Ravensblood Forest of dancers and dreamers

Enough was enough. Kitsch was completely fed up with this type of sluggish, lowly existence; it seemed that the world considered her no better than a common field mouse and was consistently knocking her about… but was she not Kitsch, the sole heir to the throne of salabhasana — beloved and celebrated by all that knew her? Did royal blood not pump through her veins? The fact that she was no longer surrounded by her high society did not change the fact that she was a lady and Kitsch was dying to be treated as such.

So Kitsch huffed and she puffed and made her way across strange lands. For the pearl, hunting was hard. Oftentimes, even the easiest of prey would evade her grasp. Sometimes she moved too loudly or too slowly, sometimes her fangs would miss their mark and sometimes her turns were not as tight as they could be — for she never really did learn to hunt. Back home, she had no need. But out here, Kitsch had a very real need.  The girl was thin and her skin hung loose; her pale, thin pelt did nothing to hide the fact that she was close to starving. Kitsch subsisted off of mostly carcasses; disgusting flesh left frostbitten by the cold. The winter had not been kind to the ungulates, and Kitsch may not have survived if she had been without their corpses. The winter had not been kind to the princess either and Kitsch promised herself that, when the snow’s fury quieted, she would join a pack. any pack. the first pack she found, she was theirs. First, she needed to live — then she could think about her next move. Recently she had been feeling that she had been destined to be cast aside. The world moved on around her, but she seemed to have fallen through the cracks; but she would not longer be a forgotten remnant of her lost world.

And so Kitsch lifted her maw to the sky and let loose her song for the pack’s leadership, as so many others had once done for her.

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A call from his borders apprehends Arturo from his plans to venture back out into the Wilds, to leave behind his borders in search of wolves that he could recruit and or at least trust as messengers to get out the word: Teaghlaigh sought recruits. In his anger at Dakarai and Olive his motives are purely selfish: he seeks more adults for the livelihood of his own children. Despite that it has yet to become any more severe Arturo has not put the problem aside, nor has he forgotten about it. It cannot take up all of his focus as he has many duties to tend to, recruitment aside, and he deigns to spend as much time with Lotte as he can not wanting to miss any second of …anything. It was true that the babes were probably not even much of anything yet but Arturo is in love and it has struck him true and deep. The children growing within her womb were only something to make the stars in his eyes shine all that brighter.

Ceannasach makes his way to where the howl has risen from with swiftness, his steps slowing as his fiery red-orange gaze seeks and soon finds the woman though she does a good job of camouflaging in with the snow blanketed landscape around her. If not for the markings of black she bore and her blue eyes he might have missed her at first. His approach is with purpose, his tail giving an errant flick against his back hocks as he draws nearer, drinking in her scent and letting it tell him the information that he would not ask: her age, her health, and that she is lone. “This is Teaghlaigh,” Arturo introduces the pack, introduces Ravensblood Forest with it’s bleeding trees in his deep, accented smoky timbre, giving a soft gesture towards the territory behind him. “Why have you come to our borders?” Oh, Arturo has a fairly good idea: and he hopes that his assumption is right. For now, he keeps his sharp facial features impassive offering her his rapt attention nevertheless, acting as the sentry of the lands. Would he have ever had any interest in guardian besides leadership necessity he would have perhaps made a fine one (he had the skill enough for how many times he’d intercepted wolves at his borders) but he does not favor patrolling only doing it because it is expected of him. The interception of wolves he didn't mind so much but he does not deny that he finds patrolling ...rather boring. This is better than a patrol however, even though he knows not yet what way it will go. So he is patient as he waits for her to respond.

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At last, life had stilled for the resurgent little shewolf. A normative Olive would have abhorred such stagnancy, but this sense of stillness was simply divine. For hours upon hours the plump woman sprawled against the stone of her grotto, tucked away amongst the privacy of the sap-stained timbers. The red herring laid about much in the manner of a sleepy puppy, with each limb stretched to its fullest extent, taking up as much room as was possible for her petite body while she remained nothing more than limp flesh and bone. This ground, these stones, these beloved bleeding sentinels… they were her shelter, and nothing could touch her here: not Doe and her sickness, not the elk who murdered her husband but awoke another, not Arturo and his empty threats, not the Blackfeather Fuckers and their hateful intentions… nope, no one. Here, she was safe. Here, she was good.

