everything — and whatever the sheepdog wanted her to be, Olive would be for her.
Olive’s eyes peeled open, ever so slightly, and she waited for punishment to come [despite only ever having known the girl to pure and good]. But here was Carina, incensed. The energy of the moment, poisonous. Olive upon the ground, silent as death — or maybe moreso.
She pressed herself further against the ground, trying to be small.
As much as Carina wished to harm her, did Olive wish to be harmed! She would buy her forgiveness with her flesh — for that was how one solved her problems, wasn’t it? She bartered with her corporeality, because that’s all she had: flesh to sacrifice to the highest bidder, whoever it the most. Hadn’t she sacrificed the beauty of face to the BlackFeather’s matriarch, and purchased Dakarai’s love with pups and endless lovemaking? It’s all she had to negotiate with, and the pain she felt was usually well-deserved; well-earned. Sometimes, it even lasted forever.
But what was most undeniable about it was how the fae wished for the hurt; felt the hellcat’s nose press against the nape of her neck and tasting her ear [as sinister as a serpent!] and, leaning into the dog’s unholy grimace, wished to feel teeth upon her hide. Oh, it felt good, in some crazy fucked-up way. It was similar to that night upon Moonspear, when she climbed to the highest of heights and mused upon her own mortality, the elevation’s high winds coaxing her towards the edge of that godforsaken bedrock. She hadn’t died that night [hadn’t died yet] because there was still more to lessons to learn, more pain to feel — but, in the end of things, she was just a body, and a body was impermanent. A body was nothing. Olive was nothing, yet she was everything — and whatever the sheepdog wanted her to be, Olive would be for her.
Olive’s eyes peeled open, ever so slightly, and she waited for punishment to come [despite only ever having known the girl to pure and good]. But here was Carina, incensed. The energy of the moment, poisonous. Olive upon the ground, silent as death — or maybe moreso.
RE: some sad singers, they just play tragic - Stockholm - January 19, 2018
The further the pair traveled from the shores of the island the lighter the weight of burden seemed to feel upon Stockholm’s shoulders. His failure was still never far from his thoughts, but the travel necessitated his focus be in the here and now, and the warmth of Seelie’s ever-present affection soothed away many of the uncertainties and concerns that otherwise would have plagued him.
She continued to surprise him in many ways – the ingenuity of cooking the foraged pumpkin, for one, was something that never would have occurred to the Armenian. He would have relied strictly on meat he hunted for sustenance had he been alone. Thus, he was rather looking forward to finally cracking open the lightly charred pumpkin and tasting it, along with the coconut Seelie carried as she pranced alongside him – another food item that was foreign to him.
Seelie bounced beside him, their shoulders rubbing together as she lost her grip on the coconut and immediately dashed after it. He snorted lightly in amusement and continued to plod along after her even as she briefly slipped out of sight. The Gampr had never regarded the inky sheepdog as a damsel-in-distress and while he was terribly protective of her, he was also aware that she was capable of handling herself – she had survived without him for some time before they met, after all.
Still, as he trotted down the incline with the pumpkin stem still carefully gripped in his teeth, the sight of another wolf in close proximity to her made his hackles rise ever so slightly. The scene that played out before him was not at all what he expected – the stiff legged posture and tight draw of lips was uncharacteristic of his Seelie. Carefully he placed the pumpkin on the ground in front of him, golden eyes locked on the two females. He was the odd man out, the only one who didn’t know the story. There was clearly history here, they knew each other, something had happened to make the shewolf offer up apologies and for Seelie to act in such a heated, intense, non-Seelie like manner.
He hesitates for a moment, quietly observing, hackles still flared up between his shoulder-blades, before taking a slow step forward towards the pair. The rumble of a growl that cannot escape the inky sheepdog’s throat manifests itself in his voice as he approaches. “Seelie?” This is not necessarily his business, no matter how much he feels Seelie is his, and if she doesn’t wish him to interfere he won’t.
