Sea Lion Shores 1957

All welcome of course, but maybe possibly hoping for @Doe (if you have the time) and/or maybeee @Muses? 

Ugh! The sadness persisted! Armand had seemingly disappeared, right out from under her perceptive nose. She had not expected this to happen and Olive felt somewhat foolish for having brought such a flighty character to their doorstep. But it could not have been helped; he had asked her for safety and by god Olive’s bleeding heart was going to give it to him. The golden boy could still return, though. Perhaps he had encountered trouble in his travels and had been detained. Olive wondered if she should follow him and see if he needed help [she felt somewhat responsibly for the boy’s wellbeing, even though she didn’t seem to do a very good job]. However, the days continued to pass and each new morning brought with it less and less hope that he would return. Then, Olive stopped thinking about it.

There was the matter of the fire which obliterated Donnelaith, toasted the sentinels, took many lives and caused several others to defect. Secondary effects held a wide berth around the inferno’s epicenter as well. The druid scattered aromatic peppermint leaves around her home [the beloved stony grotto] and the dens of the other family members in order to awaken and refresh their senses, which had all been dulled by the persistent soot and smoke. Though the fire had been rather far from Ravensblood, they still felt the effects strong in the influx of environmental toxins and the general negative aura of the coast during such turbulent times. Olive also found and stored boughs of wintersweet and honeysuckle, both of which flourished in the winter snows. Soft, saccharine undertones drifted from the honeysuckle’s creamy flowers would pacify them. Wintersweet’s spice might serve to distract their busy minds, even if just for a moment. Olive may not have prowess in healing, but the woman knew botany and could skillfully bend plants to her will in more... emotional and metaphysical ways. 

When Arturo and Lotte and Chusi and Dakarai and Isley were settled back home, Olive departed. She carried the aforementioned blooms in her jaws with the full intention of bringing them to the crisped remains of the centurion forest. Olive had a vivid picture in her head of a beautiful fragrant bouquet of pale flowers standing starkly amongst the char and black soot — and she was determined to recreate it, to honor the fallen in such a way. However, Olive’s spirit was weak and feeble from the abuse and she soon succumbed to exhaustion only a few miles from Ravensblood, on Sea Lion Shores. Olive gently released the bouquet upon the sand, lay her haunches down and slowed the heaving of her breath.

Nothing seemed to appease the growing restlessness of the Wickedness. Doe felt Her anger like the beat of her own heart, wet and sonorous and without reprieve. It drove her to go the greater lengths than ever to try and sait her hungry goddess. Blood - her's and Szymon's - often painted the greying shores, as did the carcasses of many fine catches that could've gone to her own belly, to her children's.

At night, she dreamed of offering the children of Skellige to the ocean's ravenous maw, but when the light of day shined on her, she could not bring herself to do it.

So she bled, and she went hungry. This hunting trip would feed no one but the Wickedness.

Unfortunately, it was not a pure sea lion pup that the Akhlut found upon the shores, but a wolf. And not one that could be offered to the sea, either - the scent of Arturo was upon her, and Doe knew that it would be foolish to incite his anger just to placate the sea. If consuming her own children did not please it, then how would this shewolf?

"Hail," said Doe, a bit grumpy but concerned all the same. "Are you unwell?" It would not do to let one of Arturo's wolves die so close to her sands.

Olive was not alone for along and a woman ambled along, neither enthusiastic nor begrudging. She asked if Olive was unwell and she drew herself up into a composed posture. “I - I am fine. Just tired. Thank you.” The foe stated with gratitude, knowing quite well that was a lie. Her weakness was something of a psychosomatic issue — so connected were her mind, soul and body that mental distress took a keen toll on her physicality. Her light dimmed a little under the weight of the cosmos [which were all so, so, so angry] but it was nothing ever too severe. The best medicine for moments like these [when life seemed so muted] was companionship. Olive consistently fluctuated between the needs for solitude and friendship, as each filled such a different need. Now, looking at Doe, it was clear what she really wanted.  With a final, deep huff, Olive’s gaze fell softly upon the other and she offered a small, ironic smile before spilling her truths.  

“I was not aware that the universe could be so cruel…” 

It was then that Olive noticed the woman’s scent. “Blackrock Depths?” she questioned in a peculiar intonation, surprised that she could even recognize the tawny woman’s perfume. Olive had not met a single Blackrock Depth, but somehow her scent felt curiously familiar as it danced in her nares. Stranger or not, the fact that she was in the presence of a living coastal ally was incredibly comforting.

The woman did not seem fine, but Doe took her at her word. Her attentions were turned back to the sea lions, where she still hoped to find a pristine seal pup waiting to be snatched. Either it was not the season for them, or they had all noticed her approach and fled. Perhaps they had even fled whenever this Teaghlaigh shewolf appeared.

Abruptly, Doe was angry with the woman. It was her duty to care for her pack, her family, and this shewolf was getting in the way. Lash out, commanded a small, poisonous voice in the back of her head. Kill her, and send her into the waves, it begged. For the children, for Szymon. He would have approved. She knew he would.

