Panther Park fish in the sea of galilee

@Coelacanth now and later i’ll tag in @Dakarai :)

The past few days had been a living hell for Olive.

He was antsy to leave; to get home and to be with Oxsana. Despite the memory loss, the elk’s hooves had cut the man deeply and for the health of his wound she convinced him to stay with her. Olive had convinced him that if he left, he would catch a fever and would never make it home to Oxsana — oh, and only Olive knew the medicine to keep him healthy. And so the forlorn druid took to gathering roots and leaves and winter flowers and pressed them to his wounded crown as he had seen so many others do; but she really had no idea what she was doing. Olive could effectively stave off infection and fever, but to rehabilitate one’s lost memories? There was not a poultice in the world that could heal such a wound. 

She felt so helpless.

When Olive wasn’t hurriedly putting on a show for Dakarai, entertaining him, lying to him to keep him from leaving [to prevent this… stranger from absconding off with her husband’s body] she worried incessantly about her own future. This charade could only go one for so long, as the dark knight was growing darker by the day and she feared that soon he would tire of his tiny, ash-and-cream caretaker. She had no plan. Olive knew no way to fix this.  Her life, everything that was so great and good about her existence, had been upheaved and the loss was quite hard for her to handle. It was difficult for her to give up even the smallest semblance of what they once had; she clung to the look in his cerulean eyes as he watched her in her feminine, fecund condition, before he remembered that she was a stranger.

Her sadness was not just about her own, personal loss… but the fate of her family.  Her own children occupied many of her thoughts. There was no way that she could return to Ceannasach, pregnant with a fatherless litter. Dakarai had promised to recruit new members to support their growing family. Would that responsibility now fall on her; and how could she, now that she was going to be a mother? Arturo, so deadpan and immovable; he and Chusi would surely cast her out [a non-hysterical Olive would have mad much more faith in her family, but Olive was long past hysterical]. Perhaps she would never go back. Perhaps she were destined to die, alone in the world, exhausted by trying to care for her bastard young.

That morning, Olive gave Dakarai his space. The hadn’t been able to leave Panther Park since the accident and slept in the same area as before, but never together. He liked his space so she would give it to him, even though it killed her to be away from him for a single instant. Olive lay defeatedly against a rocky outcrop, dusted with snow that had pushed through the tree canopy. Outside Panther Park, the blizzard blew fierce; but inside the forest, it was warm. So Olive laid alone and her rosy tongue caressed the soft down of her belly, whispering to the babies growing within that they should not worry. Mama was there.

It was cold out today, the bitter air stinging his nose with every inhale. He had his eyes cracked open to watch his savior, the woman named Olive. He knew she was pregnant, and that they were his. He also had guessed of Oxsana's health, which was now non-existent. He tried to keep his space from her, to be stubborn and refuse her company except when being treated medically but today was a day he needed to be honest.


if the children were his and he had indeed became mated to this woman then he had a duty. Giving a resigned sigh he stood up and moved over to her, laying down a mere inches from her body. "I don't remember you, but that is no excuse to abandon you and my children. I know we are mated, it's easy to see in your pain. Hopefully I will remember someday, but even if I don't I will never leave you.."" the last few words were hauntingly close to the same promise he had swore only a few days ago.


He pulled closer though he was uncomfortable and lay his head on her back "it is too cold to be alone, let me lay with you?" He asked. It was not out of love but out of duty and a faint familiarity that he asked to cuddle with her.

:'( I'm dying inside

This post is no good. ;-; Sorry!

In loneliness, in desperation, the tiny sheepdog wandered. Without a leader to follow, and with three young lambs to care for, she felt totally at a loss. The bay was utterly empty save for the atramentous ingénue and her unlikely brood, and although she often traveled far and wide in search of them, the black-banded Leviathan and his odd-eared Akhlut were nowhere to be found. Her days were honed down to three activities: searching for Doe and Szymon; foraging and hunting for their children; and counting. Three puppies — one male — two female — three. Three reasons to stay in the Teekons, even when Coelacanth’s bruised and bleeding heart cried out for Amoxtli — for home. Three promises to uphold. Three little wolves that would one day outweigh and overshadow their spindly caretaker — but only if she did her job right.