She continued to surprise him in many ways – the ingenuity of cooking the foraged pumpkin, for one, was something that never would have occurred to the Armenian. He would have relied strictly on meat he hunted for sustenance had he been alone. Thus, he was rather looking forward to finally cracking open the lightly charred pumpkin and tasting it, along with the coconut Seelie carried as she pranced alongside him – another food item that was foreign to him.
Seelie bounced beside him, their shoulders rubbing together as she lost her grip on the coconut and immediately dashed after it. He snorted lightly in amusement and continued to plod along after her even as she briefly slipped out of sight. The Gampr had never regarded the inky sheepdog as a damsel-in-distress and while he was terribly protective of her, he was also aware that she was capable of handling herself – she had survived without him for some time before they met, after all.
Still, as he trotted down the incline with the pumpkin stem still carefully gripped in his teeth, the sight of another wolf in close proximity to her made his hackles rise ever so slightly. The scene that played out before him was not at all what he expected – the stiff legged posture and tight draw of lips was uncharacteristic of his Seelie. Carefully he placed the pumpkin on the ground in front of him, golden eyes locked on the two females. He was the odd man out, the only one who didn’t know the story. There was clearly history here, they knew each other, something had happened to make the shewolf offer up apologies and for Seelie to act in such a heated, intense, non-Seelie like manner.
He hesitates for a moment, quietly observing, hackles still flared up between his shoulder-blades, before taking a slow step forward towards the pair. The rumble of a growl that cannot escape the inky sheepdog’s throat manifests itself in his voice as he approaches. “Seelie?” This is not necessarily his business, no matter how much he feels Seelie is his, and if she doesn’t wish him to interfere he won’t.
RE: some sad singers, they just play tragic - Coelacanth - January 20, 2018
Coelacanth watched Olive with a curiously impassive expression. It was clear the inkdark female waited for something — there was a striking intensity in her Neptune eyes not wholly attributable to her piercing sheepdog stare — but what she wanted was anybody’s guess. When the heartsick woman dissolved into tears, however, something inside her erstwhile confidant seemed to soften. Reeling beneath the weight of Olive’s borrowed emotions, Seelie trembled once, and the set of her slim shoulders sagged. She understood on some level that the female had submitted to her wholly, but found she was not altogether pleased with the outcome. Tufted ears swayed faintly upon her skull; she did not remove her nose from the woman’s nape but continued to breathe her in, feeling suddenly exhausted by the whole ordeal. She still kind of wanted to bite Olive…
— but Olive had given her a name. Olive had been part of her flock.
“Seelie?”
The atramentous sheepdog’s own guilt transposed itself over the protective rumble in Stockholm’s voice, and her feathered tail sketched a quick, frenetic scribble of apology as she turned her head just enough to catch sight of him. Bright cerulean reached boldly, desperately for shining gold. She’d gotten herself into something she didn’t know how to get out of. “Why did you let them give me away?” she thought wretchedly at the sacrificial lamb whose tears wetted her catlike paws and trickled between her toes. Still stiff-legged, she smoothed the fur she’d mussed with a few quick licks, then afforded a greater proximity between her body and Olive’s. The girl was clearly anxious, harboring a mixture of shame at her forward behavior, dissatisfaction at Olive’s reaction, and continued confusion as to what exactly had transpired that day.
Her hangdog eyes darted sheepishly between Olive and Stockholm but eventually settled firmly upon the Gampr’s steadfast visage for a prolonged momoent. She wasn’t making things easy for him, she knew, but she didn’t know where to go from here. Perhaps if Olive spoke about her experiences, she would gain some perspective. A wheedling, airy whine spilled from her lips as she turned pointedly toward Olive and “barked” once, a quick rush of air and click of teeth. Mirroring their earliest meetings, Coelacanth tried to encourage the woman to speak without being able to speak herself, the bridge of her muzzle sweeping innocuously alongside one heather-gray shoulder — a hovering touch that did not make physical contact. Though her typically gentle face was still mirthless and somber, she cocked her head inquisitively and sat. “Speak. I am listening.”
— but Olive had given her a name. Olive had been part of her flock.
“Seelie?”
