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+--- Thread: Ravenshook Cliffs compelled to write with aching fearful hands (/showthread.php?tid=29706)
compelled to write with aching fearful hands - Dirge - September 19, 2018
The weald had grown too quiet for his liking, somehow suffocating when it had not once felt that way. He had abandoned it for the day, the solitude it provided not quite enough to quell internal turmoil. It had been days since he had caught sight or scent of @Nyx and though but one of many growing burdens resting on his mind, he kept it at arm's length to scour the coast. Cloud cover kept the sun masked from the moment he had left the sanctuary of his home and persisted as his paws graced wet sand left damp from early morning.
Midday greeted him by the time he reached the rocky outcropping of the cliffs; he gave the edge a wide berth as he drew in the sight of the churning ocean. Even here as far as the eye could see he saw nothing but cloud cover, the grayed horizon only shades lighter than the sea itself. It went on his way no matter where he looked and the wind, well it was a cold and bitter thing, a change of pace from the gentle warmth the coast had been kind to provide over the last few weeks.
Testing the air with an upturned nose, he found nothing to suggest anything was out of place here. The cliffside itself did not seem a place well traversed as the inviting shoreline behind him, and perhaps that was with good reason. His avoidance of the edge had nothing to do with fear, but rather the uncertainty that the edge was even sound. Evidence of its weakness in the weathered stone was obvious, the crumbles many and met with cracks and crevices willing to swallow anything whole at a moment's notice.
Still, it did not satisfy him.
RE: compelled to write with aching fearful hands - Buckshot - October 03, 2018
there was nothing that he liked more than being close to the water. it was as much a part of him as the hide on his back. now, the sea was not nearly as fond to him as the muggy swamps of the bayou. he did not belong to the churning waters and endless stretch of blue against a clouded sky. though he knew as much, it was difficult for him to pull himself away from the great lapping sea. buckshot did not know how far inland he'd need to trek before he found the thrill of a wetland again. there wasn't a night that passed when he didn't reminisce on the sound of crickets and swamp frogs.
the great jutting stones were impressive from the shore; they were even more impressive when he had wound his way to the tops of them. unlike the other wolf who prowled along the cliff side, buck wasn't too fearful of the drop. he found himself drawn to the edge with a sense of wonder that caused his limbs to quiver just slightly and his eyes to search for something that could possibly save him if he should tumble over the edge. it was only when he realized that his death would have been absolute that he found a sense of peace. the thought that the corner of the earth could swallow something whole was very real, and very intense when one was so closely positioned to that reality.
swinging his skull away from the drop, buckshot turned to see the figure of another. this one was sturdy and very much adult. the cajun brute felt a wash of intrigue that lasted only a moment. he trotted in the direction of the stranger without saying a word.
the great jutting stones were impressive from the shore; they were even more impressive when he had wound his way to the tops of them. unlike the other wolf who prowled along the cliff side, buck wasn't too fearful of the drop. he found himself drawn to the edge with a sense of wonder that caused his limbs to quiver just slightly and his eyes to search for something that could possibly save him if he should tumble over the edge. it was only when he realized that his death would have been absolute that he found a sense of peace. the thought that the corner of the earth could swallow something whole was very real, and very intense when one was so closely positioned to that reality.
swinging his skull away from the drop, buckshot turned to see the figure of another. this one was sturdy and very much adult. the cajun brute felt a wash of intrigue that lasted only a moment. he trotted in the direction of the stranger without saying a word.
RE: compelled to write with aching fearful hands - Dirge - October 24, 2018
About the next bend, beyond more of the same outcroppings, he was no longer alone. The bearlike appearance of another wolf was enough to draw his attention away from the receding edges of the cliffs but not for long—this fellow seemed to have little regard for the drop inches away, or perhaps he was simply more confident and familiar with the area.
Whichever it was Dirge did not decide, but rather let his own steps come to a natural halt as he further took stock of his approaching ilk, already drawing up words to cut silence. "Anything worth while to see up ahead?" He opted to presume the wolf was no stranger to seaside cliffs—most that did wander the length of the shore did in fact prefer it and its hazards.
RE: compelled to write with aching fearful hands - Buckshot - November 01, 2018
it was the voice of the other wolf that took buckshot by surprise. he had all but forgotten that he wasn't alone on the edge of those cliffs before the stranger spoke. then, the cajun peered at him with curiosity brimming on his features. boy, there was something mighty interesting about the sharp glint of gold in that fella's eyes. in fact, the more that the burly swamp hound peered on the stranger, the more impressed he was. it seemed that he would have been a good adversary in a scuffle.
