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+--- Thread: Firefly Ravine no one wearing a crown comes in the name of peace (/showthread.php?tid=32872)
no one wearing a crown comes in the name of peace - Jagtooth - February 16, 2019
for @Aure. also it took me forever to locate firefly ravine because first i thought it was in sunspire mountains and then i thought it was on the coast. i need my first cup of coffee. ;-;
the morning was early, before the sun's even risen in the sky. perhaps he should be in some corner, curled up and sleeping. it is cold, predictably, but the ravine is cloaked in a thick, dense fog that obstructs his sight further than the shadows of and desperately reaching moonbeams that don't quite touch the bottom. a quick reconnaissance of the territory the day before has given jagtooth the quickly assembled knowledge that the bottom of the ravine offers little in the way of land. mostly, it's river; and he hears it rushing so close by. a quick current that is either fed to the sea or fed from the sea.
though perhaps not the most practical of territories to choose to spend the night in, he'd chosen it because of its lack of practicality. jagtooth was no stranger to harsh survival; he was born of it. raised in it. it had a water source but he didn't expect many to wander down here and thus carried with him the impression that he would not be disturbed. he pauses on the bank of the river and bows his head to lap briefly at the chilly, rushing water before he backtracks a bit, contemplating as his golden gaze scours the fog laden ravine of catching a few more hours of slumber. trying to find his way back out of the ravine before the sun has risen and the fog burns away doesn't strike the ex-cardinal as a good idea.
RE: no one wearing a crown comes in the name of peace - Andraste - February 16, 2019
im writing this in 1 sitting right out of a cold sweat so i totally understand u rn. no better time to write when u are Absolutely Lost Ur Marbles-
The guise of “Lady Starlight” that she’d masqueraded through Elysian festivities had begun to shiver, laden with a despondency that the she-wolf wasn’t so keen to return to. The fey masquerade of pointed ignorance, the look of eyes softened by only what she wished to remember. She refused to let this shed from her like a chrysalis from fragile fluture. Not yet.
What else had made her chart such an early return to the cliffs? And at such an early, erratic hour, too, when her eyes remained tender with whimsy, with sleep? When she smelled of deep and dreamless slumbers, and wandered with such a solomnet step?
It had not only been her aversion to knowing herself — as most tend to remember with the festivities’ ends. It had, in point, was mostly a fever dream which had made her thread out so early. And each point of her remained so sensitive and flushed as she toiled over the riddance of her cold sweat. She was acting not unlike some poor, waxen, underdress maid who’d drunk herself into forgetfulness — both of which said lady’s never done before — and had gone out all feverish and teetering in search for something she could not name.
Perhaps this guise had faded from her with Sontés’ propositions, or with her encounter with the Elysian shatki. The silver did not know, had near to nothing to make herself care, and so she clutched at her cocoon of enraptured, forgetful comfort further about her thinning spirit. Then, she continued to chart her way through the ravine as she could, minded the belly when she may, and halt at whatever presence she would like to.
Belaying all horrific manner of ways that this could end with her blood on a stranger’s tongue, she wisped toward this soldiering figure with complete, distracted dismissal of the fog or lack thereof sunlight yet to arrive. And it was with eyes, incrementally sleepier than before, alighting upon this hardened male as she drifted closer with an eloquent slur of, ”Goods-mornings.” The once-heiress wasn’t so fallen from herself that the concept of personal space had left what common sense she still retained. No, she now lingered a respectable distance away — but unlike with her red-painted guardian, she wavered just one more faint step towards this wanderer.
The privacy of one’s being wasn’t lost to her, but she’d lost pretense for it all the same. The “Lady”, at present, only feathered her tail and wanted to pluck the pressed medallion-gold of these eyes out in favor of sea-and-silver. Her words remained musing, thick-tongued, lilting, languid, all with half of their gleam than they were usually decked in, ”A wanderer isn’t sure where to wander, as I am?”
If she were to see those eyes she coveted, though, she would need to find a way out of this inconceivable ravine as well. She suspected this chrysalis would melt from her soon, too, and the only way she wanted to find the cliffs was in that heady, delicate-fainting way; wanted her ivory person returned to the night-of-her-life; her Home.