The atramentous sheepdog’s own guilt transposed itself over the protective rumble in Stockholm’s voice, and her feathered tail sketched a quick, frenetic scribble of apology as she turned her head just enough to catch sight of him. Bright cerulean reached boldly, desperately for shining gold. She’d gotten herself into something she didn’t know how to get out of. “Why did you let them give me away?” she thought wretchedly at the sacrificial lamb whose tears wetted her catlike paws and trickled between her toes. Still stiff-legged, she smoothed the fur she’d mussed with a few quick licks, then afforded a greater proximity between her body and Olive’s. The girl was clearly anxious, harboring a mixture of shame at her forward behavior, dissatisfaction at Olive’s reaction, and continued confusion as to what exactly had transpired that day.
Her hangdog eyes darted sheepishly between Olive and Stockholm but eventually settled firmly upon the Gampr’s steadfast visage for a prolonged momoent. She wasn’t making things easy for him, she knew, but she didn’t know where to go from here. Perhaps if Olive spoke about her experiences, she would gain some perspective. A wheedling, airy whine spilled from her lips as she turned pointedly toward Olive and “barked” once, a quick rush of air and click of teeth. Mirroring their earliest meetings, Coelacanth tried to encourage the woman to speak without being able to speak herself, the bridge of her muzzle sweeping innocuously alongside one heather-gray shoulder — a hovering touch that did not make physical contact. Though her typically gentle face was still mirthless and somber, she cocked her head inquisitively and sat. “Speak. I am listening.”
RE: some sad singers, they just play tragic - Olive - January 25, 2018
Can you believe it’s been so long since these Olive and Seelie last saw each other? Time is sooo weird
The longer the lamb lay upon the ground, the longer nothing happened to her — and still the diminutive sheepdog pressed her nose against her feathered nape, and still Olive trembled under her thumb. Why was nothing happening, Olive queried within her own mind; heart churning and ivories gritted in agitation. Why was there no retribution, when she begged for it so plainly? Would this chance too be stolen from her? But, how else could she possibly pay for the sins, if not with pain inflicted upon her own body at the behest of the sheepdog who was once so pure? The wraith wished her heart would expire at that very moment, that she would just die in order to demonstrate how very, truly, deeply sorry she was — then, maybe, her life would have been made into something meaningful. Then she would fade away, as all things faded away eventually.
but she hates you, the darkness in her mind was quick to her. and you deserve it.
Olive could look upon the girl’s sculpted visage no more than she could look upon her children's, whom she also failed. Hadn’t love been the only thing she ever wanted, fought for — pursued relentlessly? It’s what the gods told her to do when they spoke in her dreams and filled her mind with a beautiful kaleidoscope of colors. How could this be what the gods wanted — how could they be wrong, so often, and still expect her to keep faith — what kind of test was this karmic life? Perhaps it had not been the gods at all. Perhaps it had never been gods in the first place, but the prattling of her own mercurial mind.
When Carina’s companion came upon the scene, Olive scarcely noticed.
The wastrel, given sudden freedom from her imprisonment, picked herself up and climbed atop unsteady, twiggy limbs. Olive was unable to contain the trembles that continued to rock her featherlight frame and she swayed and rattled as a tree's branches do in an autumnal breeze. The girl gave some attention to the brute, but Olive’s assiduity was trained fully on the girl. Finally, she found her voice — she did not need Carina’s prompting.
“I know my apologies are worth nothing…” she turned to face Carina at her side and took an entreating step forward, letting her foot dangle inches above the earth. “There are so many things I wish I had done differently,” she admitted with a listless sigh, glancing towards her toes. “I knew nothing of their plans, to betray you — to sell you…. th—they betrayed us, too.” Olive moved her muzzle close to Carina’s and spoke in a hushed, hesitant whisper — as if Ceannasach and his queen were within earshot and might find the two vagabonds. “They banished us to foreign lands and kept my son as punishment. They wished death upon us…” Her sad, soft song trailed here, recalling something that was only slightly different from the truth. Then, she moved on quickly, not wanting to belabor her own victimhood. This was not about her.