But she could not leave her scent at the scene of such a crime, and by the time the other spoke, the Cairn had resigned herself to being cordial. If she could not be sacrificed, then she must be treated with the same care she afforded Arturo.

"It is not the universe," Doe said darkly, her eyes darting toward the riotous churn of the waves. "I am from Blackrock," she confirmed, taking a deep breath and thinking of Szymon's face, his sweet laughter. Be brave. Be sane. Be here and now. "The alpha female, now," she added, thinking that she ought to pay a visit to Arturo once more.

That news caused further tumult in Olive’s mind and she experienced a flicker of resentment. “You ought to be congratulated for reaching so high,” said Olive, her tongue rolling as if she was trying to rid herself of a bad taste. There words were said in the same soft tone as before, but there was a wisp of displeasure twisted into it. The displeasure, though, was not cause by Doe but rather the circumstances that led to her assumption of the throne. Olive did not know of Skellige’s apostasy, but now she assumed he were part of the group of wolves who either left or perished amongst the licking inferno. Olive did not know the man, but she imagined him to be quite diplomatic and quite fearsome — thought this image was largely influenced by Ceannasach’s tale of Teaghlaigh’s founding and how the once-alpha threatened to slay Arturo. However, Skellige was not there to hear her distaste over his defection… but Does was, so the harsh words fell upon this undeserving woman. Truly, she should have been commended for taking on such vast responsibilities and Olive realized that quickly. 

“I - I apologize. I haven’t been feeling myself lately.” And really, who was she anymore? For a shewolf once so certain of her path in life, she was learning so many new things; feeling so many new feelings, [from love to family to sex to despair]; it made her question everything. She was becoming a true hedonist, chasing after the things in life that felt good. And at that moment, she fell prey to anger and wanted to pass such negative energy onto someone else — all for the fleeting desire of it. Misery did love company, after all. 

But, this was the queen of one of Teaghlaigh’s truest alliances and she deserved the respect as such. As much as the woman liked to think herself as Dakarai’s queen, she herself did not truly hold such a rank. Perhaps the sylph never would; the she was much too flighty for leadership. So her gamine, greyscale frame took on a smaller, submissive shape. Her tail pulled closer  towards her body.  Then, Olive reached down and nosed the small bough of greenery, decorated with the muted colors of the fragrant floral blooms, towards the alpha in an act of atonement. “You must be Doe. How fares Blackrock Depths?”

Doe did not know what was going through the woman's mind, nor did she understand why her words, so innocuous, brought the fur on the back of her neck up to a bristle. She bared her teeth in displeasure, catching the woman's tone and thinking that she was being mocked, but made no move to growl or attack. This wordless warning would be her only one - Doe was not to be trifled with this day. She was in a foul mood and a fraying stay of mind.

The apology that followed - caused, in Doe's mind, by her own fearsome visage - went a long way toward slaking the red woman's anger. Her fur still quilled out around her neck - where it was not burned away - and her legs were still locked and ram-rod straight, but she let her lips fall down over her teeth. This was Arturo's wolf, after all. And, apparently, she came bearing gifts. Plants were proffered, and with that, the sea queen's entire mein seemed to shift.

"Yes, I am Doe," she agreed, her voice distant as she nosed over the plants, taking in their scents. If nothing else, they could be used to keep the new pup den smelling fresh. This in mind, the Akhlut rested a paw lightly over the bundle, taking possession of the unexpected gift. "We are doing as well as can be expected," she replied, finally answering the woman's question after her thorough inspection of the flowers. Now, her critical gaze was turned upon the shewolf. "We have not met before. Who are you?"

The physical representation of her atonement [the offering of flowers and other greens] was accepted by the Doe. The flowers had been intended for the ever-smouldering remains of Donnelaith, but in the process found a more practical purpose. Olive was remiss to start her relationship with the queen on the wrong foot, no matter her own personal duress. Doe was certainly feeling it too — not only had she lost pack members and friends among the forest wolves, but the poor woman was clearly marred by the fingers of the flames.

“Olive,” the druid said softly, dipped her head in an overdue formality. Doe’s gaze was strong and meeting it was somewhat uncomfortable; in this way, she reminded Olive of her Ceannasach. “From Teaghlaigh, the Comhairleoir” she stated mindfully, as if it her scent hadn’t already surrendered that knowledge. After the woman’s statement of her alphahood, the mention of Olive’s own rank felt somehow invited. Truly, Olive did not know the meaning of her rank in both language and rank — for she still felt so naive about politicking, despite her tutelage under several very strategic souls… but she served the family and she served them well. No one seemed to have any complaints yet. 

Climbing out from her woeful pit, Olive was able to carefully regard the woman’s singed form. “Goodness, are you in pain?” Her words were uttered softly, but at the same time, in earnest.

