@Syzmon
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Qilaq makes a second effort to approach the den shared by Rannoch and their leader. The first attempt had been interrupted and she didn’t get as good of a look as she’d like. Still, she hasn’t been able to find him in the last several days and she isn’t sure she knows what to do with it. She creeps up slowly, noting the less intensity of Skellige’s scent, and the even lesser present scent of her friend. A frown twists upon her features and she closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and continues a little closer.
“Ra-Rannoch?” she calls out, struggling to get her lips around his name. She swallows hard, partially hoping him not to be there to hear it but when she is met with nothing but silence, she knows it to be true. A stinging makes itself known behind her eyes and her vision clouds, still taking another step closer enough that she sees in the remaining light, the shell she’d given him some time ago. Her jaw tightens, grinding her teeth together in misplacement of something that feels far too close to anger.
She is about to turn from the den but her pale eyes find the gift again, and without a second thought, she quickly moves forward to scoop it away and run. Qilaq takes the direction easiest to escape from until she finds an area of her home that is familiar to her and she’s able to redirect and make her way to the den in the ground. She takes long breaths as she slows to a stop and nearly drops herself in the den, letting the shell fall from her mouth to the den floor. Her breaths become far more ragged and difficult to draw, shifting a little more comfortably in the den that smells only of her now—the remnants of her parents scent have been long gone—and tries to find comfort in the time alone.
Eventually, the girl falls asleep with the shell between her paws and her nose draped across and pressed into the sand.
[/td][/tr][/table]“Ra-Rannoch?” she calls out, struggling to get her lips around his name. She swallows hard, partially hoping him not to be there to hear it but when she is met with nothing but silence, she knows it to be true. A stinging makes itself known behind her eyes and her vision clouds, still taking another step closer enough that she sees in the remaining light, the shell she’d given him some time ago. Her jaw tightens, grinding her teeth together in misplacement of something that feels far too close to anger.
She is about to turn from the den but her pale eyes find the gift again, and without a second thought, she quickly moves forward to scoop it away and run. Qilaq takes the direction easiest to escape from until she finds an area of her home that is familiar to her and she’s able to redirect and make her way to the den in the ground. She takes long breaths as she slows to a stop and nearly drops herself in the den, letting the shell fall from her mouth to the den floor. Her breaths become far more ragged and difficult to draw, shifting a little more comfortably in the den that smells only of her now—the remnants of her parents scent have been long gone—and tries to find comfort in the time alone.
Eventually, the girl falls asleep with the shell between her paws and her nose draped across and pressed into the sand.
she had a mind like a box of fireworks
and hands that played recklessly with matches
and hands that played recklessly with matches
December 04, 2016, 11:18 PM
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Though his days are filled to the brim with various responsibilities — preparing for the coming winter, maintaining relationships with the neighboring packs, and helping Doe raise their youngest children — Szymon’s attention strays often to his first daughter. Now that Julep and Isengrim are just shy of five weeks old, able to see and hear and wander, his job feels both easier and more difficult. The Drop is drawing near, for their stubby limbs are gaining strength; but today, Szymon pushes all his worries to the back of his mind as he seeks out his gray-eyed stargazer.
His first instinct is the right one — though he doesn’t know the magnitude of hurt that has befallen the daughter of his heart, he knows that the birth of her tiny siblings has made her question things and feel emotions he’s helpless to understand or commiserate with. What should he say? He has learned enough to empathize with the girl — she looks different from the Four, and she lacks the Cairn lineage and Hind’s legacy; it must feel different, but he can’t imagine how. It’s a situation that he doesn’t know how to navigate, and in a very Szymon-like way, he chooses not to explore it at all. His personal truth is that Qilaq is special in a unique way that his children by birth cannot compete with; it is simply different. Doe chose Qilaq, and Szymon would have put his own flesh and blood between her then-tiny body and Damien’s imposing force to keep her.
Qilaq is as much Szymon’s flesh and blood as the Four are, just in a separate way.
He lingers for a moment in the den mouth, pausing to mark the outside walls with rubbings of his fur and deep furrows of his talons. He is possessive of the place despite its disuse, and freshens the scent markings before he goes to his girl. A shell rests between her paws, and her tapered muzzle is draped over it and pressed into the sand in a way that appears almost forlorn. Szymon, still worried about the girl after her own Drop, steps warily into the den and curls his body around Qilaq’s. It doesn’t occur to him to let her sleep; he bends his head and begins to groom the fur at her nape and shoulder, incisors nibbling away knots and snarls as his tongue sweeps her dark fur and leaves it glossy and shining.
