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+--- Thread: Gilded Bay always had high, high hopes (/showthread.php?tid=29466)
always had high, high hopes - Freddie - September 05, 2018
It's early when the tide brings with it a motionless, battered figure; the jet-black wolf offers no resistance, long unconscious, but by some stroke of luck catches on the rocks lining the shore. His fur is soaked, small patches of congealed blood scattered across his body where ocean debris had been less than forgiving. Overall, he's lucky. For falling off a cliff, he's in fairly good shape.
He can't know that now. The journey has been long and harsh, and wolves were never meant for the ocean. Wherever his mind is, it's far from his body, and for now he's blissfully unaware of the damage to his body or the danger he's in — or the frantic friends he'll never see again, scouring a beach far from here for the lost leader they'll never find.
He can't know that now. The journey has been long and harsh, and wolves were never meant for the ocean. Wherever his mind is, it's far from his body, and for now he's blissfully unaware of the damage to his body or the danger he's in — or the frantic friends he'll never see again, scouring a beach far from here for the lost leader they'll never find.
RE: always had high, high hopes - Fire - September 05, 2018
She hadn't traveled up to the coast in some time. Truthfully, much like her namesake, Fire did not like the ocean. She did not like how unpredictable it was, its salty tang. She didn't like the way it smelled, like something weeks-old and rotten.
But there were some good memories up here. She had come up here with Colt to meet with the leader of Ironsea on Rosalyn's behalf. She wondered what those wolves were up to now, but she wasn't about to go traipsing up to their claimed territory to find out.
The bay was a prime area for fishing. The tide had just receded and left pools of seafood in its wake. For this she didn't even have to put in any work. Many of the fish and crabs were on the brink of death, stranded, and it took very little to finish them off.
She feasted for the better part of the morning, until a large black mass was visible in the distance. Curiosity got the better of her, and she altered her course to come close.
It was a wolf.
How did this always happen to her? She was like a magnet for the lost and weary. Gingerly, she poked him with her nose, watched his ribs as he took in air. He wasn't dead. But he was far from safe.
RE: always had high, high hopes - Freddie - September 05, 2018
For a beat, there's no reaction to the poke. Then, a violent coughing fit suddenly takes hold of the dark wolf, rousing him with its intensity. He starts to retch a few moments later, bitter warm saltwater pouring over the sand. It hurts. He's blessed enough to be without thought beyond breathing between waves of coughing and gagging for those moments — he doesn't know how long it goes on, but it feels like hours.
Consciousness is slippery and fleeting when the coughing subsides. He manages to get a look at the presence at his side, a ball of flame in the early morning light, but he can't make much sense of it. He coughs again and lets his head fall back. Hallucination? Imminent death? Does it matter at this point?
Consciousness is slippery and fleeting when the coughing subsides. He manages to get a look at the presence at his side, a ball of flame in the early morning light, but he can't make much sense of it. He coughs again and lets his head fall back. Hallucination? Imminent death? Does it matter at this point?
RE: always had high, high hopes - Fire - September 05, 2018
Her hackles raise and she takes a few sprawling steps backwards. The poor, crumpled man begins to hack and heave and she can feel her heart twist in the same godawful way it always does. Why does she carry such a soft spot for these broken strays?
Because it makes her feel powerful and valued, of course.
The boy's eyes slit open. She takes a breath and mutters something incomprehensible and parts from him, returning with herbs and food. She does not expect him to take it now.
Hey there...
RE: always had high, high hopes - Freddie - September 05, 2018
His sense of time is warped and blinking; he doesn't notice the figure's absence, only the change in position as if it'd been sudden. It speaks to him, and somehow he's surprised to understand the words. He opens his mouth to reply, but he can only cough more, and belatedly he notices the herbs and food. Rather, he notes their presence; what they are does not register for several more moments, and when it does he manages an odd, brief sort of croak, as if trying to speak and promptly realizing the ability has escaped him for now.
RE: always had high, high hopes - Fire - September 05, 2018
He is pitiful and broken. He looks about how she feels, though she'd never admit it. She wonders what has done this to him. How he ended up in the ocean. If somehow, Screech hadn't met his maker when he crashed into the water. Maybe he was somewhere out there like this, too.
She doesn't linger on it long. The unnamed man lets out a thin, ragged noise and she bends her nose to the edge of his lip. She tests to make sure he will tolerate it, and then with a delicate touch she moves to clean his body of the sand and expelled water. Maybe if Raven could see this, she'd be proud.