Doe simply listened as the woman spoke, paw still resting over the flower-gift. Her eyes seemed darker in this overcast weather, no longer motlen gold, but pale, shadowy citrine - and they laid upon Olive as she gave her name and rank, and revealed from whence she came. A flicker of ears betrayed the Akhlut's indifference. Olive was all that she heard. The rank was gibberish to her, and her pack was already known to the red woman. But she asked, then - are you in pain? - and her voice was so soft and low that Doe's own spirit seemed to mellow, and she no longer appeared as a savage queen, but as a mother lain waste to the ravages of loss.

Yes, I am in pain, she thought, eyes eyes faraway and glassy as she tried to hold in a sob.

But it was not the pain of burned, tender flesh - not the pain that Olive thought that she perceived. The woman's wound-riddled body was the least of her pains, falling to the background in the turmoil of her emotions. Her heart had been ripped in so many directions in such a short period of time, and it was agony to think of her fallen friends, her absent leader, her missing daughter, and of the child that she'd murdered by entrusting it to the sea.

"Yes," she said quietly, the words harsh and gritty as her tongue and teeth tried to keep it to themselves. Yes, I am in pain.

Her question seemed to have struck a chord with the Akhlut, Olive could tell from her shift in demeanor.  Olive’s attention was brought from the afflictions of Doe’s body to that of her spirit. There was no outwardly sign of to signal Doe’s inner turmoil [save for a gritted jaw and a certain distant, glassy-eyed visage), but Olive could feel it. It was often that Olive could perceive other’s state of being through her own intuition. She was an empath at heart and could nearly feel others’ emotions just as they experienced them — and she felt incredible sadness radiate from Doe.

Olive considered herself irrevocably distressed from this, but it was clear that Doe’s was feeling her own distress quite keenly. The druid had been subject to such sadness after the deaths of both the red herring and her crimson-eyed brethren. But since then, i had subsided to a ever-present, pulsing ache. Olive no longer spent her days sobbing, pressed up against the cool winter stone of her den. Perhaps she were getting used to the sensation of sadness — and as much as that thought scared her, being without her family scared her more. If this was the price to pay for love and family, she would gladly pay it.

This was a realization that had only recently come to pass. For the longest time there had always been a small voice in her ear, whispering to she were setting herself up for disaster. To settle down and become comfortable… it almost seemed to be against nature itself, who thrived off of endless change and variation. Olive was slowly realizing that her ‘no woman no cry’ detachment philosophy had been born from an mortal desire to protect herself from these types of extreme sadness, not necessarily from any deeper spiritual understanding. It did its job though, and had protected her from any major devastation well up until she joined Teaghlaigh.

Looking at the stranger again, Olive found herself wanting, no — needing her closeness. The pale sylph shifted her slight frame closer to Doe, but did not press up against her as Olive dearly wished to do. Respecting the woman’s space and rank, Olive place a small, milky paw atop Doe’s. Atop the flowers, this touch was a act of solidarity rather than intimacy. Again, Olive’s words rode atop a soft exhale. “We are the masters of our circumstances and not slaves to them,”  she spoke kindly the small, unwarranted piece of Olive-esque wisdom.

They were wise words - It is what it is - but you control how you react to it. Any normal wolf would have seen this, would have appreciated the effort to commiserate and comfort.

Not Doe.

"You accuse me?" she asked, her voice a quiet hiss. For she was the cause of her circumstances. She had thrown Whiskey into the waves, and Whiskey had died. Doe had killed her. And while Olive's words were all well and good for wolves that had been thrown into unfortunate situations through no fault of their own, Doe could not understand what Olive could have meant beside and accusation. "I had no choice," she snapped, backing away from the other, leaving the flowers crushed between them on the pebbly sand. "I had no choice, I had to. Who are you to judge me?"

Her heartbeat was a loud whoosh in her ears, drowning out all sound that did not come from her own self. "Who... you accuse... I could not - She has taken from me!" she gasped, the last three words coming out in an unearthly shriek. "You know nothing of circumstance! You know nothing of slavery!"

Gasping for breath and with tears in her eyes, Doe turned - stumbling - and fled the scene.

I thought it'd make sense for Olive's personality to follow Doe, but it's totally up to you if Doe notices/cares/engages her! If she doesn't, we can archive! Thank you for the thread <3

Olive shifted her body nervously as her words were gravely misconstrued. Upon Doe's first reaction [which was accusatory in turn, Olive would later think as she mulled over the confrontation] Olive's ears pressed hard against her skull and discontent burned deep within her chest. Chastisement never sat well with the pale woman; she rarely received it [somehow] but when she did, Olive could feel herself become small, unsure and often would draw into herself. Of course, Doe's volatile reaction to Olive's brand of empathy had been unprompted and unwarranted [at least from what she had been able to glean]... so she sat silently, acutely receptive, and she continued to watch the gears churn and grind in the other's frazzled mind. Eventually her spurned, peridot gaze slipped from Doe's acidic mouth to the crushed bouquet below. The broken boughs of winter flora represented how she felt at that moment - abused, taken forgranted and under the paw of someone whose clearly did not want her there. It cut her deeply. 

