Hoshor Plains I Wear My Sins On My Sleeves

Setting: Late Evening — 1900. 76 Degrees — Clear skies, sunset.
Set in the middle of Hosher Plains.

@Colin

The team has settled beneath a thicket of trees out in the flat plains. Hardly any trees in sight, except for a few rarely sprinkled about the area. They’re lucky to have found these few to use as shelter. The shade is relieving and cools his heated body. The only other thing that saves him is the disappearing sun, slowly hiding beneath the horizon with each passing hour.

Donovan’s bored. He should rest and gather his energy for their continuous journey to the canyon, yet he cannot. Even though his limbs ache and he’s parched, they’re a few miles away from any water source unless they find a lucky dip in the ground filled with rainwater.

So he stands, leaving the spot against the tree he previously leaned on, he begins padding off in search of water. Not really bothering anyone to accompany him, he wants the rest of them to rest.

Colin wipes sweat from his forehead. He's sitting hunched over beneath a tree, gnarled and chronically bereft of water. The sky turns a violent red, the horizon hums with heat. It was so unlike the foggy and sudden sunsets back home as if the day couldn't wait to leave, barely putting its shoes on before it slammed the door.

He sighs, stares upwards past the branches. Welcomes the surge of vertigo that starts from his toes and swallows his heart. A dull ache lingers in his joints.

Donovan gets up and leaves, and Colin cannot help but leave with him. He straightens his coat, sparing a respectful nod as his mind drifts towards promises of a desert. Vague images of endless sands, an alien palette restricted to virulent blues and deep orange, the wasteland where after his baptism, Jesus had agonised for forty days and forty nights. The thought of it sends a chill through him, or perhaps that was the wind.

As the male saunters on his way, he hears someone step up behind him, eventually coming to walk parallel to the giant man. Looking over the grey and black scale wolf meets his eyes and Donovan smiles to him. A casual and silent greeting to the other until he truly decides to speak.

“Evening, Colin.” He hums, golden eyes that match the stunning yellow of the sun only look to him briefly before gazing forward once more. “How’re you liking it?” He asks, referencing the pack. “Everyone being nice to you?” This time the words come out a bit teasing, the casual smile now becoming more playful.

They walk with slow strides, and Colin returns a good-natured grin which chafes slightly at his otherwise careful and closed-off face. "Good evening, Don." The sunset's intense glow exaggerates light and shadow. The planes of Donovan's face are thrown into full relief, and half of his face is left in the dark. The eyes, healthy and bright, glisten with pinpoint white. 

"As nice as anyone could be," he laughs. "You've taken in a lot of lost souls. That's quite honorable of you." What Donovan was spearheading-- could it be so different from being a pastor? The ability to give purpose to a life bereft of it, to light what otherwise would've been a dark and dangerous rabbit hole-- Colin appraises the man beside him with respect and a strange breed of fascination.

He listens intently and when he looks over, the black and grey wolves seems to have become more red-yellow in the disappearing sun. The sound of the others laugh makes his own grin widen. 

Then he becomes more serious as the other compliments him. Donovan can only shake his head. “I’m somewhat honorable, friend. I want to give others a purpose, yet sometimes the path following will be bathed in blood.” He hums this mysteriously. “I am a man of my word, I will not lie. I will carry on my fathers ways and make the Saints and everyone in it strong and feared if one cannot be loved.” His eyes flick back to the reverend. “I hope this does not bother you.” He doesn’t say the words as a threat, only a casual comment.

As they speak they continue to walk. The grass seems to go on forever, but there is signs of a river far ahead.

Donovan speaks in ominous and vague portents that would've been threatening coming from anyone else, though from him they were a simple inevitability. A fundmental fact of life, just as reliable as gravity, the drop of a guillotine. 

"No, not at all." He murmurs, and they walk on in silence for a while towards an unseen but audible river. On instict, Colin swallows. The brief constriction of muscle is almost painful; he hadn't realised how thirsty he was. "Do you drink, Don?" Back at Word of Life, in the last days he worked there, Colin had more or less lived in a dull haze. Reality right now is sharp and grating, but he clings to it. He isn't sure what he would've done if he hadn't met Donovan. He'd always had a neurotic streak-- the tendency to unravel. To alienate himself. To entropy.

The river comes into view as they crest a low hill. The promise of fresh water could've brought him to tears.

The reply he gets is pleasing. A confident smile coming to his maw as he faces the other male. “I’m glad. You a wonderful addition to the pack.” He compliments deeply. 

Then, after settling into a deep yet companionable silence, Donovan quirks a circular, white brows this question. “Do I drink...” The man parrots back, sounding contemplative. “I have; not recently though. Drugs though...” He looks mischievously to the other and grins handsomely, his face borderline sultry. “Let’s just say that I enjoy the occasional drug.” He chuckles almost comically. 

