He'd travelled far, but not far enough. If Ishild had still be able to find him, he had a long journey ahead of him. There were other reasons for travelling this way, and he knew them well, but pain clouded his mind until he could see no further than a few steps ahead of him - past that, there was nothing but the white heat of the blistering sand. He'd closed his eyes to that heat long ago, unable to stand the pressure, but he could not make the heat leave his body alone.
Succumbing to the heat and to the pain in his shoulder, Marbas fell where he stood. The tide soon came up to cool him, still favoring him even after his needless violence on another sea-dwelling pack. She was alive, whispered a sorrowful voice, somewhere in the back of his mind. She was alive, but you meant to kill the other.
Such thoughts became wordless but meaningful murmurs in the back of his mind, their whispering in perfect time with the swelling and receeding of the waves. All the world became hot sun, cool water, and white, shifting, blistering pain.
Marbas slept.
Succumbing to the heat and to the pain in his shoulder, Marbas fell where he stood. The tide soon came up to cool him, still favoring him even after his needless violence on another sea-dwelling pack. She was alive, whispered a sorrowful voice, somewhere in the back of his mind. She was alive, but you meant to kill the other.
Such thoughts became wordless but meaningful murmurs in the back of his mind, their whispering in perfect time with the swelling and receeding of the waves. All the world became hot sun, cool water, and white, shifting, blistering pain.
Marbas slept.
July 25, 2016, 06:15 PM
In truth, the inky ingénue had begun to wonder whether she would ever see the russet-eyed wolf again. She held no malice toward him in spite of his unintentional abandonment; her forgiving, unassuming nature dictated that he’d left her side fully within his rights and for good reason. Perhaps he had his own Amoxtli to return to — she hoped so, for she could not imagine life without her flame-and-embers dragon of a brother — yet perhaps he had simply grown tired of her company. Indeed, there were things she would never know about Marbas, and she accepted this as an inevitable, irrefutable truth — just as she accepted the fact that there were things no wolf would ever know about her, no matter how ardently she wished to make them known.
The day was too warm to be comfortable on the sun-baked sands adjacent to the sea lions’ rocky shoals, and she turned inland to seek the solace of the river on catlike paws that danced to a more languid, legato articulation. The balmy, sea-driven breezes brought her no release — the indelible ink of her fur drank in heat and pressed it close against her pale, unsullied skin — but instead delivered a sudden metallic tang unto her tongue that gave her pause. It was not only the sea she scented, but…
Blood. Marbas?
The first was a certainty — the second, a prospect that wrought within the sheepdog cross a confusing welter of hope and dread. She pirouetted immediately, her dainty paws carrying her in a water-winged sprint to the charcoal-patterned wolf’s prone form — and she thought, at first glance, that he was dead. A toneless, frantic flutter of airy whimpers spilled from her throat as she approached him without reserve or hesitation — the heat from his body was surely not from the sun alone, for although he was surrounded by the coolness of seawater, the heavy-muscled shoulder she nosed was burning with heat from within. In a continuation of that innocent, thoughtless caress, she nosed upward to the ugly wound that marred the chocolate-colored tufts of fur that accentuated the masculine curve of his neck and licked at it. He was still breathing, she realized. She could aid him. She could help him to safety.
Please! Wake up!
The day was too warm to be comfortable on the sun-baked sands adjacent to the sea lions’ rocky shoals, and she turned inland to seek the solace of the river on catlike paws that danced to a more languid, legato articulation. The balmy, sea-driven breezes brought her no release — the indelible ink of her fur drank in heat and pressed it close against her pale, unsullied skin — but instead delivered a sudden metallic tang unto her tongue that gave her pause. It was not only the sea she scented, but…
Blood. Marbas?