[/td][/tr][/table]His first instinct is the right one — though he doesn’t know the magnitude of hurt that has befallen the daughter of his heart, he knows that the birth of her tiny siblings has made her question things and feel emotions he’s helpless to understand or commiserate with. What should he say? He has learned enough to empathize with the girl — she looks different from the Four, and she lacks the Cairn lineage and Hind’s legacy; it must feel different, but he can’t imagine how. It’s a situation that he doesn’t know how to navigate, and in a very Szymon-like way, he chooses not to explore it at all. His personal truth is that Qilaq is special in a unique way that his children by birth cannot compete with; it is simply different. Doe chose Qilaq, and Szymon would have put his own flesh and blood between her then-tiny body and Damien’s imposing force to keep her.
Qilaq is as much Szymon’s flesh and blood as the Four are, just in a separate way.
He lingers for a moment in the den mouth, pausing to mark the outside walls with rubbings of his fur and deep furrows of his talons. He is possessive of the place despite its disuse, and freshens the scent markings before he goes to his girl. A shell rests between her paws, and her tapered muzzle is draped over it and pressed into the sand in a way that appears almost forlorn. Szymon, still worried about the girl after her own Drop, steps warily into the den and curls his body around Qilaq’s. It doesn’t occur to him to let her sleep; he bends his head and begins to groom the fur at her nape and shoulder, incisors nibbling away knots and snarls as his tongue sweeps her dark fur and leaves it glossy and shining.
December 04, 2016, 11:37 PM
It is comfort that she feels first, then familiarity, as her toes splay out when she stretches. Her mind briefly forgets the pain in a haze of sleep but when Szymon’s scent touches her nose instead of Rannoch, she slumps back down. Any other day and her father would bring her joy and happiness but her heart is too heavy to give to him. Qilaq does not shy away from the grooming, either, and begins to tuck herself beneath him as much as possible. It isn’t much as she has gotten bigger, but she uses one paw to level against the dirt and discards the shell in an effort to hide beneath him and works her way under one of his legs.
The mess of emotions coursing through her all at once croaks a sob out of her throat just before she buries her face. She mumbles something into his chest—he’s gone?—once she’s fallen still, and slumps in the dirt.
The mess of emotions coursing through her all at once croaks a sob out of her throat just before she buries her face. She mumbles something into his chest—he’s gone?—once she’s fallen still, and slumps in the dirt.
she had a mind like a box of fireworks
and hands that played recklessly with matches
and hands that played recklessly with matches
December 05, 2016, 12:31 AM
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A strange, fluttering tightness in Szymon’s chest causes his breath to catch as Qilaq stretches, flexing her toes, and then seems to wilt. The feeling intensifies as she presses herself insistently against him; he lifts his foreleg to drape over her lengthening frame and rumbles to her, an undulating current of comfort and reassurance. The close proximity allows him to recognize the subtle changes in his daughter: she has lost the frightening frailty of her youth but retained a lean, petite build despite her evident growth. “Qilaq,” he says, continuing to preen at her fur, realizing only when a sob edges it way from between her teeth and she buries her face in his chest that something is amiss. He probably should have realized it when she seemed less than excited to see him, but subtleties are often lost on the black-banded Cairn.
He’s briefly troubled by the sudden bout of tachycardia that a normal wolf would associate with great joy and affection — in Szymon, the sensation of dizzying breathlessness is just next door to anxiousness. He felt it the day he taught Qilaq to swim — the day Doe and Qilaq had thrown themselves from the cliff — the day his children were born — and maybe most of all, the day Doe took him as her mate.
A low, uncertain whine drifts from his nose on the wings of a sigh as he adjusts his position to accommodate her nearness. “What happened, little stargazer?” he asks, then thinks better of his phrasing, repeating his question but using her name to ground her, keep her with him: “Qilaq, what happened?” He continues to groom her, his teeth and tongue gritty with salt and sand that he flicks away with a shake of his head. He smooths his tongue carefully over the fur between her ears as he begins to hum to her, a song without words meant to soothe her hurts.
[/td][/tr][/table]He’s briefly troubled by the sudden bout of tachycardia that a normal wolf would associate with great joy and affection — in Szymon, the sensation of dizzying breathlessness is just next door to anxiousness. He felt it the day he taught Qilaq to swim — the day Doe and Qilaq had thrown themselves from the cliff — the day his children were born — and maybe most of all, the day Doe took him as her mate.