RE: no one wearing a crown comes in the name of peace - Jagtooth - February 16, 2019
the conquerer of times past does not expect company but he, better than most, should know that company loves misery; and while he wasn't miserable per say the point was expected and wanted or not he suddenly found himself in the company of a young, pale sylph that appeared to the warrior priest to be in some sort of drunken state. or, perhaps, he contemplates, she is just sleepy. there is an aura of royalty to her, a delicateness to her slurred greeting that piques his interest while, mere moments ago, he'd been determined to ignore her sauntering into his general vicinity.
golden gaze studies her as much as the thick and heavy fog will unveil to him. a dove left out of the sect's gilded golden cage. upon her pale pelage is a myriad of scents — of numerous wolves among other things that he doesn't bother to make sense of.
well,jagtooth draws with a sardonic smile tugging at the edges of his lips.
i don't know if it's a good morning but it is a morning.good was subjective and far from the stark black and white as many would certainly like to believe.
perhaps a wanderer shouldn't wander too much further. the land of this ravine is limited. a wanderer might wander into the river and be whisked away by the rushing torrents to the sea.a warning in case she decides to loftily drift further along. they were already pushing the boundaries of the ravine's land as it was. there wasn't much 'land' left to drift upon and she certainly gave jagtooth the impression that she was just drifting ...like a feather upon the wind.
i am jagtooth.he informs her, not a huge fan of half drunken riddles.
and you do not appear to be in an entire lucid state.he draws forth his clinical observation without preamble. there are always snakes in the garden of eden, lying in wait, biding their time with the eagerness to tempt the lost lambs that have wandered too far from their shepard.
RE: no one wearing a crown comes in the name of peace - Andraste - February 16, 2019
Her reply was a lilting hum of “I am Aurëwen” and, then, after a thin-lipped musing of herself, “Would that I wish I was entirely lucid. I would sleep, and vanish when I wished. Mm.” At present, it was true — she wanted nothing more than to drape herself in some private little place from the dark briars of her sorority, her romance, her position. She wish to sleep and sleep, wake all tearful, and sleep some more. If not, she would continue to linger as if not entirely having left her fevered-dreams.
Regardless of the older male’s scrutiny of her lethargic, sylphlike demeanor, Aurëwen couldn’t resist not being so impish at this moment. It was one thing to look at her and know that she was soulful and good, but her interest in these sardonic, unfazed responses toed avidity. The last thing on her mind would have been to coax him into the relentless river — they were both of such sound mind besides, and the idea of tricker-ing the one before her seemed so ludicrous. But if she were to be seen as a lamb, rather than a fey and gray myriad of the two, then perhaps she might find her shepherd in this solider?
Still, though; this morning she was the Lady that she never wanted to be, and couldn’t resist dancing with this stranger for only a few moments more. ”Your concern for my being drowned will be held in my highest regard,” and there was a curling of the tattered dove’s lips, ”Your consideration is nigh on three winters late, I fear.” And that would be all the elaboration she’d give — unless she condescended to feel lenience, later.
Otherwise, she settled with a muted, almost petulant breath upon her haunches; the only moment where grace truly left her. ”Perhaps we may wander together, if you would allow it. I’ve only been through this d-damned ravine some few times; ze most recent of which nearly made me dead.” Made me dead? For the first time she seemed aware of her very-lucid verbal missteps, and the red of her facade wreathed in distaste—but dismissed it all the same with a shrug of thin shoulders.
”You seem nearly as world-weary as I, Ser. Nearly,” she admonished, treading something coquettish and haughty. But there was the modesty to her airs, too, as if truly believing whatever hard-won travails of his to be standing before her, all brooding and breathing as he was.