The first was a certainty — the second, a prospect that wrought within the sheepdog cross a confusing welter of hope and dread. She pirouetted immediately, her dainty paws carrying her in a water-winged sprint to the charcoal-patterned wolf’s prone form — and she thought, at first glance, that he was dead. A toneless, frantic flutter of airy whimpers spilled from her throat as she approached him without reserve or hesitation — the heat from his body was surely not from the sun alone, for although he was surrounded by the coolness of seawater, the heavy-muscled shoulder she nosed was burning with heat from within. In a continuation of that innocent, thoughtless caress, she nosed upward to the ugly wound that marred the chocolate-colored tufts of fur that accentuated the masculine curve of his neck and licked at it. He was still breathing, she realized. She could aid him. She could help him to safety.
Please! Wake up!
July 25, 2016, 06:34 PM
The first thing he became aware of, upon waking, was hot breath on his wound. At once, his cooled anger took on a new form - he had fled miles and miles from the demon's pack, but it had come to plague him, still. Not just plague him, but eat him. Finish him off. The feel of its tongue on his flesh was too much to bear, and with a roar like a dragon, Marbas turned and sank his fangs into the demon's flesh. Bone and weakness stopped his teeth from causing the proper damage such a creature deserved, but Marbas gave it a good shake, two, and then held on with all his might. His wound stung all the more with the force of his bite, but he continued to clamp down upon the soft flesh and silken fur, intent on killing the beast even if it meant his own life was forfeit.
The second thing he became aware of was the sweet, clean scent of Siren, and the taste of blood and flesh that now mingled with the salt-taste of her fur. For a few long, endless moments, Marbas kept her in his grasp.
Kill her - she will never forgive you, now.
He could already see the look she would give him, could already feel the sting of her fear and hatred.
What right does she have? What right to judge me? This is her fault - she should have known not to crowd me, come near me when I'm injured, stick her nose into my wound!
His jaws tightened infinitesimally around the place where her neck met her chest, and then all strength and resolve fled the bastard Cairn. His jaws released, though his teeth still caught and tore as his head fell to the ground. Once there, he laid still. Neck bared and eyes closed, he waited for the girl to flee, to take revenge. Anything.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice losing all traces of his practiced stoicism to reveal the young, anguished wolf beneath.
I am a monster, and a Cairn afterall.
The second thing he became aware of was the sweet, clean scent of Siren, and the taste of blood and flesh that now mingled with the salt-taste of her fur. For a few long, endless moments, Marbas kept her in his grasp.
Kill her - she will never forgive you, now.
He could already see the look she would give him, could already feel the sting of her fear and hatred.
What right does she have? What right to judge me? This is her fault - she should have known not to crowd me, come near me when I'm injured, stick her nose into my wound!
His jaws tightened infinitesimally around the place where her neck met her chest, and then all strength and resolve fled the bastard Cairn. His jaws released, though his teeth still caught and tore as his head fell to the ground. Once there, he laid still. Neck bared and eyes closed, he waited for the girl to flee, to take revenge. Anything.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice losing all traces of his practiced stoicism to reveal the young, anguished wolf beneath.
I am a monster, and a Cairn afterall.
July 25, 2016, 09:42 PM
Coelacanth and Amoxtli had been just shy of ten months old when the Hunter’s Moon had crimsoned the night sky above Vargas Island. Only when the moon filled with the blood of the fallen did Corten’s wolves feast upon the rich and fattened flesh of the creatures they considered distant cousins — the sea lions. Bathed in a sanguine glow, “We consume our past to perpetuate our future,” Kirynnae had said in her musical lilt, and the bartering for meat had begun. Corten’s wolves traded for their right to feed — no wolf was exempt. Kirynnae, Kailani, Sirimiri, Serein, and Brontide brought their stories and songs; Seelie, barred that, danced accompaniment to the marvels she heard; Oxtli brought his treasures; and those wolves more militaristically inclined demonstrated their physical prowess in grand shows of valor, strength, and speed.
On that fateful night — April 4th, 2015 on the human calendar — Brontide had traded a story for his share. “Th’legend o’ th’wendigo,” he had rumbled in his rasping bass-baritone brogue, a smile playing about his scarred lips as he regarded the tiny sheepwolves in his midst, “is a bi’ o’ a scary story, bu’ i’s somethin’ little wolves ough’a hear.”