A low, uncertain whine drifts from his nose on the wings of a sigh as he adjusts his position to accommodate her nearness. “What happened, little stargazer?” he asks, then thinks better of his phrasing, repeating his question but using her name to ground her, keep her with him: “Qilaq, what happened?” He continues to groom her, his teeth and tongue gritty with salt and sand that he flicks away with a shake of his head. He smooths his tongue carefully over the fur between her ears as he begins to hum to her, a song without words meant to soothe her hurts.
December 05, 2016, 07:50 PM
Papa speaks and Qilaq sucks in a breath. Sorting the thoughts running through her mind doesn’t give her any progress but she knows she can’t find what she needs. Heavy and lost, she releases the gasp of air as if she were giving up. Nothing wants to work and she knows she doesn’t want to continue. The tightness in her chest and the way her throat constricts leaves her struggling to put words to the way she feels, to try and find the answers she needs to answer the questions.
What happened?
She doesn’t answer for a long time, focusing on the flow of her breathing and perhaps, for a moment, she forgot.
“I dunno,” she finally says with slurred and lazy words. “I don’t know,” she enunciates this time. Qilaq then brings her gaze upward, twisting so she can see his face. “Where did he go?”
What happened?
She doesn’t answer for a long time, focusing on the flow of her breathing and perhaps, for a moment, she forgot.
“I dunno,” she finally says with slurred and lazy words. “I don’t know,” she enunciates this time. Qilaq then brings her gaze upward, twisting so she can see his face. “Where did he go?”
she had a mind like a box of fireworks
and hands that played recklessly with matches
and hands that played recklessly with matches
December 06, 2016, 09:47 PM
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Szymon waits patiently for his daughter to unlock her tongue, knowing all too well what it’s like to struggle and struggle and still come up short. He does not cease his gentle ministrations, continuing to hum and groom as though the rhythm itself might offer the girl some succor. Maybe it does. It’s little things that help Szymon when his tongue gets too tied — Doe, the undulating rhythm of the waves, Doe, distracting himself with a physical task, Doe, speaking slowly and breathing deeply to center himself, Doe… — and really, this is Doe’s area more than it is Szymon’s.
He has never been any good at feelings — not his, and certainly not anyone else’s.
This is Qilaq, though, and Szymon is trying his best.
The black-banded Cairn’s brow furrows as she mumbles something, the words blurred at the edges, and he’s grateful when she repeats it. She turns to face him, a lost and lonely look in her wide gray eyes, and she asks him something he doesn’t understand: “Where did he go?”
“Who?” he asks, the single syllable popping out of his mouth before he really has time to think about it. With Qilaq he can’t be sure; it could be Arturo or Skellige, for all Szymon knows. He doesn’t think either of the two is capable of triggering such a reaction in Qilaq, though — and he’ll be blisteringly jealous if that does end up being the case. His thoughts center on the turquoise-eyed cub who took so readily to fishing — Qilaq’s only agemate. “Rannoch?” It’s Szymon’s turn to say, “I don’t know,” and he lacks the imagination to tell his girl a hopeful lie about Rannoch leaving to find his own happiness. “Sometimes wolves just leave,” is his really depressing conclusion, which probably isn’t going to help matters.
He feels like he should probably follow that up with something comforting, but all he manages to come up with is feeble and thin:
“Sometimes they come back.”
[/td][/tr][/table]He has never been any good at feelings — not his, and certainly not anyone else’s.
This is Qilaq, though, and Szymon is trying his best.
The black-banded Cairn’s brow furrows as she mumbles something, the words blurred at the edges, and he’s grateful when she repeats it. She turns to face him, a lost and lonely look in her wide gray eyes, and she asks him something he doesn’t understand: “Where did he go?”
“Who?” he asks, the single syllable popping out of his mouth before he really has time to think about it. With Qilaq he can’t be sure; it could be Arturo or Skellige, for all Szymon knows. He doesn’t think either of the two is capable of triggering such a reaction in Qilaq, though — and he’ll be blisteringly jealous if that does end up being the case. His thoughts center on the turquoise-eyed cub who took so readily to fishing — Qilaq’s only agemate. “Rannoch?” It’s Szymon’s turn to say, “I don’t know,” and he lacks the imagination to tell his girl a hopeful lie about Rannoch leaving to find his own happiness. “Sometimes wolves just leave,” is his really depressing conclusion, which probably isn’t going to help matters.
He feels like he should probably follow that up with something comforting, but all he manages to come up with is feeble and thin:
“Sometimes they come back.”
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