They’re closing in on the river and are eventually toe to toe with it. Quickly, Donovan bows his upper half, the muscles in his forearms shifting as he flicks his tongue into the water to scoop it into his maw. The liquid feels godly sliding down his throat. Standing up straight after having his own fill, he wipes the water droplets from his chin onto his arm and shakes himself off.

"Thank you." He means it. It was amazing, the simple curative power of belonging. 

Drugs... Colin didn't have many experiences with them. Yes, the occasional painkiller when the pains in his stomach kept him up for the entire night or when he felt that he literally couldn't stand through a sermon, but otherwise, they were as foreign to him as substances from another planet. Donovan smirks again, sharing an inside joke with himself. He's almost envious of that sardonic confidence.

Despite the muggy air, the water is cool and welcoming. Colin is up to his elbows in it, then his shoulders. Dust washes out in small clouds from his fingernails, forearms, chest, accumulated after a long day of travel.

"I was wondering if you'd tell me more about yourself," he blinks away the water from his eyes. "Perhaps about your family. Your past home."

Donovan eyes the dark male. After shaking himself out he joins him, walking in to coat himself in the cooling liquid a meter or so away from him. His thick ears perk at the question and a grin contorts his handsome face. “Trying to make me confess, huh?” He jests, then continues on with the initial question asked. “Ask and you shall receive.” He hums lowly, smile still in place as he looks over to him.

“I inherited the pack from my father. He gave it up to me so see how I’d fair leading. Then I met another dog, Sasha.” When he says her name a hint of venom accompanies it. “I don’t know what she was. She had thick fur of gold and white, two bright blue eyes and a curled tail much like mine. A husky I think is what they’re called. Anyhow, shit happens, she becomes a part of the pack, gets pregnant with my pups, then blows the whistle on us.” He looks grimly into the pale eyes of the reverend. “My pack was known to be predictably savage. She lead humans straight for us. I watched ‘em par her on the head as they killed my whole pack. Left me to suffer with the memory. They hit me with something, I fell asleep and awoke here. Now I rebuild. Only not to have a repeat of previous events.”

He sighs heavily and shrugs, indifference in his tone. “Whatever. It’s over now. I’ve got a new pack to worry about. A new family to protect.”

Sasha. A traitor. Some stranger with blood on her hands. Colin knits his brow; she would've looked so similar to Ruth. She was blonde and blue-eyed too, and just the memory of her rolls in his stomach like acid. 

He considers the implications of Donovan's story. The implications of terror, the pain of being betrayed by those closest to you, the certain and suffocating sensation of guilt. To have a hand in the genocide of your own people was the stuff of nightmares. Standing helpless as bullets pierce through the body of someone you've known since birth. He had counseled someone with survivor's guilt once. They had killed themselves soon after. 

Clearly, Donovan was skilled in compartmentalizing. The grimness on his wolfdog face bleeds away into apathy as if conjured by a flicked switch or a pressed button. It reminds him of himself. "We will make certain that such a thing never has to happen again."

Donovan nods and a smirk raises to his face — an impish grin so to say. “Enough of that, Colin. I’m not here for confession.” He teases. “I’m here to let off some steam.” With his last words he widens his stance and pounces up and into the water like a fox hunting for prey in deep snow. Purposely slashing water onto the priest, ending in a playful shove as he scampers off onto the shore, soaking wet. Gazing black with a devilish gleam in his eyes. A challenge.

Donovan stands up as if to let Colin's solemnness roll off of himself; he is almost relieved, and is caught mid-nervous-laugh when Donovan leaps into the water, sending a splash up the riverbed, and onto Colin. All 195 pounds of him-- he wouldn't be surprised if with that one gesture, Donovan had changed the direction of the current. 

The water isn't particularly cold. He's thankful for that. Colin's face breaks out into a hesitant but genuine smile, perhaps the first true smile the wolfdog had wrest from him. 

With a yell, he surges forwards, twisting at the moment of impact with the water to send an impressive wave towards Donovan, and suddenly he is a child again, splashing in the puddles of his perpetually rainy neighborhood, letting the water soak into him, dripping off his face and arms and legs. With his hair plastered back, it is so dark it appears pitch-black, and only reveals how thin he is-- at odds with the youthful expression on a face that could almost be considered boyish again.

Roll here!

Donovan can tell the reverend is still too closed off. He wants him to light up, enjoy life a little if anything. Some lighthearted play is always a good way to start. So when his eyes catch the smile that breaks out onto the other wolf’s maw his own grin grows. 

Then just as fast, he’s getting played at his own game. Colin surges forward and does the same thing he did only moments before. Splashing an impressive bout of water onto him, leaving his form dripping wet and soggy. Where the other seems smaller without the thickness of his fur, Donovan seems to stay just about the same — a thick behemoth of a man. Muscles flex beneath his extravagant coat as he’s barreling back towards Colin, smashing about as he goes. Nearing his rump, his teeth snap at air as he attempts to playfully tug at his tail. His attempt is met in failure though.

