January 05, 2018, 12:19 PM
(This post was last modified: January 05, 2018, 12:27 PM by Cassiopeia.)
Blood discoloured the snow, old and turned red-brown. The day was cloudless, bright, and seemed at odds with the scene before her. Carefuly, the woman moved forward, stepped to avoid the patches of torn up snow and blood, already dusted with pale powder. Moss green gaze surveyed the mess with a sense of detached logic, though dread plunged through her, heavy and dark. Their scents had changed, but she knew them well enough; the Cerberus. Here too was Vaati, and her heart clenched when she realized that his blood made up much of the dirty stains on the snow. She hated and loved him, had left him far behind with the rest of Blackfeather, but did not want him dead.
But the scent that had her falter in her inspection was of Screech, his blood that littered the snow alongside Vaati's. Had it not been for the lack of a body, she would have thought him dead; the whole of Moonspear believed him to have killed one of their own. His story ought to have led a rational wolf to doubt him, think him guilty, but Cassiopeia knew him to be no murderer. He was angry, yes, and loud, but not a killer.
She paced the site, attempting to pierce together exactly what had happened here. The scents were weak, faint, and it was all too likely something could have dragged away a body. Her limbs felt heavy as she moved to the fringes of the mess of blood and violence, seeking decay. The shadow slipped through the trees, seeking the kind of mess that littered the borders of the Wood, but finding instead a smattering of blood, torn up snow and a scent that had relief swep over her in a wave. They hadn't killed him, then, but they had hurt him. The Cerberus, for their scents had been interwoven with his where the blood was most concentrated, and had the most reason to wish him harm.
The scent of Vaati, his blood, had her twist back towards the site of the violence, moss green gaze staring back. But she'd made her choice, and could not concern herself with him, not anymore. He was alive, and that ought to be enough. Turning, she turned her attention of the trail left by Screech, and could only hope it did not end with a body.
But the scent that had her falter in her inspection was of Screech, his blood that littered the snow alongside Vaati's. Had it not been for the lack of a body, she would have thought him dead; the whole of Moonspear believed him to have killed one of their own. His story ought to have led a rational wolf to doubt him, think him guilty, but Cassiopeia knew him to be no murderer. He was angry, yes, and loud, but not a killer.
She paced the site, attempting to pierce together exactly what had happened here. The scents were weak, faint, and it was all too likely something could have dragged away a body. Her limbs felt heavy as she moved to the fringes of the mess of blood and violence, seeking decay. The shadow slipped through the trees, seeking the kind of mess that littered the borders of the Wood, but finding instead a smattering of blood, torn up snow and a scent that had relief swep over her in a wave. They hadn't killed him, then, but they had hurt him. The Cerberus, for their scents had been interwoven with his where the blood was most concentrated, and had the most reason to wish him harm.
The scent of Vaati, his blood, had her twist back towards the site of the violence, moss green gaze staring back. But she'd made her choice, and could not concern herself with him, not anymore. He was alive, and that ought to be enough. Turning, she turned her attention of the trail left by Screech, and could only hope it did not end with a body.
That is not dead which can eternal lie.
And with strange aeons even death may die.
And with strange aeons even death may die.
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