Olive's attention snapped back to Doe as her voice rose to a near shriek, the sound piercing and the content somewhat disturbing. Knew nothing of slavery, did she? Doe was wrong: the fae was a humbled slave to the universe, earth and the currents of nature. She felt the powerful energies and vibrational patterns of the land as much as she felt her own heart beating within her ribcage. She was too a servant to Teaghlaigh and the family, small as they may be.  It had taken and adjustment period for her to feel this devotion, but she cared for the safety of the family and her lover above even her own. They were both sweet forms of slavery; but servitude nonetheless.

It was an intriguing combination of freedom and servitude that ruled Olive's existence and oftentimes it felt as though she had ropes tied around her legs, pulling her in every which direction.  Though the stars were somewhat the culprit, but Olive also found solace and direction in their readings.

The words that composed Doe's soliloquy were seemingly random; lamentations strung together at the behest of a tortured soul. Bewildered, she backpedaled and slipped away - but Olive, always the public servant, could not linger here and let this poor woman suffer alone. If Olive truly wished to bring peace to this land, was this not a disconsolate example of the suffering she wished to abate? "Doe!" Olive called out as the strange shewolf slipped from sight. Casting aside their woeful introduction, Olive threw herself into a pursuit. Perhaps the Cairn preferred to suffer in silence; a choice Olive would respect should her gentle advances be rebuffed. If that were the case, Olive would continue on to Donnelaith [albeit reluctantly] - as the wolves of the Depths may know the way to best mollify their leader.

She tried to run, but her limbs were stopped by the cold and by grief, twisting and locking and tripping her up as she tried, desperately, to reach a place where this pain could not touch her. Instead, she feel harshly, jaggedly into the pebbly stones that made up this beach, a howl that was part rage and part grief bubbling up out of her mouth. The cry went on past its prime, changing and mutating into a hollow and unearthly shriek.

Doe writhed on the sand, sobbing and screaming intermittently. Pain - physical, this time - lurched through her bones, and the red woman's body began to shake and sieze. If Szymon had been there, he might have recognized her motions as being the same ones that'd taken her on the beach, that day they first met. He might've seen that her willowy figure had been turned sharp and raw-boned by her sorrows, her inability to feel the hunger that ate away at her flesh.

Eventually, the fit subsides, and there laid a thin, red mass of quivering fur in Doe's place. She panted, choked little sobs still escaping her from time to time, but beside that, she laid quiet and still.

[barges in] I am sorry for Sizzle’s attitude. Cameo by @Coelacanth; she will post once other people have had a chance to. Just assume she darted in and darted out to get some food, please~

There was very little rhyme or reason to the Akhlut’s erratic behavior, but her mate was a ploddingly predictable beast — and the more frenetic Doe’s whims became, the closer Szymon tended to follow her. It was unfortunate for both Olive and Doe that he had lapsed in his duty today, and when the first of his beloved’s unearthly shrieks sundered the smoke-heavy lull of Donnelaith’s funeral dirge, he flew into motion as if he’d been waiting for something to happen. Perhaps he was. By the time the Leviathan heard the stranger’s plaintive, desperate-sounding cry — “Doe!” — he was already infuriated. It was unfair, but Szymon had precious little use for fairness when his mate was screaming bloody murder. The shrieks were withering at the edges, becoming incoherent and inconsolable, and by the time Szymon arrived on the scene — salt-white fur bristling, golden eyes wild, ginger-laced hackles an unkempt whirlwind — Doe had ceased to be Doe and was merely a small, sodden, tear-streaked pile of quivering fur upon the cold, hard ground. The look he shot Olive was malevolent and dangerous, as was the threatening step he took toward the pale sylph who had simply found herself on the wrong side of Doe’s temper at the wrong time, but Szymon was saved from committing a grave error that might have cost him his alliance with Arturo — if it had not been cast into the dust already — by a blur of ink that skirted between his bared fangs and the stricken peacemaker.

Szymon snapped at the sheepdog, taking out his bad mood on her more conveniently located framework, turning to spit out the mouthful of feathery fur that had tangled in his incisors with a gruff snort. He felt, looking at Doe now, that all his hard work had come totally undone — for here she was as he’d first seen her, malnourished and weakened and clinging to images only she could see. A warning rumble churned like bile in his throat before he looked in defeat at his wife and veritably crumpled to her side, fitting his body tightly against hers and issuing a warning snap toward the ink-feathered Groenendael. “Food,” he told her succinctly, “something from the c-caches.” With a hefty sigh, he rested his muzzle atop Doe’s quivering form, closing his eyes — and when he opened them, he refocused on Olive.

More quietly, “You are one of Arturo’s w-w-wolves,” he remarked, the stutter rearing its ugly head in this time of duress. The vicious expression had all but left his face, and if he did not look pleased to see Olive, he had at least managed to control his worry-induced rage to something workable and manageable. “What h-happened.” It was a demand and not a question, but Szymon had never been very good at inflections.

this thread is muy caliente!

