Dawnlark Plains [m]wabbajack

He hated it here. He hated it here. He hated it here. He hated the smell of those foul—

Her name croaked out like a wretched prayer from the damned.

“Malvina.” Lips gasping as if air couldn’t be swallowed hard enough. Both sunken eyes traced the edges of those shivering hips and up to that sweet face. He saw the look of something that spelled out horror—oh, but why did she have to look at him like that? Why taunt the anger simmering in his stomach? They didn’t like that. They didn’t like that. Lucky Malvina. Lucky Malvina, that he was in such a good mood. Mood. Mood. Mood. Mood.

Mood.
Mood.
Mood.
Mood.

“Malvina,” belched the name again.

The nearby foliage seemed to spasm in his vision, as though the trees were growing horns and reaching out to devour them alive. His pupils darted like trapped moths, a crooked smile cutting across a mouth that didn’t quite belong on a living face. It threatened to fall into a frown, hanging there on the wolfish face by a thread. Why here? Why here?

Drawing nearer, the patchy fur creeping up his spine bristled and spat as the wind licked it into a jagged mess.

Voice trembling as if a beast was chasing them, “I hate it here, Malvina,” the boy complained.

The sister seemed bothered. Why bothered? Was it this ugly piece of land? Was it the cold snow biting at her feet? Frowning, the lazy eye that was not drifting sought to comfort that sorrowful face. Malvina, Malvina…

“What’s wrong?” Reaching out with a skeletal limb to offer embrace, hating that stain of discomfort.

The talking forest shadows didn’t reach here, and yet it was almost just as disgustingly loud not hearing them speak.

Now, it was as if they watched—silent, grinning.

“You can tell me,” hoarse, raw. The need to fix it, to stitch back together whatever had shattered in her gaze, burning away inside him like a disease. Why did she have to do that to him? Be so frustrating?