“I should have looked for you, but…” ...but my family was too busy falling apart, she conceded inwardly, embarassingly. All the suffering that existed between the two of them had all been for nothing.
RE: some sad singers, they just play tragic - Stockholm - February 03, 2018
He lingered silently, trying to decide whether to advance closer to Seelie and the stranger or stay where he was. He catches Seelie’s gaze when she looks towards him again, holding it in wordless communication – I’m here if you need me – before deciding to take a seat and keep his mouth shut.
The Gampr sinks to his haunches, his hackles smoothing back down between his shoulder-blades as Coelacanth turns her attention back to the white shewolf. The sheepdog’s history is a mystery to him, as much as his own is to her beyond what they revealed to each other the night they met. Exchanges since then have been about the here and now, not the past. Perhaps because the past holds too much pain for both of them.
His brows furrow as Olive speaks, a fraction of what must be a very long story, and he has to restrain the curl of his lip at the thought of anyone hurting Seelie. Of someone betraying her, selling her – implying she belonged to anyone other than him. Of the malicious darkness that could be inferred from that situation if he let his imagination wander. And even the thought of this stranger being forcibly separated from her family, no matter if she had a hand in wronging Seelie or not, still made his blood boil.
The Gampr sinks to his haunches, his hackles smoothing back down between his shoulder-blades as Coelacanth turns her attention back to the white shewolf. The sheepdog’s history is a mystery to him, as much as his own is to her beyond what they revealed to each other the night they met. Exchanges since then have been about the here and now, not the past. Perhaps because the past holds too much pain for both of them.
His brows furrow as Olive speaks, a fraction of what must be a very long story, and he has to restrain the curl of his lip at the thought of anyone hurting Seelie. Of someone betraying her, selling her – implying she belonged to anyone other than him. Of the malicious darkness that could be inferred from that situation if he let his imagination wander. And even the thought of this stranger being forcibly separated from her family, no matter if she had a hand in wronging Seelie or not, still made his blood boil.
RE: some sad singers, they just play tragic - Coelacanth - February 09, 2018
Coelacanth was quiet as Olive began to speak. She always was, in the most basic sense; but in this moment her fawnlike, limpid eyes were tranquil as an undisturbed pool at low tide and her tiny body was equally motionless. Even her tufted ears, perched atop her skull like two pair-bonded black robins, were fettered with a waiting stillness. Seelie did not move even after Olive’s last sentence trailed off with a certain melancholic ellipsis. She allowed the silence to draw out almost uncomfortably as she digested what she’d heard. Olive’s words had assured the sheepdog of her innocence in the matter while underscoring Seelie’s own ruination — something she didn’t like remembering. At once, she felt very tired, and very old. She wanted to tell Olive what had transpired, if only to vent her hurts, but perhaps it was best that she lacked the capability.
Very gently, and utterly without malice or guile, Seelie kissed the woman’s trembling mouth and rubbed her dark cheek against Olive’s tear-dampened one. There was part of the dog that desperately wanted to hang on to her bitterness, for it had seemed to transmute itself into an odd kind of strength — at least, it appeared so to Seelie, whose interpretation of strength had taken on a new meaning after being captured, imprisoned, and brutalized. She couldn’t, though. Feeling bitter [even if it was completely justified] made her feel guilty, and she feared that by showing this less kind side of herself, she would lose the regard of those who still loved her.
Intent on burying the hatchet despite her unresolved feelings, Coelacanth disengaged from Olive and delicately picked up the coconut. There was an inviting glint in her eyes, but she made it plainer by gesturing with a quick, careful quirk of her finely-tapered muzzle. There was still time enough to fish, and if Olive couldn’t be persuaded to eat the meat — although Seelie would surely attempt to coax the mist-shrouded druid into doing so; she was so thin! — the pumpkin was big enough for three. Determined to make the best of the afternoon [and glut herself on Stockholm’s comfort and attention when they were alone once more] she returned to his side and regarded him with an intent expression. The two-“note” love song of his name wheedled plaintively between the fibers of the coconut she clutched so possessively, and then she turned and began trotting toward the river as though nothing amiss had happened. A good meal would set things right again.