Olive loped behind the shewolf, feeling culpable for this drastic turn and fettered to her ultimate wellbeing. Hot obligation laced her pursuit and the sylph lightly dashed across the frozen landscape much in the manner of Doe’s namesake; paws barely brushing the ground before they were thrust out in front of her again. In that instant Olive had convinced herself that Doe’s volatility had been a result of one of her own actions. She gritted her teeth as her mind landed on the incendiary comment she had made mere minutes prior: you ought to be congratulated for reaching so high. Yet again the infinite universe revealed its hand to Olive, lighting her way through the karmic laws. Olive had put anger into the world and shared it amongst others — and what did she receive in return but spite and the ruinment of a perfectly fine woman? Do unto others became her mantra, swaying alongside the sounds of herself whipping through the timbers, placing words upon the undulating staff of nature’s instruments. 

Do unto others, do unto others, do unto others

The scene that she arrived upon was sudden and not expected. Olive had trailed behind the skittering woman, keeping her form always in view but never close enough to cause further anxiety — it was not Olive’s goal to bombard the suffering thing with unwanted attention, but to simply ensure her safety and wellbeing. This woman was the leader of their allies for god’s sake and Olive would protect her in the best [the only] way she could. But Olive came upon the crumpled heap that was Doe quite suddenly and Olive nearly lost her balance skittering to a halt. The woman writhed upon the ground in a manner most grotesque and anxiety overcame the ashen bystander. Her ears cut against her skull in prominent concern and displeasure, a loud whine leaking from her parted lips. She was quite unsure what to do to and the displeasure evinced itself in her sharp pacing, back and forth, for an unseemingly long amount of time. The seconds ticked by slowly, timed by the booming lub dub of her pulse in her ears. 

Her pacing was interrupted by a flurry of fury and fangs, which was quite hard to process. There was a strange, enraged salt-encrusted brute and a just-as-foreign inky woman, one of which had been on the receiving end of the other’s jaws — who hurt who, Olive couldn’t perceive. As quick as she came the sheepdog was off, seeking food from the caches at the behest of Doe’s sentinel. This must be her mate, her partner, the new alpha of Blackrock Depths: and he was demanding an explanation. Olive’s surrendered her usual eloquence in favor of brevity and explicit honesty. “She’s upset”  Ugh, Olive, do better! “She’s in pain and fled our meeting. She kept saying that she didn’t have a choice. No choice…. No choice.” Olive offered softly, as if Syzmon would have a difficult time picturing the scene for himself. “I just found her, here.” Seeking and holding the man’s golden gaze, Olive concluded in the utmost seriousness. “What’s going on?”

She meant this question about Doe, about the late Palisander, about murdered Furiosa, about forlorn Isley and the perished, peaceful Donnelaith tribe. In that one utterance, she questioned everything.

"Sy?" Doe asked, lifting her head at the sound of her husband's anger. Faintly, her tail beat the ground, for his anger was her champion and never her adversary. Warmth began to flood into her heart, though it did not yet reach her outer extremities.

Blindly, she searched for her mate, ears twisting toward the sound of his voice, leaning unconsciously toward the rumble of his growls. There was still greying around the edges of her vision, still a ringing loud in her ears. Her limbs were either missing or made out of lead, or perhaps they were made out of air. Doe couldn't tell. Everything was so fuzzy, so confusing. She didn't know what to do.

Szymon listened without demur or demand as Olive offered the only explanation she could. He was angry, but his anger was not centered on the pale agouti sylph — she shared in it, certainly, but the brunt of it was focused inwardly. He was angry with himself — with Doe — with Skellige and Deirdre and the Sea. His attitude toward Olive was a byproduct of the desperation that honed the wolves of the bay to a tensile edginess. He opened his mouth to reply to her question, believing she was asking chiefly about Doe, but a soft and muzzy murmur — “Sy?” — stilled his tripping tongue. In talking about what bothered his wife, wouldn’t he exacerbate the situation? His ginger-laced tail flicked agitatedly as he bent his head to the creature who had taught him everything he knew about love and whose very existence had replaced everything he thought he knew about purpose and pride and religion. “Doe,” he uttered, the single syllable cracking at the corners as he began to groom her nape and shoulders, “stay with me.”

It was a plea — not an order. “Please” wasn’t in the black-banded Cairn’s dictionary, but when he spoke to his mate, the hard edges of his commands smoothed out. Szymon could never truly be considered soft, but something about the scrappy little female made him reach for the innate gentleness he’d been taught for most of his life to reject. He weighed his words carefully, not wanting to expound upon what he thought was bothering his wife. He didn’t fully understand the workings of her mind, but he inferred that it had something to do with the fire, with the Sea, and with their lost daughters. “Loss,” was what he settled on, and he turned to the stricken female with the severe lines of his face drawn into what he hoped was an expression of gratitude and entreaty but what felt like a grimace. In the end, he decided to keep their deity and their daughters to himself, stating only the facts that he and Doe would have to come to grips with whether they liked it or not — especially regarding Arturo and the Blackrock-Teaghlaigh alliance.