“well, cher... seems dere's more ocean dan land in dee's parts,” he offered with a quick flash of a smile and an easy, swaggering approach. then, the scoundrel turned his attention toward the vast expanse of water that rested to his right. he wondered what it was like to live so close to that part of the world. the thought of it almost made him quiver; he couldn't imagine what it would have felt like to be so far from the muggy swamp and the gnarled trees.
“say, you seen a bog 'round hea'?” buckshot inquired to the other male with a cant of his skull.
RE: compelled to write with aching fearful hands - Dirge - November 02, 2018
Great, an accent—the first thought that crossed his mind. There had been a fair share of the few-of-words and exotic rumbles in the past, but this seemed more watered down. No, not just watered down, but fluid in its approach. It made sense when the last words off the wolf's tongue were something about a bog and then he was racking his own mind to ponder where he had seen such a place. It threw him off, but the absent of such surprise or concern betrayed the reality.
It was a trip down memory lane as he hummed in thought, his head turning slightly to peer back the way he came. ”A bog,” he said, almost reiterating the question. ”I've seen one before, but I think it's a bit of a travel to the south. Long ways from here is the short of it,” because he was pretty sure once upon a time, his sisters had tried to shove him into a series of them and vice versa.
His gaze rounded back to the bearlike wolf, curious.
”Can't imagine why anyone would want to go to such a place,” he went on, ”but you're not from around here. There are hot springs closer than the nearest bog.” They were cleaner by far too, but he managed to keep that behind his teeth and offered a wan smile instead.
word count: 228
RE: compelled to write with aching fearful hands - Buckshot - November 21, 2018
it seemed as though the stranger wasn't too familiar with what was being requested of him, or he was thinking about turning himself around and abandoning the situation right quick. at least, this was what buckshot imagined was going through his mind when he turned his head back around and then fixed the cajun with a thoughtful expression. it was something of a surprise to hear that there was something like a bog, but it seemed as though it was a ways away from where they stood. buck didn't feel as though he could have been too shocked by that; the ocean never had lead to much swamp from what he'd seen in the past.
with that, the cajun was fine to keep trekking along his way. he'd gotten what he needed to know – for the most part – and his perception of the stranger was that he hadn't been too pleased to be stopped. while the fellow had been helpful in his directions, buckshot cast him a bit of frown when he'd mentioned that he didn't know why anyone would want to find themselves in a bog.
“well, when you was born in duh swamp, you feed duh need tuh go back,” he explained with a daft smile. it was home to him, after all. buckshot didn't need anyone to tell him that it wasn't their ideal destination. he'd heard it enough growing up from those who were raised on the outside. “ah sure do appreciate you's helpin' me,” the cajun added with a swift nod of his head. then, as though he were unsure about whether or not he was supposed to leave, buckshot stood there and shuffled his feet in place.
RE: compelled to write with aching fearful hands - Dirge - November 22, 2018
He supposed that made sense, though these days he seemed to prefer the near coastal regions over the forests and mountain climes of where he had been born. Perhaps it was because the change of scenery offered a challenge that he took enjoyment in, or maybe it was tied back to something much deeper, much more rooted in the tangles of his subconscious. He nodded in a newfound understanding all the same—it really did make sense when he spared a thought for it.
”Not a problem,” he rejoined. ”I suppose one can't go wrong with wanting to seek creature comforts of home. I won't hold you up if you want to start covering ground to get there, but safe travels.” Determination could carry his counterpart a fair ways there before daylight burnt out completely; the lack thereof in Dirge would keep him along the coast until he grew weary of it.
RE: compelled to write with aching fearful hands - Buckshot - December 08, 2018
buck did what he could to live his life as comfortable as possible. he didn't see a reason not to, really; what point was there in making things purposefully difficult on himself? while it was a stretch to assume that spending his time outside of the swamp was really a challenge, he knew his tastes well enough. though there had always been a peculiar tick inside of him – one that thirsted for travel – he would always be drawn back to the humming of crickets and the thick muck of the morass. once a swamp boy, always a swamp boy.
with a wide – daft – grin on his bearish face, buckshot dipped his head toward the other man and scuttled forward a few feet. he was surprisingly light on his toes for the girth that he carried. regardless, the cajun seemed pleased enough with the bare minimum conversation that had taken place. he didn't think he would have had much in common with the fellow, and whether or not that assumption was true was not to be explored.
“ah thank ya foh ya help,” buckshot offered in a voice that was louder than it needed to be. “y'all take care, naw.” and just as soon as he had appeared, the scoundrel seemed to vanish from sight. there was no need for him to turn back; the sweet melody of the fen lured him on.