The wendigo, Coelacanth had learned that night, was a wolf who feasted upon the flesh of his kindred — a crazed, power-hungry thing, he had grown to be a hulking, maned monstrosity, abnormally broad in shoulder and steely in muscle. His fangs, bloodied and yellowed, became elongated and serrated like a cat’s. Not lion, not bear, not wolf, but something in between, the wendigo was faster and stronger than all three — and constantly hungry. It was a story that had given Coelacanth nightmares — but many of her aunts’, uncles’, and grandmother’s stories possessed the power to walk her dreams. Somewhere in the world, Seelie was sure, there must be a wendigo or two — but not in her corner of it. Never in her corner of the world.
Marbas roused — not with the leonine grace his Siren had grown to expect from him, but with a virile fury and a roar that sent wings of inky hackles flaring to life along her graceful dancer’s spine. It was a wendigo’s roar she heard — the one that had haunted her dreams — and before she could fully process the consequence of her innocent overture, Marbas’ fangs clamped down on the juncture where her graceful, swanlike neck sloped gently into the swell of her breast.
And she — perfect little victim, pretty little rosebud — screamed without a sound.
Her fine-boned frame was shaken — once, twice — sending fissures of agony through her virginal flesh. She had never been touched so cruelly, her gentle and submissive nature requiring no correction from her betters, and she snapped with frantic desperation at Marbas’ muzzle, pushing hysterically at his larger frame at the helpless, suffocating sensation of being held fast. Not even the blurred knowledge that doing so caused her more pain could stop her; she was a crazed thing. She was back in the stainless steel kennel — she was pressed against the metal — she would never get out again. She would never get out. Stop! Stop! Her mind whirred wildly as she screamed again, the sound a harsh expulsion of breath that streamed in futile, hiccupping sobs from her trembling muzzle. Oxtli! Oxtli, help me!
The wendigo’s jaws tightened, and Coelacanth’s seablue eyes swam, glazed with tears and the beginning stages of shock. When he released her, she slipped bonelessly to the earth in a puddle of ink, feathers, and blood, her breath catching and jerking in her throat in a shallow, frenetic pant — get away! fly, you fool! — before skittering clumsily away, foundering in the water she had once danced upon, her eyes fixed and pupils dilated as they regarded Marbas. Every movement ached; there was no rush of adrenaline for Coelacanth, who had not expected such behavior from the boy who had promised once not to snap at her again. She staggered to her paws but found the effort wrung an alarming miasma from her; moaning without sound, she dragged herself a few feet away — she would go home to Amoxtli and sleep, and all would be well —
“I’m sorry.”
She wanted to go to him. The involuntary movement of her body at the sound of Marbas’ anguished voice was toward him, not away from him — but the pain that throbbed steadily through her neck and chest, rendering her even more useless to him than he had initially found her, told her that he was not to be trusted. Trembling with the effort, flattening her tufted ears against her slender skull, she coiled her body into a ball, blood streaming freely into the water that surrounded her — and she bared her teeth, growling at him, a faint, whisper-like flutter in her throat that was unlike her thrumming purr of pleasure and more akin to a snake’s threatening rattle.
On that fateful night — April 4th, 2015 on the human calendar — Brontide had traded a story for his share. “Th’legend o’ th’wendigo,” he had rumbled in his rasping bass-baritone brogue, a smile playing about his scarred lips as he regarded the tiny sheepwolves in his midst, “is a bi’ o’ a scary story, bu’ i’s somethin’ little wolves ough’a hear.”
The wendigo, Coelacanth had learned that night, was a wolf who feasted upon the flesh of his kindred — a crazed, power-hungry thing, he had grown to be a hulking, maned monstrosity, abnormally broad in shoulder and steely in muscle. His fangs, bloodied and yellowed, became elongated and serrated like a cat’s. Not lion, not bear, not wolf, but something in between, the wendigo was faster and stronger than all three — and constantly hungry. It was a story that had given Coelacanth nightmares — but many of her aunts’, uncles’, and grandmother’s stories possessed the power to walk her dreams. Somewhere in the world, Seelie was sure, there must be a wendigo or two — but not in her corner of it. Never in her corner of the world.
