Lion Head Mesa Mom come pick me up I'm scared

Mainly for @Zaahira, but open to all akashingo leadership. Lingering on/around the borders. She'll mellow out as thread progresses. obvs no need to match length

Mature Content Warning

This thread has been marked as mature. By reading and/or participating in this thread, you acknowledge that you are of age or have permission from your parents to do so.

The participants have indicated the following reason(s) for this warning: Mental unwellness, mention of self-harm

Something profound was haunting the shadow of the grass-snake of a wolf called Worm, who called itself Worm in turn. 

It was swamped with bottomless fear, the shakiness of its limbs writing a testimony of its uncertainty for all to see—were it not dreadfully silent out here along the spine of a painted mesa. It was comfortable, on its own, carried by an unshakeable confidence that led it to believe it was untouchable every other time it ventured off on an assignment... But this sort of solitude was entirely different. It was not given or ordered, but taken instead, and an all-consuming anxiety crept up the spine of the vermin servant. 

Worm had been greedy and disgusting and selfish. It had spat in the faces of the Pure and in the face of their love because of one silly little break. One lapse, one breath taken that was not by the worm but by Worm herself. She was all It was trained not to be, and yet the two were never fully seperate. She decided she did not want to die there. Call it some profound realization, or the result of impulsivity, the choice had been made.—And It, borne of servitude and fractured from a sense of self, was dragged along with her, kicking and thrashing and plagued by fear of retribution. She had hardly known fear before, and so this was her first proper tango with it, standing here, on the cusp of the unknown. Before, there had only ever been resignation, acknowledgement, empty, languishing permissiveness... Fear only ever made things worse and so she tried to squash it. 

Worm had been gone a couple months now, and spent the time running until the pads of her paws were worn to raw, bloodied, skin. Sure, this was 'freedom' in one sense of the word, but she realized quickly that she did not know what to do with herself out here, alone. Well, being a blank canvas was better than being a worm. Out here, she decided than she was no longer theirs, or the, or a. She was Worm. She and It both regained a stolen piece of personhood the day they chose to run away, but grasping onto it was harder than it sounded. Part of this ownership was invigorating and the other part was so deeply guilty at the trespass.

If she could find refuge, find sanctuary, perhaps she could be spared more inner turmoil. All the facets of her still required love and affirmation, they still required purpose, but she had made her choice, as reckless and spontaneous as it was, and now she had to lie with the consequences it had dragged in the door. 

But what had spurred a moment of courageous detachment was absent now, and in its wake, only fragility remained. 'It' reared its head and 'she' was stifled. This was a problem, because the essence of one was twined with fear and submission and an ability to be what others needed it to be, and the other was made of thread that weaved rebellion and self-preservation of a different kind. They clashed and they tumbled down the scape of its-her mind. Nobody could take the reigns when both were at war. 

- Worm is stupid! Worm is an idiot for this! Worm will be flayed and set to roast in the sun, and Worm will deserve it!  It begged and pleaded with Her to turn around, accept this ending in all its violent, deserved glory. 

But there was no glory in death, especially not one submitted to. Any death back that way was one submitted to, now that she had taken these steps. She was done being disposable. She wanted to be pure, and her own and there was no way to be such a thing behind her. Worm shook her head and wiped at her muzzle with her paws—looking much like a rabid fox in the midst of an episode. In her mind, she warred against the worm and its conditioned desire to go home. Its desperate nature that sought for some absolution in the punishment it knew it deserved. 

- Worm has been terrible. Worm must go and be crushed like a bug. She would be forgiven if she was crushed—if not by the pure ones than by God. We have a god, do we not? It will forgive us. 

-- Stupid! There is no forgiveness backwards! None none none! We do not like it when we are hurt, that is why we are out here in the first place! Use your brain! Or do I have to knock sense into it?! God would not spare you the time. You do not even know him and he has forgotten about you. 

Worm was so torn between condition and this newfound taste on her tongue, between its desires and her own, as if they were not woven of the same tapestry. Harmony was absent and it was like the world was ending, caving in on her as she paced and muttered under her breath. The air grew to choke her and she'd crumble to her knees, jaws chattering and her head reeling, she shook herself and resorted to hitting her head on rocks and wiping her paws over her nape and face—trying to force a reset. Make It go away. 

It had no place telling her what to do, not anymore. It protected them when they were home but here and now it would be their collective detriment. She would let It take over if it needed to, and right now, it did not need to!  What It needed to do was go away and let Her take the reigns. Venom always worked, and so she would inject the slow pangs of poison into her bloodstream to paralyze it. 

-- That god would not accept us, he never has and we do not owe it to him to grovel or to offer him ourself. He is not ours, he belongs to the pure and the pure only. There is no god for worms, and there is no choice but the path ahead now. I will lead us. You will shut up.           

----

An hours-long dance would ensue, and one that made her near black out until the rising sun had replaced the sky full of stars. The time raced forward and it left them behind, locked in argument.

It would quiet to a whisper as a silent agreement was struck, and would leave the huntress alone in blissful silence, though not after a tiring battle that left her disoriented and with more scrapes than she started out with. A leak of vermin's blood poured from the tip of her crown and she would do naught but take a deep breath and rise to sit on her haunches rather than her stomach. Free from battle, it was only now that she'd realize how far and absently she'd wandered, the smell of other wolves permeated the air of this place and she knew she'd have to scramble quickly to get away, yet the pounding in her head made her dizzy and weary, and so she'd stumble around in place a couple paces, trying to re-orient herself.