Nearer and nearer they drew, though of course she did not know it. Coelacanth knew their course; she had visited the woods before. Not by choice. There was a funny little feeling in Maegi's stomach when she thought of it. She'd known her family dealt in dark things, but to hurt such a sweet wolf. . .
Why had they done it? What had Seelie done to deserve such trauma?
Trauma. Maegi knew it as well as the lines in the pad of her clubbed paw. Etched deeper and deeper still, 'til it was an indelible part of her. The trauma that had occurred even before her existence, to mar her leg so--and the trauma that had come after. Lent the wicked scar upon her cheek, and the haunted look in her eyes.
But she had deserved it. Every fork in the road, she had chosen the wrong turn. Every choice had been incorrect. She had watched Miraak die, and done nothing. She had denied Vaati a chance to reconnect with his baby sister. She had let Cicero, Mou, Ramsay, Euron. . .all slip from her grasp. The pain that had come, that came, that would continue to visit her. . .
It was hers. She owned it. But she stood by the lake vehemently fighting against the notion of Coelacanth owning the same sorrow. She watched the cool ripples of water and thought, the flame-orange of her eye in the reflection staring unblinkingly back at her--
If I am Peryite, am I pain--both victim and aggressor? By coming with me, is Coelacanth doomed again? Are they all?
Why had they done it? What had Seelie done to deserve such trauma?
Trauma. Maegi knew it as well as the lines in the pad of her clubbed paw. Etched deeper and deeper still, 'til it was an indelible part of her. The trauma that had occurred even before her existence, to mar her leg so--and the trauma that had come after. Lent the wicked scar upon her cheek, and the haunted look in her eyes.
But she had deserved it. Every fork in the road, she had chosen the wrong turn. Every choice had been incorrect. She had watched Miraak die, and done nothing. She had denied Vaati a chance to reconnect with his baby sister. She had let Cicero, Mou, Ramsay, Euron. . .all slip from her grasp. The pain that had come, that came, that would continue to visit her. . .
It was hers. She owned it. But she stood by the lake vehemently fighting against the notion of Coelacanth owning the same sorrow. She watched the cool ripples of water and thought, the flame-orange of her eye in the reflection staring unblinkingly back at her--
If I am Peryite, am I pain--both victim and aggressor? By coming with me, is Coelacanth doomed again? Are they all?
463 Posts
Ooc — mixedhearts
Warrior
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September 08, 2018, 02:44 PM
Moorhen was settling into the rhythm of the trip. She'd never travelled in numbers before, and it was a nice change from the voyages she'd undertaken in the past. Sometimes, she could even convince herself that it was just her, Maegi, Coelacanth, and Venninne going on a fun trip, and that they'd all return together when they were done. It put her in a better mood than she'd been when the trip began - her companions would probably not have noticed this. She was as watchful and suspicious as ever.
She came up beside Maegi to lap at the water, breaking up the younger wolf's reflection as she did. When she'd quenched her thirst, she lifted her head to regard the pale girl, wondering at her mercurial moods. She didn't know the girl very well, but she felt she could understand at least part of her struggle. Family was complicated.
Instead of saying this, or any number of other things she felt she would probably butcher, Moorhen simply sat beside the younger wolf and hoped things would work out better for her than they had for Moorhen when she'd rediscovered her family.
She came up beside Maegi to lap at the water, breaking up the younger wolf's reflection as she did. When she'd quenched her thirst, she lifted her head to regard the pale girl, wondering at her mercurial moods. She didn't know the girl very well, but she felt she could understand at least part of her struggle. Family was complicated.
Instead of saying this, or any number of other things she felt she would probably butcher, Moorhen simply sat beside the younger wolf and hoped things would work out better for her than they had for Moorhen when she'd rediscovered her family.
September 09, 2018, 04:57 PM
Since Coelacanth has a relatively minor role in these threads, please feel free to skip her and please TAG HER if and when you interact directly with her. Thank you! ♥
Coelacanth stood at the water’s edge on the opposite bank and peered down.