Marbas roused — not with the leonine grace his Siren had grown to expect from him, but with a virile fury and a roar that sent wings of inky hackles flaring to life along her graceful dancer’s spine. It was a wendigo’s roar she heard — the one that had haunted her dreams — and before she could fully process the consequence of her innocent overture, Marbas’ fangs clamped down on the juncture where her graceful, swanlike neck sloped gently into the swell of her breast.
And she — perfect little victim, pretty little rosebud — screamed without a sound.
Her fine-boned frame was shaken — once, twice — sending fissures of agony through her virginal flesh. She had never been touched so cruelly, her gentle and submissive nature requiring no correction from her betters, and she snapped with frantic desperation at Marbas’ muzzle, pushing hysterically at his larger frame at the helpless, suffocating sensation of being held fast. Not even the blurred knowledge that doing so caused her more pain could stop her; she was a crazed thing. She was back in the stainless steel kennel — she was pressed against the metal — she would never get out again. She would never get out. Stop! Stop! Her mind whirred wildly as she screamed again, the sound a harsh expulsion of breath that streamed in futile, hiccupping sobs from her trembling muzzle. Oxtli! Oxtli, help me!
The wendigo’s jaws tightened, and Coelacanth’s seablue eyes swam, glazed with tears and the beginning stages of shock. When he released her, she slipped bonelessly to the earth in a puddle of ink, feathers, and blood, her breath catching and jerking in her throat in a shallow, frenetic pant — get away! fly, you fool! — before skittering clumsily away, foundering in the water she had once danced upon, her eyes fixed and pupils dilated as they regarded Marbas. Every movement ached; there was no rush of adrenaline for Coelacanth, who had not expected such behavior from the boy who had promised once not to snap at her again. She staggered to her paws but found the effort wrung an alarming miasma from her; moaning without sound, she dragged herself a few feet away — she would go home to Amoxtli and sleep, and all would be well —
“I’m sorry.”
She wanted to go to him. The involuntary movement of her body at the sound of Marbas’ anguished voice was toward him, not away from him — but the pain that throbbed steadily through her neck and chest, rendering her even more useless to him than he had initially found her, told her that he was not to be trusted. Trembling with the effort, flattening her tufted ears against her slender skull, she coiled her body into a ball, blood streaming freely into the water that surrounded her — and she bared her teeth, growling at him, a faint, whisper-like flutter in her throat that was unlike her thrumming purr of pleasure and more akin to a snake’s threatening rattle.
The stink of blood and fear sullied the healing balm of the sea - Marbas wanted to choke on it, to spit it from his mouth. Stand and denounce it with every fiber of his being. Somewhere, in the periphery of all the horror and shock clamoring in his mind, he could feel her moving, hear her ragged breaths. He knew that there should be more than 'I'm sorry'; more than lying there in with her blood in his mouth, pink spittle dripping freely from his defiled maw.
He'd done wrong. He'd done something very, very wrong, and he didn't need the harsh whisper of Siren's growl to tell him that. But she told him anyway, and his eyes squeeze tighter still, refusing to be opened. Refusing to look upon the devastation he'd caused, because part of him still prayed that it was no her. Not Siren.
But would that make it any better? She was trying to clean your wound, to help you...
Marbas let out a low, wordless, sorrowful cry. The sort of sound Siren surely wanted to make, to protest and condemn his actions. Why have you done this? How? A toneless, soundless, wordless thought. Why did you hurt me, Marbas? Why do you hurt things?
"I don't know," he muttered, eyes still squeezed shut. Why did you let this happen? You should have stopped it before you became a danger. You should have ended it. "I don't... I don't..."
You promised not to snap - you promised you wouldn't fight again. But you snapped and you fought, and you hurt me. You hurt me, Marbas. Why did you hurt me?
