Mature Content Warning
This thread has been marked as mature. By reading and/or participating in this thread, you acknowledge that you are of age or have permission from your parents to do so.The participants have indicated the following reason(s) for this warning: Suicide.
This has been a long time coming, I think - I love Mawk and I love Easthollow but with the muse dropping even further and with my wolfdog's situation, I think this is the path he'd take. I love all of you and hopefully we can continue to thread with eachother through other characters <3 Feel free to reference finding Mawk's body just outside of the borders, as he isn't far.
In the dead of night he crept from his vacant, desolate den, slinking into the shadows as the numbing pressure tumbled into the pit of his stomach - a gelid, heavy stone. Despite the long-awaited arrival of spring, hiemal snow still battered the teekon from blackened, cloaked heavens, cascading around him with the force of a hyperborean barbarian; the storm was violent, whipping his pelt up in tufts of bleached gold among the wintry fields, and with each step he felt his resolve weakening. Crumbling.
He had been preparing himself for this.
The loss of Mawk's family had fractured a necessary trait within the scout, something irreplacable and unfixable, a part of his head or his heart that could never swell into healing. Even with Valette's encouraging words, Noelani's idyllic face and soothing tone, the promise he'd make Illecebra - oh god, the promise. He was breaking it.
He just couldn't fight the tenebrosity anymore. Grief had left him gasping for air, awaiting every day in solemn anguish until he'd seperated himself not only from his own ambitions, but also from his packmates. Those who surrounded him - he was looked upon with sympathetic eyes, gazes full of disquietude, distinctly aware of the watching stares that felt only like acapuncture needles down his spine. He was a stranger here now, unfavourable, lamentable, a burden, who drowned himself in self-pity and tumbled amongst the horrors of his mind. They would not miss him, he was sure.
Large steps created carved dents into the snow, but soon they would be covered in a fresh, crisp layer and none would be able to distinguish his scent from the glacial burst of frost. The walk was one of shame, but also of rekindled hope - he'd be among his blood-family soon, bathing in the warmth of their touch and their loving embrace, to which he'd lose himself in the dreams. The memories. He would be among the dead, and nothing else settled across his mind, other than this. He wanted to go now.
The boulder was rough, with a jagged edge that jutted from the hips of the rock surface; crystalline white blanketed the top, but he knew it could not mask the erratic ridges or the sharpness of their bite. The wolfdog drifted closer, hardening his mind despite the twinges of anxiety which cursed their path through his twisted thoughts. It was the end now.
The first contact of his crown to the boulder was a hefty blow, and immediately came the warmth of spilling blood - it cascaded as a crimson river down from his forehead, into his eyes and then splattered to the ground as an ugly red stain. Pain coursed through his skull.
I love you Illecebra.
He swung again, listening to the crack of pallid bone and trembling as his vision blurred, fighting to stay on his feet.
Is Rowana up there with you? Burr, too? Where is Cyron? Onyx? Sky?
Another hit, and it would be one of the last. His whole body throbbed with pain, pulsing and shivering in both knowledge of his beaten state and a sudden fear of what was to come, of what he had done, but it was too late. Too late. His head swung again, and smacked against the sharpest ridge tracing the boulder's surface, encompassing him in a sudden spurt of darkness.
I will join you now.
If the wound did not kill him, the cold fingers seeping into it would. He didn't care, as the world spun violently and knocked him to the ground, chest heaving, ribs pushing as if to burst from his skin. His eyes closed.
I am sorry I failed you. Forgive me.
When the others came upon him at last, his body would be stiff and cold, void of his spirit. Mawk would be dead.
He had been preparing himself for this.
The loss of Mawk's family had fractured a necessary trait within the scout, something irreplacable and unfixable, a part of his head or his heart that could never swell into healing. Even with Valette's encouraging words, Noelani's idyllic face and soothing tone, the promise he'd make Illecebra - oh god, the promise. He was breaking it.
He just couldn't fight the tenebrosity anymore. Grief had left him gasping for air, awaiting every day in solemn anguish until he'd seperated himself not only from his own ambitions, but also from his packmates. Those who surrounded him - he was looked upon with sympathetic eyes, gazes full of disquietude, distinctly aware of the watching stares that felt only like acapuncture needles down his spine. He was a stranger here now, unfavourable, lamentable, a burden, who drowned himself in self-pity and tumbled amongst the horrors of his mind. They would not miss him, he was sure.
Large steps created carved dents into the snow, but soon they would be covered in a fresh, crisp layer and none would be able to distinguish his scent from the glacial burst of frost. The walk was one of shame, but also of rekindled hope - he'd be among his blood-family soon, bathing in the warmth of their touch and their loving embrace, to which he'd lose himself in the dreams. The memories. He would be among the dead, and nothing else settled across his mind, other than this. He wanted to go now.
The boulder was rough, with a jagged edge that jutted from the hips of the rock surface; crystalline white blanketed the top, but he knew it could not mask the erratic ridges or the sharpness of their bite. The wolfdog drifted closer, hardening his mind despite the twinges of anxiety which cursed their path through his twisted thoughts. It was the end now.
The first contact of his crown to the boulder was a hefty blow, and immediately came the warmth of spilling blood - it cascaded as a crimson river down from his forehead, into his eyes and then splattered to the ground as an ugly red stain. Pain coursed through his skull.
I love you Illecebra.
He swung again, listening to the crack of pallid bone and trembling as his vision blurred, fighting to stay on his feet.
Is Rowana up there with you? Burr, too? Where is Cyron? Onyx? Sky?
Another hit, and it would be one of the last. His whole body throbbed with pain, pulsing and shivering in both knowledge of his beaten state and a sudden fear of what was to come, of what he had done, but it was too late. Too late. His head swung again, and smacked against the sharpest ridge tracing the boulder's surface, encompassing him in a sudden spurt of darkness.
I will join you now.
If the wound did not kill him, the cold fingers seeping into it would. He didn't care, as the world spun violently and knocked him to the ground, chest heaving, ribs pushing as if to burst from his skin. His eyes closed.
I am sorry I failed you. Forgive me.
When the others came upon him at last, his body would be stiff and cold, void of his spirit. Mawk would be dead.
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