He spoke as clearly as he could, forcing the facts not only on Olive but on himself and Doe as well. His glorious bass timbre, sonorous and resonant, was ragged and worn but endured. Guided by the sea turtle, Szymon would endure. “My b-brother Skellige was Leviathan — but he is g-gone. Doe and I lead in his stead. His betrothed was D-Deirdre Stella Mayfair of D-Donnelaith, and s-s-she — ”

Unexpectedly, it hurt.

The usage of past tense hurt; the uncertainty of where the unlikely pair had disappeared to was fathomless; the unmentioned Qilaq, Whiskey, and nameless granddaughter of Hind took his breath away. Szymon clamped his jaws shut around the painful tension that caused his last few words to shudder and worked his limbs cautiously, fearing the clench of his own body lest it break him into jagged lines.

The inky ingénue, deeply wounded by Szymon’s aggressive display, slunk back to the shoals with cowed alacrity, her tufted ears pinned tightly against her skull and her sumi-e brush tail tucked between her spindly hocks. Her cheeks billowed like a chipmunk’s and she gripped with taut possessiveness the ears of a cooling rabbit carcass; sizable, it knocked against her forelegs as she moved, and she laid it at the Leviathan’s paws with a timorous desire to please. The storm that raged within him crackled wildly, prickling the sheepdog’s feathery hackles, but his golden eyes regarded her with a distinct lack of aggression. Thus encouraged, she issued an airy whine and laved his chin with an eager tongue, nosing toward Doe with a quizzical tilt of her finely-sculpted head. At his permissive chuff, Coelacanth approached the odd-eared siren and nosed at the corner of the Akhlut’s sharply tapered muzzle. The reason for her puffed cheeks became apparent as she opened her mouth — several blueberries encased in ice rolled like diamonds from her tongue, and she plucked one between her incisors, poking it insistently between the folds of Doe’s lips.

The little Groenendael was still a novice when it came to healing, but she knew this: Szymon had requested food for Doe, but it would take time and energy to eat the rabbit. Already the black-banded Leviathan was stripping the fur from it and tearing it into manageable strips that he placed at his mate’s forepaws, but the fruit — a rare and coveted treat — would provide a more immediate solution. Hovering anxiously, the atramentous acolyte poked a second blueberry into Doe’s mouth, hoping the melting ice wine would help to moisten her dry, tacky gums and make swallowing easier. It was then that Szymon warned her away with a cutting rumble, protective and possessive of his wife — mother of his children, partner in all things — and she skittered away, taking notice of the mist-wrapped female for the first time. Her feathered tail whisked a hurried apology as she took up one of the ice-encrusted wildberries and nosed it toward the female with an instinctive desire to appease her. Neptune eyes half-closed as her tapered jaws parted in a doggish smile, willing the world around her to peace, and she curled her tail around her hips in a demure sit.

Doe came to… somewhat. She blinked up at her king and uttered a wispy sobriquet. Her voice was quiet and small; quite different from the shrieking of earlier, barely a whisper, as if it were meant for his ears only. But she was only weak, this Olive knew from the way her body slackened and lay against the ground. Strong negative energies buffeted the ashen druid, radiating out from the woman who was tortured so. Olive’s lips pulled back into a grimace and she gritted her teeth, turning her head away from where the two lay. The Leviathan known as Syzmon clearly was unsure of her, and she felt as if that deserved some distance and privacy. And really, who could blame him for his prejudice? The woman would react the same way if she found her shadowed lover in a feeble heap… probably worse, honestly. There was nothing she wouldn’t do for that dark man and she sympathized deeply with the Leviathan’s pain.

But then, his main began to change and he explain what Doe had attempted to grasp at earlier. Skellige was referred to as Szymon’s brother — but wasn't there a third relation? The mixed white and black male who she threatened upon Teaglaigh’s borders. Jagoda, was it? 

However, that thought process was derailed upon the mention of Donnelaith’s forest queen. Deirdre, the white witch who plucked her from death’s aqueous grip. Olive had greatly looked forward to the chance to see her once more and properly thank her for such a blessing. It had been no coincidence that the druid ended up in Teaghlaigh mere days later, to be allied with Deidre’s wolves only weeks later. But that chance was gone now, as fleeting as the forest gone up in tendrils of thick, choking smoke. The forest, which once stood guard of the peaceful faction, had betrayed them. Olive felt a new wave of sadness grip her and roll uneasily in her stomach — this was never an easy emotion to experience. Ugh, to feel so much! Olive’s neck followed the delicate turn of her head and soon the petite shewolf turned her entire being away from the two lovers. Doe was safe; Olive had accomplished her goal. They didn't need her anymore. 

There had been another who reentered the scene in the snow, the black sheepdog who was so silent Olive almost didn’t notice the addition in the midst of her woes. Olive’s peridot glazed gaze flicked to the woman, glinting in the sun. Was this another Blackrock Depths wolf, sent here to abuse her with their words? Olive was not entirely sure she liked these wolves... these infamous sea warriors she had heard so much about. This opinion surprised her truly, and she would eventually chock it all up to bad timing — but at this time, Olive felt a need to be strong.  Olive sought the woman’s own gaze and held it intensely [almost too intensely], even as a berry was nosed towards her. Berries were the druid's favorite delight, but she would not taste it just yet. Suddenly feeling strong in the face of adversity, Olive turned her head and spoke to all three strangers at once, not seeking to single anyone out. Her voice was soft, yet with strung with a small sense of power and confidence.