"S-siren," he choked, the taste of her blood still making his stomach roil in protest. "Please, I didn't mean to... I won't again, I won't... promise, please... Si - "
A wave of harsh, cold water washed over him, cutting off whatever he'd been trying to say. For one endless moment, he swirled in a mixture of salt and sand, hard rock and stinging water. He drew breath into his lungs, but not air, and when the moment ended, he came up choking once more on the other side. The blood-taste was gone, but his shame and grief stung more strongly than ever; and ache in his chest that would not be alleviated.
His eyes cracked open, and he sought out her freshly-sullied frame.
He'd done wrong. He'd done something very, very wrong, and he didn't need the harsh whisper of Siren's growl to tell him that. But she told him anyway, and his eyes squeeze tighter still, refusing to be opened. Refusing to look upon the devastation he'd caused, because part of him still prayed that it was no her. Not Siren.
But would that make it any better? She was trying to clean your wound, to help you...
Marbas let out a low, wordless, sorrowful cry. The sort of sound Siren surely wanted to make, to protest and condemn his actions. Why have you done this? How? A toneless, soundless, wordless thought. Why did you hurt me, Marbas? Why do you hurt things?
"I don't know," he muttered, eyes still squeezed shut. Why did you let this happen? You should have stopped it before you became a danger. You should have ended it. "I don't... I don't..."
You promised not to snap - you promised you wouldn't fight again. But you snapped and you fought, and you hurt me. You hurt me, Marbas. Why did you hurt me?
"S-siren," he choked, the taste of her blood still making his stomach roil in protest. "Please, I didn't mean to... I won't again, I won't... promise, please... Si - "
A wave of harsh, cold water washed over him, cutting off whatever he'd been trying to say. For one endless moment, he swirled in a mixture of salt and sand, hard rock and stinging water. He drew breath into his lungs, but not air, and when the moment ended, he came up choking once more on the other side. The blood-taste was gone, but his shame and grief stung more strongly than ever; and ache in his chest that would not be alleviated.
His eyes cracked open, and he sought out her freshly-sullied frame.
July 25, 2016, 11:27 PM
With her small body made smaller by the tight, defensive way she had coiled herself and her gleaming fangs bared in a growl that trembled with the force of her fear, Coelacanth seemed more kitten than predator — but the intent of those fangs was very, very real. It must be confessed that she was the sort of creature with whom less was truly more — any sort of forcible restraint seemed to kindle within her a maelstrom of panic, and her sensitive nature made even a harsh word as hurtful as a slap. She watched as pink-tinged saliva dribbled from his frowning mouth — pink-tinged with her blood — and the throb of pain rendered her helpless to rationalize the situation. Her submissive nature decreed that she had nosed a sleeping wolf and licked his wound; of course he had attacked her; of course she was deserving of retaliation. Yet she could not forgive him so soon, not even when the low, sorrowful cry pooled from his mouth. Perhaps, in that moment, she wished to take his voice from him and mend her own — but even if she had it, she would not have known how to wield it.
It was not in her nature to covet so enviously things that were not hers.
He answered the question she could not ask, but it gave her nothing — she hurt and she was lost and lonely and afraid, and this time there were no intravenous methods of alleviating that hurt or blurring that distress with the glue-like fog of sedation. He promised not to hurt her. He pleaded — Marbas pleaded — though whether it was with his Siren or himself, she could not say. She softened at the sound of her name, stammered out weakly, from a wolf whose weaknesses she had yet to uncover or understand. It was his name for her; it meant she meant something to him, however insignificant. And although she wished the wolves of these wilds could call her the name that she loved above all other names — Coelacanth! Seelie! — she cherished each set of odd syllables that she was given, for they were hers alone. She ceased her growling, though the look in her eyes remained the shocked and tear-blurred eyes of a dog who has learned for the first time what it is to be reprimanded and beaten.
She saw the wave of water coming and ought to have moved — thought she had moved — but the haze of shock and sorrow knocked her off her paws as it did the Cairn wolf, and she danced a few uneven, stuttering steps before succumbing to it completely. She was pulled under and battered against rock and sand, and when she broke surface a few suffocating seconds later, she found herself caged beneath a structure she hadn’t noticed before. Pillars on each corner — dripping with salt — it took a moment to register that she’d resurfaced directly under the wolf who had injured her so and she took immediate offense to his nearness despite its serendipitous nature. The growl began again as she attempted to escape him, but their limbs tangled in an arachnid’s web of pain and panic.