It was bitterly, painfully cold; Seelie was ill-equipped to face a normal winter with her feathery fur and gaunt physique, let alone the Teekons’ version of Fimbulvetr. With her eyes squeezed shut, she pressed numbly through the drifts that dwarfed and sought to engulf her, her tufted ears pressed firmly against her narrow skull as she shivered and quaked. When she finally broke through the higher drifts, stumbling past spindly trees that arose and thickened into a forest, an unfamiliar voice reached her ears: “It is too cold to be alone; let me lay with you?” Cracking her Neptune eyes open, frost-tangled lashes aching with the effort it took, she spotted the massive melanistic wolf first — and his size alone intimidated her to such a degree that she seriously considered diving headlong back into the blizzard lest she awaken his ire.

With a toneless, airy whine, Coelacanth backpedaled, crouching in the cold, the arched set of her cowed carriage mimicking the inked silhouette of a cemetery headstone. Not even the familiar scent that fluttered past her quivering muzzle could comfort her; she had traveled too long and become too worn down to match the scent to a face with a name. She knew only that it did not belong to Doe, Szymon, Julep, Isengrim, or Moorhen — three puppies — one male — two female — three — and she was utterly disheartened.

Dakarai was a serious man; that never seemed to change with the loss of his memory. Granted, he did have a lot of grave experiences within a short amount of time.  He was injured from the hooven beast, forced to relive the death of his first mate and first children had this stranger and her unborn pups forced upon them. Their experiences of his fugue state were much, much different but the effect was much to same: two sullen wolves, stripped of everything good they had ever known.  Right then, they were not good company.

The brute came and found her, his touch was still comforting. Dakarai felt the same beside her and when Olive closed her eyes, it was easy to pretend that he was still her husband. Still in love with her. That their life together would still be magical and transcendent and beautiful.  And when Dakarai sidled on up to her in the name of wamth, Olive did just that. She let her eyes slip closed and she pressed up against the warrior, listening to his words. He would stay, he would help to raise their children. For that, Olive was appreciative – but for how long would he concede to such a fate? Men held all the power in these types of situations, as only their seed was truly necessary for reproduction. She would carry these living things for nine weeks: the pups couldn’t survive without her womb, her milk, her love. It would be so easy for him to leave, but Olive never, ever could.

 Olive sat in self-imposed blindness, nodding along to her mate’s confessions. But then a toneless whine tickled the feathering of her hear and her alert eyes shot open, falling upon a rather nervous looking sheepdog. The shrouded fae raised to her feet almost immediately – this was the first time they had seen another since the accident, and this woman was familiar to Olive. “You – You were with Doe and Szymon.” The ash-and-cream woman stated rather plainly. Olive knew this woman preferred to stay silent, so there was no need to beat around the bush. “We need help.” Olive stated plainly. “He’s hurt,” she began, sweeping her head gently to gesture at Dakarai’s head wound. Olive was oblivious to whether or not their atramentous cohort had any knowledge in healing, but Olive would have taken anything at that moment… even a kind ear to burden with her own woes and sorrows.

Dakarai's head lifted at the same time Olive's did, his ears perking forward at the monotone sound of a female's whine. His blue eyes landed on the black sheepdog, and he tilted his head to the side wondering what was up with her. He almost spoke out to her, when Olive stated that she recognized her from somewhere with two other people whose names he had never heard of. He was silent until she spoke of his injury, and he offered a small smile and tilted his head forward to show his injury.


At this point it was crusted over, but the lack of medicine and treatment had left it to get infected and it oozed in several places. Not only was the wound on his head bad, but he had a slightly swollen lump where the nasty Elk had kickedhim once more. "If you would look at it...it hurts rather badly" he pleaded.

The immediacy of Olive and Dakarai’s response startled the skittish little sheepdog badly, and she backpedaled on paws that had gone numb and graceless in the cold. Fortunately, her natural dexterity prevented her from spilling clumsily into the snow and ice; with a stuttered step, she regained her footing and whuffed softly, a pocket of fog billowing from her finely tapered muzzle. Tufted ears fanned forward upon her gently sloping skull as she focused on the ashen sylph’s stricken visage, her Neptune eyes intent and unwavering as she digested what the star-crossed lovers required of her. On tenterhooks she crept closer to the wolf who could have been mistaken for Seelie’s kin if one judged by their coloring alone, and the scent of infection caused her muzzle to wrinkle in worried distaste. It was the wrong season for harvesting, but the tiny Groenendael felt certain she could find something to fight off the infection and ease his pain.