RE: no one wearing a crown comes in the name of peace - Jagtooth - February 16, 2019
aurëwen, she introduces. a lilting and lovely name sounding almost starbright in the wake of his own given name. jagtooth — the private and savored momento of his most recent conquest. or styx — the river of death. either name; one taken by usurping or given to him at birth was shadowed in it's own way. the cardinal, a pretentious title, begot a holy man. was jagtooth blest? perhaps. not all saints were absent bloodied teeth. jagtooth, though he calls himself the cardinal still would never call himself a saint. there was a limit to his own pretentiousness, believe it or not.
her musings are regarded with a curious tilt of the usurper's head but goes unanswered. he suspects she isn't seeking any words from him; not truly. her offer draws with it a rise of a weathered brow as jagtooth considers it. was he not cross with the children of his loins for leaving him behind during their journey to these wilds? blackheart and mötley. how accurately he'd named them. he may be aging but he was capable of taking care of himself. for the most part. pride does not fully allow him to embrace the fact that he is more vulnerable without them than he is willing to admit but jagtooth feels the pressure to replace his heathen spawn. whether it be with a whole pack in a more permanent setting or a temporary companion.
i don't suspect that'll be too bad,a tawdry attempt at humor if there ever was one. jagtooth was not of the humorous sort. he'd always been too severe to conjure the correct amount of lightheartedness that must go into humor to ever be able to properly pull it off.
some company would be nice.sincerely spoken.
a soft chuckle draws its way up jagtooth's throat as aure tells him he seems almost as world-weary as she.
dearest aurëwen,he offers a weighty sigh.
at three winters, you are far too young to be world-weary; and if you are as world-weary as i am then damn the world for being so cruel to you.she is young, vibrant, appearing too full of life to be twisted with cruelty and bitterness as he was.
RE: no one wearing a crown comes in the name of peace - Andraste - February 16, 2019
tl;dr the freak emerges from the depths of our baking babyg & her writer delights in her utter 24/7 embarrassment.
Through his wry words, the Lady had, a bit distractedly, began to admire observe the snowfrosted male before her with the same shamelessness that one leans towards with paintings. He was of an elegant make, she liked to think; the ashen smatterings upon his silvered pelt, ferried upon willowy-taut limbs and hefty, industrious paws that could soothe her aching heart — conquer it, crush it, had it not belonged to another warrior.
”Damn, indeed—“ she murmured, more to herself than anything. It was only when her glimmering argent melded into the liquid gold of Jagtooth’s own that she sputtered; an unprecedented mortification pinking her to her very soul as she squeaked eloquently, ”Damn ze world, yes, for its cruelty. Ah, a-ahm— it is-“ It’s what? The cruelty of damning her with encounters with heart-stopping, soul-shivering males? The way her stars cackled at her utter humiliation? She promptly tongued her way into self-loathing, flustered silence; entirely intent on observing her pale paws.
The fervor in which followed as a heady shiver was not unlike what she’d felt for Wintersbane, long before she was shepherded to the cliffs by his gracious guidance. It was the same, languid and molten want that’d murmured under her skin for Sanguinis — and for Stigmata, truth be told. Most of all, it simpered to her in a different manner than which Verx made love to her; fortunately, this was not the manner which she needed her noapte to enshroud her, claim her soul, claim all of her.
Still, it frightened her. This sort in which she fidgeted before Jagtooth, before those others, was entirely in a way where she ached to be taken for their sole pleasure; enacting as some divine partaking for all that they’d sinned—
Children. She was to give life to noapte’s children.
She shouldn’t regard any male but him in such a way. And yet, the flutter in her breast proved adamant. It was so strenuous to turn the cheeks which stung with shame; to ignore that shiver mouthing up her hips that almost made her whimper. Tail aquiver, she instead turned from it, in the guise of beckoning her newfound companion in following her. Turned, trembling like the feather he deemed her as. All the while, Aure drew her gossamer veil of ignorance evermore about her; please, not yet. Not yet.
When she returned to cliffs, she wanted to remind her dark, indolently dark dragostea of every which way and reason he was Home. Needed to, before she brought ruin to herself by these other-worldly pregnant horomones; before the ravine found no solace from her. ...But she would never do such a thing to her Home, no matter what she felt. Home. Home. How long had it been since she’d given herself to Home, and him to her? This had to be what it was from; this immoral, aching and long-suppressed arousal.