It was not in her nature to covet so enviously things that were not hers.
He answered the question she could not ask, but it gave her nothing — she hurt and she was lost and lonely and afraid, and this time there were no intravenous methods of alleviating that hurt or blurring that distress with the glue-like fog of sedation. He promised not to hurt her. He pleaded — Marbas pleaded — though whether it was with his Siren or himself, she could not say. She softened at the sound of her name, stammered out weakly, from a wolf whose weaknesses she had yet to uncover or understand. It was his name for her; it meant she meant something to him, however insignificant. And although she wished the wolves of these wilds could call her the name that she loved above all other names — Coelacanth! Seelie! — she cherished each set of odd syllables that she was given, for they were hers alone. She ceased her growling, though the look in her eyes remained the shocked and tear-blurred eyes of a dog who has learned for the first time what it is to be reprimanded and beaten.
She saw the wave of water coming and ought to have moved — thought she had moved — but the haze of shock and sorrow knocked her off her paws as it did the Cairn wolf, and she danced a few uneven, stuttering steps before succumbing to it completely. She was pulled under and battered against rock and sand, and when she broke surface a few suffocating seconds later, she found herself caged beneath a structure she hadn’t noticed before. Pillars on each corner — dripping with salt — it took a moment to register that she’d resurfaced directly under the wolf who had injured her so and she took immediate offense to his nearness despite its serendipitous nature. The growl began again as she attempted to escape him, but their limbs tangled in an arachnid’s web of pain and panic.
July 25, 2016, 11:43 PM
It took several seconds of confusion before the horror of reality found him once more - it was not merely wet sand or sea monsters that writhed underneath him, but Siren herself. The pain and panic the shining so clearly in her eyes cut deeper than the demon's teeth ever would, ever could. And in that moment, Marbas realized that he was the demon.
He'd attacked that wolf. The wolf had lied - maybe. But Ishild had been fine, in the end. And now, here, he'd attack the Siren, thinking it the same wolf from before. Attacked with the intent to kill, because the wolf had scored him when he'd lunged first.
Wordlessly, Marbas fled the scene of his crime. In that moment, he did not ever plan to come back - he could not bear to be in the presence of the sea any longer; not when it had witnessed this, the most heinous of crimes. And his legs would not carry him far - he was running on empty, his wound far out of reach and festering quickly.
As soon as he reached the treeline, the bastard collapsed in the shaded dirt and knew no more.
He'd attacked that wolf. The wolf had lied - maybe. But Ishild had been fine, in the end. And now, here, he'd attack the Siren, thinking it the same wolf from before. Attacked with the intent to kill, because the wolf had scored him when he'd lunged first.
Wordlessly, Marbas fled the scene of his crime. In that moment, he did not ever plan to come back - he could not bear to be in the presence of the sea any longer; not when it had witnessed this, the most heinous of crimes. And his legs would not carry him far - he was running on empty, his wound far out of reach and festering quickly.
As soon as he reached the treeline, the bastard collapsed in the shaded dirt and knew no more.
July 26, 2016, 12:59 AM
Marbas’ Siren hated the pain and fear that swam through her body, whittling her graceful limbs into clumsy, brittle bits of kindling that left her as ungainly as a newborn fawn. When the mahogany-eyed wolf fled, his usual fluidity stripped bare by exhaustion, fever, and anguish, she attempted to follow — but her wound was new, the first of its kind, and she was not built to withstand such pain. An overwhelming sense of guilt at her weakness and at Marbas’ distress knotted sickly with the distrust and anguish already churning in her breast, and she crawled out of the water she loved and collapsed on the bank, her sides heaving in rolling, convulsive waves as her stomach tried to rid itself of its contents. Clamping her jaws, Coelacanth lay trembling until the spell passed; her slender, gently-curved sides rose and fell with fluttering breaths and her heart pounded thickly in her ears; she could not help Marbas now, anymore than she could help herself.
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