RE: always had high, high hopes - Freddie - September 07, 2018
The red figure touches him; if he had more energy, he'd flinch, expecting heat in his dazed state — but he doesn't move, and the heat doesn't come. Instead the sensation of being gently cleaned reaches him, and he relaxes involuntarily. Whatever the flame-touched silhouette is, it's not hurting him, and with this knowledge he slips back into unconsciousness. It will be awhile before he wakes, but his pulse is steady.
RE: always had high, high hopes - Fire - September 07, 2018
No fangs come gnashing in her direction, and she works to clean him as unconsciousness takes him. She checks his pulse, and reminisces on herself. A few months ago, she would not have been confident treating him.
Even now she is not so sure. But she knows if he dies, it is because he is beyond help and not because of her inadequacy.
She is determined to wait by his site until he wakes or until he dies, whichever comes first.
RE: always had high, high hopes - Freddie - September 22, 2018
im so sorry for the wait + shortness. mobile post
When he finally wakes, he turns to look at his fiery savior with bleary eyes. Moving is still a painful effort, and will be for some time — but he feels more coherent now, at least.
Thank you,He rasps quietly, taking a deep breath. Each word is slow, but he's determined.
What's your name?
RE: always had high, high hopes - Fire - September 22, 2018
She could kill him, she knows. Put him out of his misery now before he slips off himself. It'd be easy. Easier than it was with Nashoba. And he's in pain, right? He has to be. He's been silent for some time — oh
She catches one bright orange eye creak open and look at her, from the angle she's at it seems otherworldly and unnatural. For a moment she thinks he was able to read her thoughts. She releases a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding when he speaks.
Ceara.She pushes herb and food she collected while he was out (while she was working up the courage to kill him) in his direction. If he can speak, he can eat.
Eat up.
RE: always had high, high hopes - Freddie - September 27, 2018
He registers the world around him slowly, gaze flicking haltingly over the shoreline and out across the waves, pausing over where the sand is etched in maze-like patterns and rock formations reach hesitantly for the sky, dappled in sprawling patches over the beach.
Through the haze of faint icy mist fed by the sea, the details of the scene are just obscure enough to feel surreal, a little dizzying. Beside him, herbs and food; how long has he been here? Dying ember eyes finally settle on his savior, a grim-faced sprite of flame with a steely gaze; he's grateful for his own ignorance of what flickers behind the woman's eyes, feeling the hairs along his spine prickle imperceptibly. Ceara.
The midnight wolf nods once, briefly, and turns to the food. The movement is not without effort, but he forces an ease to the twist of his body that he does not truly feel; battered by the waves, spat upon an odd and unforgiving shoreline, his body is weak. Each muscle cries protest as he bends to take the first bite, and the rest blur together as he forces himself into something mechanical, routine: bite, chew, swallow, bite, chew, swallow. Stability, simplicity, when his world has been so thoroughly flipped even his surroundings are alien and unwelcoming.
He finishes slowly, gaze trailing back to Ceara.
Through the haze of faint icy mist fed by the sea, the details of the scene are just obscure enough to feel surreal, a little dizzying. Beside him, herbs and food; how long has he been here? Dying ember eyes finally settle on his savior, a grim-faced sprite of flame with a steely gaze; he's grateful for his own ignorance of what flickers behind the woman's eyes, feeling the hairs along his spine prickle imperceptibly. Ceara.
The midnight wolf nods once, briefly, and turns to the food. The movement is not without effort, but he forces an ease to the twist of his body that he does not truly feel; battered by the waves, spat upon an odd and unforgiving shoreline, his body is weak. Each muscle cries protest as he bends to take the first bite, and the rest blur together as he forces himself into something mechanical, routine: bite, chew, swallow, bite, chew, swallow. Stability, simplicity, when his world has been so thoroughly flipped even his surroundings are alien and unwelcoming.
He finishes slowly, gaze trailing back to Ceara.
Freddie,He offers, noting distantly the differences in their accents; not unusual, but momentarily attention-grabbing nonetheless.
You come here often?The words are soft, playfully lilting. His lips pull upward slightly, a touch of weariness lurking under the smile. Each rise and fall of his chest highlights bone-deep aches, each subtle movement emphasizing tender muscles, but the man's good humor endures.
RE: always had high, high hopes - Fire - September 27, 2018
He reminds her of Screech. It's nothing in his mannerisms or speech, but in the disordered way he eats. She watches him hawkishly as he consumes, half-convinced he will start to choke and she will have to save him like she had the young Redhawk.
She's thankful when she doesn't. There is an ease to his battered, wavewracked body that reminds her of Bruges. It brings a warmth to her cheeks, the tips of her ears, and her belly.
No,she says sternly, though the dancing glint in her argent gaze and the coy turn to her mouth would tell a different story.
You're not from around here, are you?