The Sunspire another day, another doug

I’M VERY EMOTIONAL RN.

As the grey little girl neared her dying brother, her quick sprint slowed to a faltering crawl as fear struck deep in her belly. Revulsion was felt deep within Eleuthera’s factorable psyche, though she did not yet have the ability to identify it yet — there was something about the scarlet liquid that spilled from his hindquarters that did not sit well with her. It smelled sweet, unlike anything she had experienced prior to meeting the dead, dark man… but it clearly signified something awful, if it could make mother react the way she had before.

Eleuthera could not entirely understand what Oaxaca said, but at her fading sibling’s prompting, she moved closer. She placed a miniature paw on his shoulder and gave him a gentle shove, hoping to rouse him. He seemed awfully tired, didn’t he? “Brudder…” she murmured, not sure what else to do to make the situation better. She placed her other paw upon the calico boy’s shoulder and gave a hard shove. That usually got him moving — @Séamus had shown her that trick.

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It was the call no mother ever wanted to hear: the call of her child in distress. Dread struck fiercely in her heart — worse than it had when Dakarai came a-knockin’ on Sunspire’s door; worse than when the blackfeather bitch had scarred her face, worse than when she had been banished from the first home the wandering druid had ever known. She felt like she knew before she actually knew, and the ghost of worry that she always felt for the wellbeing of her cubs metamorphosed into a spirit, a specter, which entered her and lighted her movements with horror.  Then, there were two calls for her.

Her legs simply could not bring her to the epicenter of the bleating fast enough.

It was a scene that had played out far too often recently, and with far too many wolves she held dear. Oaxaca, her little boy, dying amidst a growing pool of crimson blood. It was a sickening reminder of what had happened before, but the recent memory never crossed the stricken woman’s mind. In fact, no thought cross her mind except for an internal screaming that would not stop. 

Standing over him and Eleuthera, who attempted to jostle her brother back to life, Olive let slip the smallest whisper. It surprised her that the scream did not come out instead. Words would not come out either. They remained lodged in her throat, not wishing to validate the reality of Oaxaca’s situation with her inane comments.“No…” she said, placing her nose upon his head as it rested in a way that did not appear natural. He was dying.

“No—” Olive said with more force.

With a swipe of her forearm, and without much thought of her daughter, Olive shoved Eleuthera aside. “Move!” she barked, and brought the bleeding child into her arms and, within .01 of a second, examined the wound upon his leg. The femoral artery had been severed — and when that happened, there was no hope for recovery. It was a move that the druid often employed when she was forced to take down prey, as it was a quick and relatively painless death, as she understood. Now, more than ever, Olive wished that to be true.

“My darling, my boy,” she stammered in a voice that was as uneven as the terrain of the Sunspire. Time here was precious, as was Oaxaca’s fading life-force. There was so much to be said, so much that she wanted him to know… but in the end, it all boiled down the most sincere  

“I love you so.”