“There is always light within us that is free from all sorrow and grief, no matter how much we are experiencing suffering.” These warriors may or may not share her affinity for philosophy and feelings, but she could not hide who she was.

Soft sounds, strange touches - the grey slowly faded from Doe's vision, and for a moment, she simply stared at the sand by her face, despondent. Then, she picked herself up, chewed and swollowed the berries, and looked around at those gathered near. Olive's words were lost on her, but she felt that they were meant to bolster her, deep down in her heart.

"Forgive me for my outburst," she murmured, feeling a vauge sense of embarrassment that was quickly overruled by her emotional pains. Szymon spoke on part of it, but mostly, she just missed her daughters. "I have to get back to the bay," she said softly, looking toward the black cliffs as though Julep or Isengrim would appear on the high rocks once more. She couldn't lose more of them.

She ignored the rabbit, her Shadow, her husband, and the stranger - and, limping, she carried herself toward the East Cliff den, fighting against the numbness in her legs.

Szymon bit back the growl that wanted to claw its way to the surface — “I have to get back to the bay,” she’d said, but what she had to do was eat; what she had to do was stay with him — and turned his attention to the stricken creature who had seen his greatest strength and greatest weakness in one defining moment. He had no apology to give her, but seemed to mull over her words for a long, pregnant moment before an embittered sigh hissed from his pursed lips. His smooth bass timbre, ironically gentle and sonorous, contrasted sharply with his mood and mien. “I am a Cairn,” he informed her quietly. “Szymon Cairn.” He weighed his response carefully and loosed it with slow deliberation: “There is no light in me.”

The black-banded Leviathan fixed the viridian-eyed sylph with an intent stare. “We have met at a bad time,” he said bluntly, “but unless Arturo wishes to break the alliance between Blackrock Depths and T-Teaghlaigh, you are my ally. No harm will come to you should you seek an audience at the bay.” His tattered ears swept toward the crash of the Sea; he was impatient to get away, to follow Doe, but he had learned a little about diplomacy and he knew that his dealings with this wolf — with all of Teaghlaigh’s wolves — were important. Skellige had needed no wolf — only his own convictions and the Sea’s blessing — but Szymon was a different kind of wolf. A different kind of Leviathan.

Abruptly, the golden-eyed alpha ran out of words. Never one to prolong a meeting when he could be getting the hell out of one, he dipped his scarred muzzle to the strange female. “Give my regards to the Fearghal,” he uttered, and then tacked on a hasty, “please.” Without a second glance, he picked up the mangled rabbit, leaving tufts of fur and skin behind, and set off for the bay at a ground-eating trot.

The older female’s olive green eyes focused on Coelacanth’s with blistering intensity, and the tiny sheepdog averted her Neptune gaze with an anxious flutter of her ink-feathered tail. She had never seen Hind’s daughter so deeply distraught, and her empath’s heart turned over painfully in her chest as she watched the odd-eared wolf limp heavily away. It pained her to be ignored, though she was bolstered somewhat by the fact that her offering had been accepted — and when Doe’s mate took his leave shortly thereafter, Seelie remained where she was. Shyly, still eager to appease but made skittish by Szymon’s reprimands and Doe’s stricken state and the heather-winged dove’s palpable distress, Coelacanth kept her tufted ears tucked firmly against her finely-crafted skull as her sumi-e brush tail beat a furious tattoo against the frozen ground. Now and again she slanted a timorous glance toward the Teaghlaigh she-wolf, and a soft and plaintive whine, airy and toneless, danced upon her lips. She had not meant to cause any offense.

And just like that, the kind and queen had departed. There were muted apologies that came from a place somewhat sincere, Syzmon paid his respects to Ceannasach and then the two were gone. Olive offered no words but dipped her head in a somber goodbye to [what was a pretty somber meeting]. Life was all too interesting in that way — and once again she was reminded of her smallness in the universe. Every being on the earth had a life, and existance that was just as vivid and poignant as her own. She and Doe, they were the same. They were the same in the way that she and Syzmon were the same, or the way that she and Dakarai were the same, or the way she and anyone was the same. They were all just little pieces of the bigger microcosm, trudging their way through existence and feeling everything that a conscious life brought with it. They were all one.

Olive sighed heavily and regained her composure. All in all, she felt pretty damn diplomatic. Sure, she unintentionally caused the severe mental degradation of their closest ally, but at least she hadn’t embarrassed herself totally in front of the Ahklut and Leviathan, especially in a tense situation such as that. Olive was quite unsure how to commune with wolves with whom she had to be proper [now that she was a packwolf] — she was much to free spirited for that… though under Arturo tutelage, she was quickly learning. Olive had wanted to rush upon Doe and take the writhing woman in her arms, to nurture and ease her, more than anything she had ever wanted in the world… but Olive refrained, because politics. She weren’t sure if that should be considered a feat, or a defeat. 

