September 03, 2024, 07:28 PM
(This post was last modified: September 03, 2024, 08:35 PM by Moss.)
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: (Assumed) Child Death
Tags for ref! Single replies welcome if you want it in your thread log <3
The Burial
It had been three days since Moss had left the lake in search of the lynx child, @Nutuyikruk, the little girl he had spent the summer caring for.
It was on this day that he had made the discovery. The little wolf had been following a narrow, winding path along the edge of a steep ravine, the kind that would have sent most creatures back the way they had come. It was here that he noticed something unsettling—a section of the rock face had crumbled away, leaving a jagged scar on the mountainside. Their breath caught in their throat as they peered over the edge, eyes narrowing as they tried to make sense of the scene. The ground had given way, sending rocks and debris tumbling down, down, down the steep slope, disappearing into the forested vale far below. A shiver ran down his spine as he realized that the path had not only collapsed but had taken something with it.
Moss began his descent. Each step was a delicate negotiation with fate, the loose rocks sliding underfoot, threatening to also send him hurtling down the mountainside. His mind raced with possibilities, each one more horrifying than the last, but he forced himself to stay focused—to keep moving. The air grew colder as they went deeper into the ravine, the sunlight fading into a twilight gloom. The world seemed to hold its breath, as if it, too, was waiting for what he would find at the bottom.
At last, he reached the valley floor, where the rubble from the fallen path had come to rest in a discordant heap. The underbrush was thick here, the trees towering overhead, their branches weaving a dense canopy that filtered the fading light into a patchwork of shadows. Moss’s eyes, wide and fearful, scanned the ground, seeking—dreading—hoping against hope that he would not find what he most feared.
And then, they saw it.
Amidst the tangle of broken branches and scattered rocks, something small and fragile lay crumpled in the dirt. Moss’s breath hitched in his throat, his legs trembling as he forced himself to move closer. The sight that met them was a vision of heartache and horror, a scene that would haunt their dreams for years to come.
There, lying in the earth, was a body— or at least, what was left of one. The birds and insects had had their way with it, the foxes too, leaving barely more than part of a strung-together skeleton. And yet, it was familiar, despite the state of decay, with a small frame and patched honey-gold fur.
A wave of nausea rolled through him, his vision blurring as the reality of what he was seeing began to sink in. The earth beneath their paws seemed to shift and sway, and a high-pitched ringing filled their ears, drowning out the world around them. His legs gave way, and he found himself on the ground, the cold earth pressing against his chest. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the sight before him, the horror of it rooting him to the spot, paralyzing him with grief.
The sun had long since set by the time they stirred, and it was only with great reluctance.
The soil was damp and cool beneath his stinging, cracked paws, each plunge into the earth slow— prayerful. The grave was shallow, but they made it with care, choosing a spot beneath an oak where the roots cradled the ground like a mother’s arms. When the task was done, he gently laid the remains to rest.
Moss settled beside the grave. The moon cast a silver light over the vale, turning the scene into a place of ethereal beauty, a stark contrast to the sorrow that weighed on his heart. He kept vigil through the night, his eyes never leaving the small mound of earth, the stillness of the forest broken only by the occasional rustle of leaves. Their thoughts, when they had them at all, were a chaotic jumble of the summer days spent with the little lynx, her voice echoing in his mind like the distant call of a bird.
It was on this day that he had made the discovery. The little wolf had been following a narrow, winding path along the edge of a steep ravine, the kind that would have sent most creatures back the way they had come. It was here that he noticed something unsettling—a section of the rock face had crumbled away, leaving a jagged scar on the mountainside. Their breath caught in their throat as they peered over the edge, eyes narrowing as they tried to make sense of the scene. The ground had given way, sending rocks and debris tumbling down, down, down the steep slope, disappearing into the forested vale far below. A shiver ran down his spine as he realized that the path had not only collapsed but had taken something with it.
Moss began his descent. Each step was a delicate negotiation with fate, the loose rocks sliding underfoot, threatening to also send him hurtling down the mountainside. His mind raced with possibilities, each one more horrifying than the last, but he forced himself to stay focused—to keep moving. The air grew colder as they went deeper into the ravine, the sunlight fading into a twilight gloom. The world seemed to hold its breath, as if it, too, was waiting for what he would find at the bottom.
At last, he reached the valley floor, where the rubble from the fallen path had come to rest in a discordant heap. The underbrush was thick here, the trees towering overhead, their branches weaving a dense canopy that filtered the fading light into a patchwork of shadows. Moss’s eyes, wide and fearful, scanned the ground, seeking—dreading—hoping against hope that he would not find what he most feared.