When the wolfdog runs towards him, he cleaves the river in two like the bobbing figurehead of a ship, like Moses and his Red Sea--

Colin swerves away to avoid getting drenched, but to no avail. A neck-high wave swallows him briefly. The river is foamy and opaque with all the silt they've been kicking up. Donovan snaps at his tail, but misses by the skin of his teeth; he spits out river water and laughs again. 

He smiles mischievously before disappearing into the water, eyes tightly shut and ears swept back into the aerodynamic ideal. His retaliation is to swim towards Donovan, a stealth mission, and then to surge upwards, shoving him and creating the ultimate opportunity for a splash.

However, he misjudges the current and surfaces a few feet downstream of the wolfdog. Blinking away the water from his eyes, he squints and realises his mistake, then breaks out into a sheepish grin. Adrenaline nearly takes him off of his feet-- or is that the flow of the river?

The laugh that reaches his ears interests him and he parrots a laugh of his own back. Not missing the mischievous glint in his eye as he quickly disappears into the less than clear waters. He stands in moderately deep water and shoots his eyes all over the surface trying to decipher where he is. The sound of a splash behind has him turning his body and seeing the male sprout out of the water way off mark.

They stare at each other, Colin’s a bit more sheepish than his own and Donovan can’t help but burst into a hardy fit of rumbling laughter. Then, once more he begins running to the other. A warning but playful, “Better watch out.” coming from his lips.

With water splashing, he stands on his high legs, using his weight to reach out and push Colin’s side. Effectively pushing him into the shallow water. Bracing himself, he readies for Colin’s next hit.

sorry their playfight had to be cut short, Colin is just an extremely sad person lol

The wolfdog's laughter is deep and seems to come from every concievable angle as if he's sitting in a theatre. Better watch out-- what would've been a threat is a playful taunt. It strikes him that Donovan knows himself inside and out, every nuance in his intonation and posture recorded and acknowledged, no inch of himself gone without introspection, but before Colin can finish that thought--

Splash.

Like a freight train crashing into a railroad crossing, Colin tips and capsizes in a single moment. If Donovan's laugh was his whole world just a few seconds before, now it is water. He watches bubbles stream from his mouth and the light dancing over his hands. An apparition. A ghost. The mind sees what it wants to see, namely patterns and faces: a young girl's portrait in the whorl of a tree ring. A devil's sharp smile in a gutted canyon. A dead son in-between light and shadow.

Whatever Colin sees, it's enough to kill his smile. When he resurfaces, all the energy has been drained from him. Standing knee-deep in the water, he's just that-- exhausted, wretched, not whole. 

Deep breaths. "Donovan, I-" In, out. In, out. "-I'm going to head back. I'm tired. I'm sorry."

Haha you’re good! No need to apologize! ;D

Donovan enjoys the way Colin’s somber features lighten up as they splash about in the water like pups. The easy smile that he allows Donovan so see makes his smile even harder. Though when he pushes him into the water, he didn’t think that he would completely plunge into it. When he surfaces, Donovan is still ready to play.

Galloping behind him he jumps to the left and is reaching out to nip the other male on his haunch when a unsuspectingly quiet voice greets him. He stops, realizing the others chest moving abnormally. Furrowing brows, he comes to walk beside him. He’s not going to let him go so easily.

“Wait, wait, Colin.” He calls to him. “What’s wrong?” Is his confused reply. He has no idea what’s just happened.

"I'm alright." He says, terse, willing the tightness in his chest to go away. 

But it doesn't, and it won't, not for a long time. And what would Ruth think if she saw you? Your son is dead. You're playing like a child in his bathtub, and your son is dead. He wants to protest this phantom-Ruth. He brings up the well-worn argument: I do not want to fall into despair. I won't choose it. I will move on. It falls apart in his mind. 

He turns around. "It's not your fault. I promise." He shakes the water off of his coat. "I just... need some rest." A forced smile, no teeth. Then he walks off, brisk, back where he came from. 

As he walks, he's mouthing to himself, as if praying: I'm selfish. I'm a selfish person. Manic, erratic. The words stumble into one another and refuse to come apart.

Donovan nods silently. He understands when someone is in a bad place. He will allow him this chance to escape Donovan’s merciless hold on him. He won’t pry any longer. One thing he won’t do is let him head back on his own.

“Very well. Let’s head back then.” His words are smooth, soft. He doesn’t question him any more.

As Colin pads back to the pack Donovan stays a comfortable few steps behind him. He wants to give him space, yet let him know he’s there. They take their journey back in relative silence. Donovan’s continues to give him space.