It was to Olive that the yearling looked then, and impulsively — Olive had not hurt her before; surely Olive would not hurt her now — she dipped her head and allowed her feathered ears to fold demurely, tiptoeing nearer to reassure the female whose eau-de-nil eyes were glassy with unspoken weariness and hurt. Seelie outstretched her muzzle, and if the willowy woman allowed it, would brush her velveteen cheek against one cream-furred shoulder. Without being able to verbally instruct the waif on how to prepare Dakarai for his treatment, Coelacanth pantomimed: she motioned toward the snow, scooping with her paw, and turned toward Dakarai without looking directly at him. Shyly she waved her paw in his general direction. If they could numb the area with cold, it would make the cleaning portion of it slightly easier for him.

Edging reluctantly closer to him, she darted a lick toward the bulb of one of his ears before scurrying back to Olive with a measure of desperation: “Protect me, please!” bespoke her plaintive mien. It would be more productive — and marginally less terrifying, she thought — if she did some scouting for what dried herbs she could find while Olive numbed Dakarai’s wound. That way, the whole business would be finished much more quickly. Just in case Olive had not understood Seelie’s pantomiming, the atramentous ingénue inched closer to Dakarai once more — gathering snow in her muzzle, she arched her swanlike neck and allowed it to dribble from her lips over the angry looking wound. All the while she looked at Olive, repeating the gesture two more times and then stepping back with an airy, toneless whine. “Do you understand?”

small PP on Dakarai just to keep us movin' — let me know if I should change it, Chey :)

The fae watched intently as the strange sheepdog approached quite timidly, wrinkling her fine nose at Dakarai’s blight. Olive did not know if the stranger was any kind of healer, but the leviathan directed her as if she had some caretaking knowledge — Olive vividly remembered the ice encrusted berry and knew she trusted the shaky girl despite a looming sense uncertainty. Truly, Olive did not have the luxury of a choice and knew the star-crossed lovers were lucky to find such succor. Their world was full of and endless variety of life; yet the earth had felt so very vacant since their misfortune. Coelacanth was very welcome here.

After a moment’s examination, it was silently affirmed that, yes, Dakarai’s wound required further healing and that the small, onyx lady was the one to do it. 

The pale sylph made to move towards Dakarai but was caught in a foreign, yet dainty embrace. The tenderness of the touch immediately drew Olive in and the two stood there for a sweet moment, Olive pressing her feathered neck and décolletage into Coelacanth’s dark furred shoulder; and being reminded of the comfort Dakarai’s dark embrace once gave her [albeit this one was much smaller and distinctly feminine]. The caress concluded and with an astute nod, Olive honed her focus on the dog’s lively [yet skillfull] pantomime. It was quite clear what she was expected to do, as Olive had implemented this treatment herself several times to stave off the wound’s persistent bleeding — but this was not a treatment in and of itself and she knew the snow was preparation for something else. This was where her healing skills failed and Olive was all too happy to yield to the girl’s direction, letting her take the reigns from her own ashen paws. With the instructions clearly laid out, Olive took a step towards the dark knight and motioned for him to lay down and place his crown against the permafrost [somehow, words felt so extraneous in that moment]. With that, milky paws scooped up the cool crystals and piled them, pressing it with her snout so that the ice layer flush against his skin. Olive’s pleading eyes flashed to the healer, imploring her to say she had done something right and that all would be remedied now.

The snow soothed his wound and he released a long breath, closing his eyes against the white coating on the ground as he lay still. He couldn't say he trusted Coelacanth because she was a stranger, but Olive seemed to place her faith within the black colored sheepdog so readily that he allowed himself to do the same. He had noticed that the woman was mute, and it interested him somewhat as well. A gentle swaying of his tail and an appreciative glance upward towaed Coelacanth, one that he hoped showed the timid woman he was immensely grateful and wouldn't hurt her.

Want to finish this up next round? ^^ Mild powerplay! I can change if need be.

When the sheepdog judged Dakarai’s grisly wound was sufficiently numbed, she edged timorously nearer. Healing, she knew, was not merely concerned with seeing to the maladies of the body but the heart and spirit as well; the sprightly empath could feel Olive’s waves of uncertainty and hurt lapping hotly against her own flesh, and the pleading look in those forest hollow eyes drew a tremulous whine from their inkdark beholder. Very softly, Seelie tiptoed close enough to stand shoulder to shoulder with the young mother-to-be, and aimed to lay the vulnerable curve of her throat and the pert curve of her chin across the druid’s shoulders. Between two humans, the gesture would have been akin to putting a comforting — albeit shyly trembling — arm around one’s shoulders. Tipping her finely tapered skull to the left, Coelacanth ruffled the willowy female’s fur against the grain and then made to smooth it with her tongue in a fond caress.