And then, they saw it.
Amidst the tangle of broken branches and scattered rocks, something small and fragile lay crumpled in the dirt. Moss’s breath hitched in his throat, his legs trembling as he forced himself to move closer. The sight that met them was a vision of heartache and horror, a scene that would haunt their dreams for years to come.
There, lying in the earth, was a body— or at least, what was left of one. The birds and insects had had their way with it, the foxes too, leaving barely more than part of a strung-together skeleton. And yet, it was familiar, despite the state of decay, with a small frame and patched honey-gold fur.
A wave of nausea rolled through him, his vision blurring as the reality of what he was seeing began to sink in. The earth beneath their paws seemed to shift and sway, and a high-pitched ringing filled their ears, drowning out the world around them. His legs gave way, and he found himself on the ground, the cold earth pressing against his chest. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the sight before him, the horror of it rooting him to the spot, paralyzing him with grief.
The sun had long since set by the time they stirred, and it was only with great reluctance.
The soil was damp and cool beneath his stinging, cracked paws, each plunge into the earth slow— prayerful. The grave was shallow, but they made it with care, choosing a spot beneath an oak where the roots cradled the ground like a mother’s arms. When the task was done, he gently laid the remains to rest.
Moss settled beside the grave. The moon cast a silver light over the vale, turning the scene into a place of ethereal beauty, a stark contrast to the sorrow that weighed on his heart. He kept vigil through the night, his eyes never leaving the small mound of earth, the stillness of the forest broken only by the occasional rustle of leaves. Their thoughts, when they had them at all, were a chaotic jumble of the summer days spent with the little lynx, her voice echoing in his mind like the distant call of a bird.
The Rite
The dawn broke softly, the first rays of sunlight filtering through the trees, painting the world in hues of gold and green. Moss rose from his vigil, his body stiff and aching, but his heart determined. There was still more to do—more to honor the life that had been lost.
Drawing upon the traditions of his family, Moss prepared for the ritual to guide the spirit safely to the other side. They gathered herbs and flowers from the forest, weaving them into a garland that they placed gently on the grave. Each bloom was chosen with care—lavender for peace, sage for protection, and wild roses for remembrance.
The rite began with a low, mournful howl, a song to guide her to the other side. Moss circled the grave, his voice rising and falling in a chant that spoke of love, loss, and the hope that the girl's spirit would find its way to the stars.
As the day wore on, the grave keeper continued his ceremony, singing the old songs that had been passed down through generations, songs of life and death. The forest seemed to listen, the leaves whispering in response, the wind carrying their voice to the far corners of the valley.
Drawing upon the traditions of his family, Moss prepared for the ritual to guide the spirit safely to the other side. They gathered herbs and flowers from the forest, weaving them into a garland that they placed gently on the grave. Each bloom was chosen with care—lavender for peace, sage for protection, and wild roses for remembrance.
The rite began with a low, mournful howl, a song to guide her to the other side. Moss circled the grave, his voice rising and falling in a chant that spoke of love, loss, and the hope that the girl's spirit would find its way to the stars.
As the day wore on, the grave keeper continued his ceremony, singing the old songs that had been passed down through generations, songs of life and death. The forest seemed to listen, the leaves whispering in response, the wind carrying their voice to the far corners of the valley.
The Departure & Return
The third day dawned with a soft mist hanging in the air. Moss felt a sense of peace settle over him, feeling assured that the spirit had moved on, and was now at rest. They spent the morning in quiet reflection, their eyes lingering on the grave, the blooms they had placed now wilting under the weight of the night’s dew.
The journey back to the lake was long and tiresome, the little wolf's paws sluggish under the weight of their sorrow. The lake came into view just as the sun reached its zenith, its surface shimmering like a sheet of glass. But something was wrong. The air felt too still, too quiet, the sounds of the pups and their chatter conspicuously absent. Moss’s ears pricked up, his gaze sweeping over the shoreline, searching for the familiar figures of @Mesen-ka and the children. But there was no sign of them—no movement, no voices, just the gentle lapping of water against the shore.
They circled the camp, their nose to the ground, searching for any trace of the little family's departure. The scent was faint, barely discernible in the damp earth, but it was there— another, smelling of the desert to the south-west. The realization hit him like a physical blow. They had been there, but now they were gone. Returned to the desert kingdom without a word, without waiting, without knowing what had become of the cinnamon girl.
They sat, legs trembling with exhaustion, their head drooping as the weight of it all threatened to overwhelm them. Where would they go from here?
from my rotting body flowers shall grow
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