She trusted Olive to follow, and Stockholm to watch her back.
Very gently, and utterly without malice or guile, Seelie kissed the woman’s trembling mouth and rubbed her dark cheek against Olive’s tear-dampened one. There was part of the dog that desperately wanted to hang on to her bitterness, for it had seemed to transmute itself into an odd kind of strength — at least, it appeared so to Seelie, whose interpretation of strength had taken on a new meaning after being captured, imprisoned, and brutalized. She couldn’t, though. Feeling bitter [even if it was completely justified] made her feel guilty, and she feared that by showing this less kind side of herself, she would lose the regard of those who still loved her.
Intent on burying the hatchet despite her unresolved feelings, Coelacanth disengaged from Olive and delicately picked up the coconut. There was an inviting glint in her eyes, but she made it plainer by gesturing with a quick, careful quirk of her finely-tapered muzzle. There was still time enough to fish, and if Olive couldn’t be persuaded to eat the meat — although Seelie would surely attempt to coax the mist-shrouded druid into doing so; she was so thin! — the pumpkin was big enough for three. Determined to make the best of the afternoon [and glut herself on Stockholm’s comfort and attention when they were alone once more] she returned to his side and regarded him with an intent expression. The two-“note” love song of his name wheedled plaintively between the fibers of the coconut she clutched so possessively, and then she turned and began trotting toward the river as though nothing amiss had happened. A good meal would set things right again.
She trusted Olive to follow, and Stockholm to watch her back.
RE: some sad singers, they just play tragic - Olive - February 27, 2018
It was then that the roles reversed, and Olive was the one left waiting for the inkblot’s reaction, grasping after the forgiveness that she so dearly sought. Though the shuddering of her breath subsided, tears still wet her velveteen cheeks as the sadness of reality set it. Had her actions affected so many, so negatively? How could it have truly been the gods’ divine will, if that was so?
She held her breath as Carina approached her, and subsequently released it when the girl did nothing more than brush her lips and cheek with her own; it was a piece of the tenderness that she had come to love about her relationship with the silent one, and Olive was left astounded at how an act so small, could represent so very much. Olive leant her head lightly against that of the sheepdog, and smiled earnestly. With this communion, perhaps this one aspect of her storied past would finally be called to a close.
The coconut, which had been so unceremoniously abandoned, was picked back up and held betwixt the girl’s jaws. Olive’s grin widened and her tail began to make wide sweeps behind her, thrilled with the girl’s attempt to make-nice. Whatever Carina wanted to do, Olive would do too — and if there was stewed pumpkin to whet her appetite, well, that was all the better. Making to follow the dark one as she approached the river. Drifting alongside the strange man, the large man, Olive glanced up and questioned “Seelie?”, harkening back to the word he had spoken when he first arrived on the scene.
Though they didn’t know each other’s name, Olive was certain that they were already past introductions.
She held her breath as Carina approached her, and subsequently released it when the girl did nothing more than brush her lips and cheek with her own; it was a piece of the tenderness that she had come to love about her relationship with the silent one, and Olive was left astounded at how an act so small, could represent so very much. Olive leant her head lightly against that of the sheepdog, and smiled earnestly. With this communion, perhaps this one aspect of her storied past would finally be called to a close.
The coconut, which had been so unceremoniously abandoned, was picked back up and held betwixt the girl’s jaws. Olive’s grin widened and her tail began to make wide sweeps behind her, thrilled with the girl’s attempt to make-nice. Whatever Carina wanted to do, Olive would do too — and if there was stewed pumpkin to whet her appetite, well, that was all the better. Making to follow the dark one as she approached the river. Drifting alongside the strange man, the large man, Olive glanced up and questioned “Seelie?”, harkening back to the word he had spoken when he first arrived on the scene.
Though they didn’t know each other’s name, Olive was certain that they were already past introductions.
