Ocean's Breath Plateau little w[o/a]rri[e/o]r

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Buried down deep in Szymon’s tortured soul was the golden child of his youth — curled in the corner, bruised and bloody, wings too clipped and tattered to fly to Neverland. In his darkest moments, it was to this small, pathetic creature that he reverted; but this time, with this particular female, he was not so far gone. The druid’s daughter paused, drawing near to the wretched creature so unlike the Cairn boy she already knew, her green eyes alighting upon the rib cage markings that swathed Szymon’s thin sides like a mackerel tabby cat’s stripes. Recognition filled those innocent, unsullied eyes, but could not cloak the concern weighing down upon her selfless heart. That she should feel such for Szymon — oh, weak and worthless youngest sibling! — puzzled him entirely.

Drawing air raggedly into his lungs, Szymon trembled — and knew that he ought to have kept his fool mouth shut and let the silver-limned apparition go. What was he to say in response to her solicitous query? Mutely, the boy’s scarred nuzzle dropped and rose slightly in an affirmative nod. Yes — I am all right. Gifted with a beautiful voice, cursed with an insurmountable speech impediment that made using it impossible, he had little he could offer the otherworldly nymph who stood so near.

Still trembling, the twitch of his tail an endless and intermittent betrayal of his nervousness, Szymon dropped to his stomach and inched closer to the girl. He hoped she would understand she meant no harm — he hoped she would speak again, in that voice so unlike his wicked sister. He entreated her with the frenetic waver of his tail and his obligingly slicked back ears. I mean no harm to you. A low, guttural sound midway between a moan and a growl slipped from his quivering jaws as he focused his sulphureous gaze on the horizon overlooking Donnelaith — the direction from whence Deirdre had come. It bore a questioning inflection, drifting up the vocal scale and dissipating into a forlorn whine. Is that your home? Is there a wolf in that forest with markings like mine? The thoughts came to him so clearly.

Drawing air carefully into his lungs, Szymon attempted speech a third time: “S-S-S — ”, he hissed out, squeezing his eyes shut as his shoulders tightened reflexively, bunching beneath his pale fur. He tensed as though he might, through sheer will alone, force the words from his tongue in a recognizable, understandable way. Damn his brother for having a three-syllable name with “sk” as its opening consonant blend. Skellige — my brother! Have you seen my brother? he thought at her desperately. The calm he’d found so briefly seemed to have come to an end. He hated this. He couldn’t bear to open his eyes — couldn’t bear to see her eyes looking upon him with derision or disgust or pity the way his siblings sometimes did. It would completely undo him. She would leave him soon, he felt, and he couldn’t blame her. Had he the choice, he would have left his weak body at the bottom of the sea, where it belonged.

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