 Gently, Olive turned her gaze to look at the sheepdog before her. This girl obviously wasn’t wolf, but she looked so similar — and so beautiful! The pale sylph had not long regarded this stranger in the heat of the moment, but there the inked stranger sat, wagging her tail and apologizing thrice. A slight cant of her head gestured at the other’s flank, which had fallen prey to Szymon’s fury. “Did he hurt you?” she asked gently, the fire and strength in her gaze replaced with softness. Had Arturo brutalized her like that, she would… Well, Olive didn’t know what she would do in that situation. She also wished that she could ask these Depths wolves about anything other than their pain... but the universe did not seem to want to make that so.

The pale-winged dove focused fully upon Coelacanth then, a question upon her lips and gentleness writ upon her comely visage, and Seelie turned her own finely-sculpted head to follow the cant of Olive’s slender muzzle. The inky ingénue had become so wrapped up in the tangled welter of the others’ emotions that she’d all but forgotten about herself; it was almost surprising to touch her nose to her own concave flank and acknowledge her corporeal self. The feathery fur was wet with saliva and the flesh below it was bruised, thin runnels of crimson abrading white flesh that did not bleed but merely smarted. Coelacanth looked then at her legs, her paws, her plumed tail with a sense of confused wonder — some days she felt whittled down, nothing more than ears, eyes, lungs, and heart — and gathered her tiny body into a standing position.

As she shook out her cloak of black silk, a reassuring expression of mirth shaped her lips; she strove to ease Olive’s worry, stretching out one hind leg, then the other, before turning one quick circle to prove her good health. The elfish gamine was skinnier than she should have been, her delicate framework clearly delineated in sloping curves and jutting angles, but her steps were sprightly and her tail whipped ceaselessly. Neptune eyes darted shyly for muted viridian as Coelacanth “barked” — more motion than actual sound this time, her breath billowing in a capsule of crystal fog and her jaws snapping with no voice behind it — and flopped down unceremoniously upon her torso with her cheek upon the rocky shore, looking up at the wolf with a patently hangdog air. The berry still rested between Olive’s paws, and very suddenly Seelie missed Starbuck — she couldn’t seem to hold still and circled back to where Doe had lain, nosing around until she found one glistening straggler that she cradled like a rare gemstone upon her tongue.

Shff! — the atramentous wolfdog lay back on the stones, closer to Olive this time, ever watchful for a sign of warding off, settling her weight upon her left hip — blep! — and placed her own berry upon her forepaws. Then she turned to Arturo’s wolf with a quizzical tilt of her head to the right — a quizzical tilt of her head to the left — and uttered a soft sound of invitation, more whisper than whine.

Wrap up and archive with your next post? :)

The silent woman was hurt, Olive could see that — but the curved form of the sheepdog displayed no outward sign of harm. It had always amazed Olive how some being could swallow their own pain, shield themselves from the eyes of others in the way of this silent woman. Olive could never, would never, be able to hide her pain or her joys. However, the more Olive watched the gamine frolic and fall about, gathering herself and whipping her angular features closer and closer, the more she wondered why she did not speak. Her actions were loud, but he voice silent — and Olive had not the mental nor emotional capacity to figure it all out. Her afternoon had been quite derailed by the woman Doe and she could scarcely find want in herself to visit the charcoal remains of the great Sentinel forest, nonetheless work hard to chip away at a one-sided conversation. The exhausted fae simply wanted to go home. 

The woman clearly wanted Olive to indulge in the berry, and for that the solemn druid was thankful. She pulled the berry between her pale lips with a quick twist of the tongue and savored the cool crunch of the berry. It was a moment of respite — which she quickly interrupted with the announcement of her departure. “I- I have to go. You must understand,” Olive pleaded, hoping dearly that the shadowed woman would let her retire unobstructed.  She pulled her waif-like figure from her haunches and positioned herself back towards Ravensblood Forest, back towards the way she had come, but awaiting the stranger's acknowledgement.

The sheepdog tipped her tapered muzzle down and away from the pale sylph, who savored the ice-encrusted berry and then pled for understanding, turning toward her forest home. Doglike, Coelacanth pouted, for everyone had left her — and although they had their reasons, each of them legitimate, she desperately needed someone to stay. More than food, Seelie fed upon the approval, affection, and acceptance of others — and for long months, she had been starved of these things. Her Neptune gaze was luminous as she looked up at Olive, the sulky push of her lips smoothing gradually into a gentle, encouraging smile. Shyly, she crossed the distance and laid her own berry at the grayscale nymph’s paws, hesitating only momentarily before stretching out a timorously quivering muzzle. If the Teaghlaigh female would allow it, Coelacanth would press the wet of her nose against one slender shoulder in an emotive gesture meant to bolster and soothe. Then she turned and made her own departure, catlike paws moving hurriedly to follow her king and queen.