RE: some sad singers, they just play tragic - Stockholm - March 23, 2018
The Armenian remains seated, even after Coelacanth disengages from the shewolf. He silently watches the exchange of Seelie retrieving the coconut and gesturing in invitation, and inclines his head slightly with a smile when she turns her attention to him, as if to make sure he too was going to follow. She needn’t worry – there isn’t a place on this earth that the Gampr wouldn’t follow her to.
He rises to his feet and gives his coat a shake before plucking the pumpkin up by the stem and falling in to step behind the inky sheepdog as she leads them to the river. He deposits the pumpkin in a safe place and glances towards Olive at the question. He would think it odd if he hadn’t already figured out that Seelie’s talking was a somewhat new event. But it makes sense, that if the silvery female had never heard the sheepdog speak before, then she wouldn’t know her name, or perhaps knew her by a different one. “Seelie – Coelacanth, her name.”
It has already been established that Stockholm sucks at fishing while Seelie is naturally adept at it, so he feels no guilt in dropping back to his haunches and letting her do her thing unless she has need to summon him. “I’m Stockholm, by the way. Pleasure to meet you.” Despite the odd circumstances. While he was still clueless to the details of it all, the two seem at peace with each other right now, and that is all that really matters.
He rises to his feet and gives his coat a shake before plucking the pumpkin up by the stem and falling in to step behind the inky sheepdog as she leads them to the river. He deposits the pumpkin in a safe place and glances towards Olive at the question. He would think it odd if he hadn’t already figured out that Seelie’s talking was a somewhat new event. But it makes sense, that if the silvery female had never heard the sheepdog speak before, then she wouldn’t know her name, or perhaps knew her by a different one. “Seelie – Coelacanth, her name.”
It has already been established that Stockholm sucks at fishing while Seelie is naturally adept at it, so he feels no guilt in dropping back to his haunches and letting her do her thing unless she has need to summon him. “I’m Stockholm, by the way. Pleasure to meet you.” Despite the odd circumstances. While he was still clueless to the details of it all, the two seem at peace with each other right now, and that is all that really matters.
RE: some sad singers, they just play tragic - Coelacanth - March 26, 2018
Part of fishing was knowing when you were beat. Even a skilled angler knew when to call it quits. The pickings seemed unusually slim today, and Coelacanth was forced to admit defeat after snapping up a single medium-sized winter-run steelhead. This she tore roughly into three pieces, giving the largest portion to the Gampr and securing a piece of the sweet meat only after she’d served the once estranged Shakti woman. Tapered muzzle swept in a low arc toward Olive, urging the mist-shrouded druid to “mangia! mangia!” with an intent flicker of Neptune eyes that brooked no argument. Then, with a loving lick along Stockholm’s jaw, Seelie placed the pumpkin between the three of them and scraped at its steam-softened skin. It was with some reluctance that she ate first, tufted ears folding demurely against her streamlined skull and bright cerulean eyes shyly downcast, but she was not a particularly food aggressive creature and looked pointedly at her companions with a good-natured flick of her ink-feathered tail. “Dig in!” she seemed to say.
Opening the coconut was a project in and of itself — and honestly, her scribe didn’t feel like going into detail about it — so with the combined efforts of Stockholm and Olive, Coelacanth managed to crack the fermented fruit into a few pieces and timorously sampled a sliver. Her delicate nose wrinkled at the coconut’s heady perfume; she sneezed lightly, and didn’t think much about the effervescent, airy way she felt once she was a few bites in. At a whopping forty-five pounds, the Groenendael was a lighter weight than eiderdown, and it was only an abbreviated matter of time before she fully succumbed to the fermented fruit’s intoxicating effects.
Opening the coconut was a project in and of itself — and honestly, her scribe didn’t feel like going into detail about it — so with the combined efforts of Stockholm and Olive, Coelacanth managed to crack the fermented fruit into a few pieces and timorously sampled a sliver. Her delicate nose wrinkled at the coconut’s heady perfume; she sneezed lightly, and didn’t think much about the effervescent, airy way she felt once she was a few bites in. At a whopping forty-five pounds, the Groenendael was a lighter weight than eiderdown, and it was only an abbreviated matter of time before she fully succumbed to the fermented fruit’s intoxicating effects.