She is thirsty, and a flurry of intent sniffs from her dry, cracked nose tells her that the area is untouched by her captors, but she faces the glimmering surface with fraught consternation. Tremors race from the tip of her nose to the tip of her tail…
The beast who gazed back at her, wide-eyed and unnerved, distorted and blurred by a breeze skimming across the lake’s placid surface, was not a stranger.
She was a nightmare.
A memory.
A slinking, skeletal creature.
She experiences the dawning of the day as a mole might, reflexively blinking tears from her Neptune eyes and squinting in the fragile, rose-blush light. The velveteen of her cheeks is so sticky and coarse with a blighted mixture of caked earth, saline, and grime that the moisture doesn’t soak in or trickle down. It lingers in purulent globules that stretch into strings at the innermost corner of her almond-shaped eyes.
Horrified, the Aralez lifted her muzzle and drew back a pace, craning her neck to regard the clean symmetry of her limbs and the plush slope of her flank. Despite her character profile, which KJ never gets around to updating, the sheepdog had recuperated fully and was at her optimum weight [read: still tinier than most wolves, because doge] at a trim forty-five pounds. Her atramentous pelage gleamed like a rook’s plumage, shot through with cobalt and indigo, and her Neptune eyes were bright. She stepped forward to peer timorously at her reflection a second time.
The arch of her spine is a crenelated bridge, the knobs of her vertebrae bordered by the crests of her shoulders and hips. The scalloped gradient of her ribs stands out sharply — it is something she was able to conceal when she had the luxury of grooming and feeding herself regularly, but now the lank and greasy strands of her dusty oilslick fur press flat into the divots between her bones. She is a slinking, skeletal creature…
“No,” she breathed, glancing furtively across the lake. “Bad dog.” She wanted the spectre to go — and she lifted her velveteen flews, the bridge of her muzzle wrinkling.
She had forgotten this place — but the lake remembered.
She is thirsty, and a flurry of intent sniffs from her dry, cracked nose tells her that the area is untouched by her captors, but she faces the glimmering surface with fraught consternation. Tremors race from the tip of her nose to the tip of her tail…
The beast who gazed back at her, wide-eyed and unnerved, distorted and blurred by a breeze skimming across the lake’s placid surface, was not a stranger.
She was a nightmare.
A memory.
A slinking, skeletal creature.
She experiences the dawning of the day as a mole might, reflexively blinking tears from her Neptune eyes and squinting in the fragile, rose-blush light. The velveteen of her cheeks is so sticky and coarse with a blighted mixture of caked earth, saline, and grime that the moisture doesn’t soak in or trickle down. It lingers in purulent globules that stretch into strings at the innermost corner of her almond-shaped eyes.
Horrified, the Aralez lifted her muzzle and drew back a pace, craning her neck to regard the clean symmetry of her limbs and the plush slope of her flank. Despite her character profile, which KJ never gets around to updating, the sheepdog had recuperated fully and was at her optimum weight [read: still tinier than most wolves, because doge] at a trim forty-five pounds. Her atramentous pelage gleamed like a rook’s plumage, shot through with cobalt and indigo, and her Neptune eyes were bright. She stepped forward to peer timorously at her reflection a second time.
The arch of her spine is a crenelated bridge, the knobs of her vertebrae bordered by the crests of her shoulders and hips. The scalloped gradient of her ribs stands out sharply — it is something she was able to conceal when she had the luxury of grooming and feeding herself regularly, but now the lank and greasy strands of her dusty oilslick fur press flat into the divots between her bones. She is a slinking, skeletal creature…
“No,” she breathed, glancing furtively across the lake. “Bad dog.” She wanted the spectre to go — and she lifted her velveteen flews, the bridge of her muzzle wrinkling.
She had forgotten this place — but the lake remembered.
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