RE: no one wearing a crown comes in the name of peace - Jagtooth - February 16, 2019
her agreement with him is ardent, confirming that she thinks she is as world-weary as he, aged almost 6 winters now. for some unexplained reason her absolute belief in it stirs a sorrow beneath his breast.
bah,the cardinal breathes in a manner that begets a grumpy man of his age ( except he is not so grumpy ).
you're young yet, aurëwen. there is still much hope yet that the world will turn in your favor.even at his age, with the surmounting conquests always standing like invisible sentinels at his back, the world hasn't always been so cruel. it had it's ups and it had its downs. despite that blood that should cape him like the donning of a priests' wine red regalia, despite all the sins carved over the holy words that fill a hundred bibles it doesn't necessarily make jagtooth a bad man. on the contrary, he had moments when he could be turned to as a wisened father, a beacon of advice from a long life lived to it's fullest, flirting the line ( as always ) between good and evil and the murky grey that lay between the two bedfellows.
she turns from him as he regards her with piqued interest this time before he can decide in which manner he was interested. she appears, to him, to be quite conflicted and thus he follows her as she beckons him into the fog.
do you mean to lead me out of the fog or deeper into it?a second attempt at teasing humor tell-tale by the soft chirr of a chuckle that doesn't entirely form. it was a soft noise anyway, not meant to carry. as if he were laughing at an inside joke that only he could understand ( which might very well be the case ).
since we're to be travelling together for a short while, are there any packs you know of that might accept one like me?he poses the inquiry to her as she saunters on ahead of him. his chosen method of wording 'elder' might've been strange but it was, indeed, what he was. or was about to be. for sure there might very well be several more good years left of his life but he wasn't going to get any younger and he was much too old ( and by far too impatient ) to play the guessing game with the packs of the wilds.
RE: no one wearing a crown comes in the name of peace - Andraste - February 16, 2019
Jagtooth's inquiry was, with everything she was given, taken literally, as was the insinuation that she of all wolven would lead him astray. Although it served as somewhat of a reprieve from her own smothering scent — so newly flushing at the tease (the chirr may have undone her, which blessedly went unheard) — she still whirled back to him, as if affronted. "Out of ze fog, Jaggedtooth," Aure pouted, all petulant and morally impoverished as her tail crescented with- with... she didn't know what. There wasn't a sliver of intimidation in her soul, heaven forbid, try as she might to instill fear into the subjects she ventured across, "Why would I ever lure you otherwise?"
Before she allowed herself to become gobbled up by the gold of his eyes again, Aure dismissed the cardinal with a fretful little huff, and resumed her stomp stalk through the personal, familiar crags. "Packs, mm? If you look for tranquility, ze Undersea lies not far from my own settlement along ze coast -- Drageda, if you favor strife by ze sea."
Every step was a step closer to Home, a step closer from having this fog-laden imp's molten gaze upon her back. "There is another place for peace, should you wish it, south of where I've only just returned from -- Elysium. There is Easthollow, too, in ze Valley, however... I have an inkling you may not favor trekking all that way, either."
She continued her tangent, if only to distract herself from how she felt that languid, element-donned eyes drivel down the svelte, ivory spine. "Between Elysium and Easthollow, though is a nomadic clan who call themselves Diaspora." As something heedlessly, she hitched loftily, "I went there with one's blessing of finding my brother. These claims are of a respectable sort, I assure you." Finally, Aure peered back at him a little tersely, eyeing his shadow rather than himself.
RE: no one wearing a crown comes in the name of peace - Jagtooth - February 16, 2019
jagtooth.he corrects her automatically; but can't help but wonder if that's what it stood for. it wasn't like he'd bothered to ask the leader he was busy usurping. it hadn't mattered at the time though it does sound as if they'd begun to call it jaggedtooth summit only to stop themselves half way through 'jagged' and 'tooth' and decide that it was too long and amalgamate the words together into a shortened version. a crooked lift of the cardinal's lips is given but he doubts it goes unseen with her back to him — and even if it wasn't how well could she see? it is thick and heavy and the moisture of the air coils, forces his lungs to work twice as hard to draw air and keep out the worst of the moisture.
i was teasing.he informs her loftily in a 'don't take me so literally' manner.
it didn't even have the excuse of being warm. it was chilly, in fact and there were breaks in the fog where the veil thinned and she is illuminated by soft moonbeams and it is in those moments that jagtooth admires her — what? he's old not dead — in private. she prattles on, answering his inquiry giving him a few packs to choose from. though he has made his life in sparking the flame of strife he doesn't necessarily seek it out now in the aged like fine wine years of his life. his decision to depart from jagtooth summit was a bit of a farewell to the conquerer life he's spent his life living. at least, that is his plan, but if he's learned one thing about life it's that it can be quite unpredictable and there are always plots and twists that alter one's purpose and course.
that's what made life so thrilling.
and in that acknowledgement he doesn't think that he'd yet be content with a quiet and hidden away pack life. though it would probably be ideal for someone of his age there is still so much life in him that turning away from adventure all together sounds ...boring. she's given him a bit to mull over and he does so as she finishes her monologue.
i'm not sure that i'm ready to lead the quiet life yet. there's still too much thrill and adventure to be had.he muses his own inner dialog aloud.