RE: some sad singers, they just play tragic - Olive - April 12, 2018
The man’s name for Carina was politely acknowledged and Olive mused upon how pretty the sound was. Coelacanth, she rolled the sounds upon her tongue, appreciating the mouthfeel of it — the gravity of the word [the fact that it was not just a moniker, but her god-given name], however, was lost upon her. Her friend’s newfound voice was still quite unknown to the pale druid, so Olive nodded politely and made note of the pretty name and how she might want to try it out, later on. “Olive,” the shewolf returned his introduction with an unknowing smile and swish of her tail. Then they fished, Olive half-heartedly, and dispatched the trout, split the gourd and the fruit and settled in to enjoy their small feast, complete with cocktails and everything.
The sheepdog bid her to eat, and though Olive lowered her muzzle to the pale flesh betwixt her forelimbs, her gaze lingered upon the Coelacanth and the girl’s [apparent] lover. Her eyes followed Coelacanth’s salmon-pink tongue as it traced the brute’s jawline and let her attentions linger for a moment too long — it was hard to look at, but still she could not look away, for it was something so similar to the love she once had… had once lost. Perhaps the sheepdog would be luckier in love than she, and Olive hoped that Seelie might find a happy marriage with a husband who loved her — not one who simply loved being in love. So Olive hoped, and she did so with a small stabbing feeling inside her chest. That’s what friends do, right?
As she nibbled upon the sweet spread that lay before her, the sylph was quick to notice the effects of the fermented goods upon her consciousness — her thoughts became longer, her mind a little bit more languid, more spacious — things that once bothered her, somehow, didn’t bother her anymore. Dakarai, who? Loneliness, what? It was all fine. In fact, it was more than fine; it was so good, because she was here and she was alive, and she was with her friend and her friend’s friend and she had been forgiven for her past transgressions. Oh, yes! Her vision swam and the lamb felt quite uninhibited, and so unable to contain her sudden rush of joie de vivre was she, that Olive tipped her chin to the sky and squared her weight back towards her haunches and let out a triumphal yip! and, subsequently, she dissolved into a fit of giggles at how simply absurd that action must have been.
The sheepdog bid her to eat, and though Olive lowered her muzzle to the pale flesh betwixt her forelimbs, her gaze lingered upon the Coelacanth and the girl’s [apparent] lover. Her eyes followed Coelacanth’s salmon-pink tongue as it traced the brute’s jawline and let her attentions linger for a moment too long — it was hard to look at, but still she could not look away, for it was something so similar to the love she once had… had once lost. Perhaps the sheepdog would be luckier in love than she, and Olive hoped that Seelie might find a happy marriage with a husband who loved her — not one who simply loved being in love. So Olive hoped, and she did so with a small stabbing feeling inside her chest. That’s what friends do, right?
As she nibbled upon the sweet spread that lay before her, the sylph was quick to notice the effects of the fermented goods upon her consciousness — her thoughts became longer, her mind a little bit more languid, more spacious — things that once bothered her, somehow, didn’t bother her anymore. Dakarai, who? Loneliness, what? It was all fine. In fact, it was more than fine; it was so good, because she was here and she was alive, and she was with her friend and her friend’s friend and she had been forgiven for her past transgressions. Oh, yes! Her vision swam and the lamb felt quite uninhibited, and so unable to contain her sudden rush of joie de vivre was she, that Olive tipped her chin to the sky and squared her weight back towards her haunches and let out a triumphal yip! and, subsequently, she dissolved into a fit of giggles at how simply absurd that action must have been.
RE: some sad singers, they just play tragic - Coelacanth - April 27, 2018
The unlikely trio relaxed significantly with a hazy layer of intoxication misting their interactions, and as the lazy afternoon blurred into a warm, watercolor evening Olive found herself pillowed between Stockholm and Coelacanth in a tight knot of gently-breathing comfort. When the three of them awoke several hours later, they sketched messy maybes to meet again, capped with parenthesized caveats to take care and be well in the event those promises couldn’t be kept.