She met the gentle giant’s gaze with bashful furtiveness, the focus of her Neptune eyes only just crossing Dakarai’s scrutiny before slewing away. The flesh of his crown was swollen and tender, broken and oozing. The blood had staunched it for the nonce, but crude debridement of the wound would start it bleeding again. Inviting Olive to watch her ministrations with an uncharacteristically decisive quirk of her fox-fine muzzle, Seelie steeled herself against the turning of her stomach and went to work cleaning the wound of purulent discharge, casting it upon the snow with a kittenish display of hissing and spitting. In the only way she could, she made it clear that the thick, yellow-white fluid was a very bad thing: her lips curled over her fangs as she growled at the pus-spattered snow, and she turned to kick fresh snow over it with a snort of distaste.

Eventually, the wound was cleaned to the tiny Groenendael’s fussy satisfaction, and fortunately it did not require a great deal of debriding. Her incisors plucked and nipped, cutting away the dead and infected flesh, and this she also spat and buried. Rinsing her mouth with snow, she regarded her handiwork with a critical eye and then turned her attention further inland. Turning again to Olive, she parted her slim jaws and gathered snow into her mouth. Again she let it dribble from her lips to stream down the wound, sluicing away rivulets of blood, and she nodded to the pale sylph encouragingly. Lavaging the jagged flesh was important, but difficult in such cold weather. Still, Dakarai would be better off if Olive could manage it while Seelie investigated the nearby foliage for something she could use to help him.

Backing away from the pair, Seelie trotted a few steps toward the forest, then returned to the star-crossed pair’s vicinity. “I will come back,” she willed them to understand, trotting away again and tossing as stern a glance as she could muster over one shoulder. One dainty, catlike paw lifted; she waved it like a doggish version of a crossing guard, then she disappeared into the brush to hunt for herbs.

Yep! I’m good to wrap it up with Chey’s post, or keep it going to for another round!

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Olive had done her part and now her hands-on assists were rendered useless as the sheepdog’s sharp mind went to work on her mate’s wound. Her careful and minute ministrations culled the injury of infection and surrendered the putrid flesh to the snow; though the nurse made quite a show of it, Olive’s distressed attention was focused solely on her dark knight, numbed but surely feeling the pain of such a medical procedure. Olive pressed her jaws together hotly, wishing she could take his pain and woes and endure them with her own body and spirit, as fate was cruel and Olive did not believe Dakarai deserved such hurt – not one bit. The sylph placed a single, slight paw on his shoulder as a silent act of solidarity. Words still felt too foreign for this moment.

When the procedure concluded and the girl carefully regarded her work, Olive was relieved. The worst was over. As instructed, Olive warmed the cold winter snow within her thin muzzle and drizzle it upon Dakarai’s wound, washing away blood both old and new. Olive continued at this for quite a while as their nurse slipped away into the underbrush, a low, ever present whine emanating from deep within her chest. Olive worried superfluously that Coelacanth would not return – but somewhere inside herself, Olive had faith that she would.

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Slipping this in before it gets archived so I can use it for the trade ♥

Coelacanth returned shortly thereafter, but her mouth and paws were empty. Apology was writ in the cant of her fragile little frame, for she hadn’t been able to find anything of use in the unfamiliar forest. Neptune eyes glimmered, wind-whipped and stinging from the frigid cold; she crept nearer to Dakarai and Olive on her belly, her sumi-e brush tail curving between her hocks until its tip brushed her high-waisted abdomen. It was important that Olive keep the wound clean, but apart from that, there was nothing Seelie could do. Tilting her head quizzically from one side to the other, she looked at Olive and dipped her delicately tapered muzzle. “I have done all I can,” bespoke her posture and a soft, toneless whine spilled airily from her lips as she bestowed upon the druid’s cheek a tender kiss, the wet of her nose just barely brushing the downy fur. The wound was largely superficial, just angry. If Olive could but keep it clean and clear, there was a chance Dakarai would take no further harm from it.