RE: no one wearing a crown comes in the name of peace - Andraste - February 16, 2019
As they began their ascent, with the wanderer's hope for the fog to thin, Aure willed the fog of her own titillation would fade altogether. She hustled herself up the ravine's incline, feeling her breast expand with nonconstraint — finally. "That, we may agree on," she trilled back to the cardinal, ever-concious of the arc of her ivory neck as she curved it in speculation of their heady surroundings. No other would be allowed near that trip-hammer of her pulse; all the same, though...
"I hold no love for strife, myself. I am utterly artless, where war is concerned. But this fancy" — not for him, obviously — "for ze enchantments of this world will never leave me. It is known to my soul." Aure decided she would make it a point to tell him just how well-traveled she was, flaring with an unbidden indignation brought on by a something of his character. In her rush to hold some sort of prestige above this established male, she had pirouetted with the fever of her arousal and the petulant fury that came with it.
It was with a scrape of ivory talons on stone and an irregular, airy shriek that Aure then fell through a blue, sunless world.
Her last thought was an enraged and beloved one; of Vercingetorix who, after inquiring of what'd caused her death, would laugh his cock off at how it'd been through distraction by horniness. And his cock should die with her, after all— oh, nevermind! Death first, daydream later!
lesgeit, death. fucking motherfucker—
With a wild, winter snarl, nasty with desperation, Aure swivled, twisting through the air as she used the momentum of her fall to lunge towargs Jagtooth; for any outcropping should he have rushed for her. The sound grappled its way from her anguished throat the same way she made to grapple for some goddamn footing.
RE: no one wearing a crown comes in the name of peace - Jagtooth - February 16, 2019
ah, but war is art,jagtooth murmurs in impassioned agreement.
a burdened art, to be sure. not for every wolf that walks this earth; but a necessary art all the same. without war there can be no peace. without peace there can be no faith.without love goes unspoken. for who does the warrior priest, the usurper, the holy man with a grin made for war painted crimson with the blood of those he'd killed for a little bit of kingdom love? perhaps the spawn of his loins. once. when they were loyal to their father, to their cause. but like all spawn of the loins they became their own individuals and their desires took shape of their own, deaf to the guided whispers of the cardinal. they no longer feared nor revered their faith; lambs lost and no doubt being led to slaughter.
perhaps jagtooth only loves what he's created. what he's taken and coveted for years. perhaps he only loves himself. or perhaps he's incapable of it all together. he doesn't think of it and banishes the thoughts from his mind before they can take hold and he is forced to confront the biggest demon of them all: himself.
in good timing, too!
for aurëwen's balance shifts and she lurches to the side with an airy shriek that sets the hairs of his nape to bristle. tall but streamlined, jagtooth is built for speed and though he is older now he is still, fortunately, swift of foot. he lunges for her as she scrambles to find footing and without preamble, without asking permission — for he is sure she won't mind if it saves her from an early grave! — he reaches down to grasp her scruff betwixt his jaws as a mother would grasp and lift her cub and help to hoist the pale sylph up onto solid land ...if she can find leverage to scramble her back up the rocky side of the ravine. and he prays that she finds a foothold before his strength wanes and they find themselves sharing a watery grave.
RE: no one wearing a crown comes in the name of peace - Andraste - February 17, 2019
Her paws were a flurry beneath her, and she barely registered the iron grip on her dove's ruff as she was plucked from the air and yanked towards the crags — for heartbeats that would remain frenzied, stifled by fear and adrenaline. Ivory talons continued to scrape, to scrabble, her fur blown and her tail wisping like a whip through the blue; it seemed, for several strained, teetering moments, that she would find no purchase.
But then she thought of the waiting waters and the Dread-wolf in the same moment leverage was found; and it was this thought that made her straggle and shoulder her way up the ravine’s face. She allowed Jagtooth to drag her the rest of the way — she didn’t really weigh much, exertion aside — and once returned to safe-ish ground, there she collapsed, splaying out long-limbed and lean along the earth.
Aure had no breath in her to thank him, much less the will to rise at this moment; but rise she did, with a sudden, searing thought that this belly-less incident had, in fact, brought harm to the soft swell. ”Copiii mei! Steaua mea mică, oh, ești rănit?” With her words she curved into herself, as if trying to nose at her womb; wrought with worry for her children yet to come.
The expected did this for some time, her words tripping into gentle, foreign urgency as she pranced every which way to inspect herself. God— she soon returned her attention to Jagtooth, wide eyes putting full moons to shame. ”Th-thank you, Jagtooth. I’m so sorry, oh—!” Tail feathering at her own stupidity, she cast another crestfallen, self-loathing look to her tummy, almost whimpering, ”All my life I have been so thoughtless, even now!”
RE: no one wearing a crown comes in the name of peace - Jagtooth - February 20, 2019
she finds purchase on the ravine's side, the sound of her claws scrapping against stone joins the thrum of his heartbeat, strong and resilient; she aids him in lifting herself up and lets him pull her the rest of the way onto solid land. once he is sure she is clear of immediate danger of tumbling he drops her with a huff of breath and takes a greedy inhale followed by small pants that last until he finally catches his breath. though it comes as some surprise for jagtooth to be aware that he'd even been holding it in the first place ( as if conserving the oxygen in his lungs was going to somehow help ) as she curves in on herself and fusses at her womb.
jagtooth slumps onto his haunches as she does this for some time, eyes rolling skyward; attempting to give her as much privacy as he can afford her whilst so close to her. his attention falls back to the pale sylph easily enough when she calls for it, offering him words of gratitude; and for some reason jagtooth is struck with a small and strange epiphany: that occasionally even corrupted holymen were still, in some respects, holy. life couldn't exist without the balance and nothing was as clear cut as many'd like to believe. he'd aided in saving her life ...in saving the life of the life she carries within her womb.
it does not cleanse him of the corruption that riddles his past, does not baptize him so that he is entirely absolved — for he knows himself too well to know that he will not, suddenly, turn to a life of unfettered good. he's ended too many lives ...some in the name of the holyfather and others because he is the cardinal and he carries that power around with him always, never willing to truly relinquish it.
still, jagtooth's scales of balance have, for the moment, shifted.
hush.the cardinal means to quiet her at her apology.
neither of us have ended up in a watery grave and thus there is nothing to apologize for.he tells her sternly, not having any more attempts at an apology.
are you well enough to take the lead again, aurëwen? or should we rest here for a while longer?he doesn't want to set out until her footing is stable and she is confident that she would not be falling over ledges again. jagtooth isn't so sure either of them'll be fortunate the second time around and he is not in the mood to tempt fate twice.
RE: no one wearing a crown comes in the name of peace - Andraste - February 21, 2019
The words are stern, leaving no room for her shivery thanks, and she receives them with a little grumble and curving of ears. But her minute of rumination dissipates in favor of turning to the words he presents to her: is she ready to move on? Her sides are still heaving, but air — life — doesn't seem to be as much of a worry as it was only moments ago (well, her life, anyways.)
So, her only response was a weak nod of her head at his admonishing inquiry. "Another moment," she huffs, breath still stuttering. The astronomess lets her head hang between delicate ankles, a pale axis on thin, trembling shoulders. She wasn't even a warrior, but— "That is ze second time I've nearly died in this damned ravine." A weary 'schlap' of her tail on stone accentuates her riled words; the second time, too, she'd been saved by strangers. The first had her teeth in another's neck, and now, the second had put his teeth into hers.
When her lungs had their fill, when her lithe body had stopped quivering, when her wisping coat had somewhat settled, Aure steadily rose to her paws. "All right, I'm... I'm ready. And you?" There was still a nervous flicker in her elbow, but she moved to Jagtooth's side regardless so that he stood between her and the site of their almost-death.
wanna do a lil time jump? like an hour or uh, h/e long it takes to get out of the ravine lmao