Her senses began to slip back into the safety of this familiarity and Olive found the freedom to focus on the next task at hand: convalescing. The woman drifted in and out of a fevered sleep for some while after her return, spurred on by the swelling and healing of her injuries. Her body ached with any movement so she didn’t move at all, instead electing to let her body stitch itself back together without disturbance. Not only was her torn body a cause for concern; Olive worried immensely for the wellbeing of the lives growing within her, pushing out her belly in the sweetest of ways and still wracking her body with the most lovely of morning sicknesses. Olive had never experienced such horror and adrenaline as she did during her madcap dash past the bloodletted borders of Blackfeather Woods — and Olive wondered if such nadir had poisoned her womb, aversely affecting the lives held within.

But, all signs pointed towards a normal and healthy pregnancy! Olive had been assessed by healers, but her own instincts assuaged her anxiety and guilt somewhat. Her belly continued to round and Olive became amused with her changing body, which continued to change despite the prior emotional upheaval — and now, how incredible it was to create life, to be so closely intertwined in the earth’s circle of life! Olive felt guilt for her foolishness, yes, but she also felt consecration. She felt divine, godlike, the picture of femininity and perfumed with telling hormones. Her exterior was bruised and twisted, but her interior was as fecund as the earth beneath her feet and the forest that scraped the heavens. This was the way the universe worked, Olive recognized; though she was unable to harness the earth’s energies like some witch could, Olive could quite artfully read them and cogitate their patterns and whispers. Olive knew she was a part of something larger than herself.

Then, one day, she heard another howl at Teaghlaigh’s border and knew it was back to business as usual.

Olive pulled herself from the cold, slate flooring and moved towards the sound. Her body limped and creaked as her bones grinder against one another in a jaunty, slow pace — but Olive pushed through with a slight grit of her teeth. When Olive arrived at the borders [somewhat winded from her journey], she realized that Arturo had proceeded her. The Red Herring gave Arturo a sidelong glance, half expecting him to understand her delay and half hoping her Ceannasach would never speak of her shameful Blackfeather-inflicted wounds again. Looking upon the girl in the snow, Olive raised her head and stepped forward to question the stranger. For now, Olive would share this responsibility with Arturo; if he wished her to take over completely, then she would. If he wanted to take command, then she would let him.  As Arturo’s Red Herring, she worked entirely upon his whims and wishes.

“What’s your name, sweet girl?” Olive intoned kindly, standing carefully as not to place any weight upon her sprained back left paw.

Her cry was answered swiftly by the most stoic of men. This pleased Kitsch immensely, as this was the type of service she had been accustomed to. Outside the confines of her royal home, the world was so... unhurried. When left to their own devices, everythings seemed to happen as a glacial pace. She was the reluctant laggard, strung along by the natural course of things, unadjusted to the idea of waiting.  Kitsch didn’t like the idea of waiting for anything — she hadn’t even rally waited that long before seeking domicile with a group of wolves other than her kingdom. The very moment Kitsch noticed herself wasting away from hunger and boredom, she folded and sought safety amongst the numbers and talents of others. 

Now she was here, her aquamarine gaze falling upon the shrouded man who manifested between the trees, asking him for help. That was a reality that, internally, Kitsch had a hard time accepting. Oh yes, Kitsch had help her entire royal life, but the girl never had to ask for it. Help had just always been there, plentiful and ready for her taking. She deserved it, she had been told and believed, for she was a princess and she could do no wrong for her kingdom.

The man explained the forest within which the pack resided. As he inquired for her reasoning, the man was joined by quite a frightful presence: a woman, battered. But the new addition to their conversation was kind, so Kitsch choked down her disgust as viewing such... degerancy and silently forgave her for the blood that offended the girl's sensitive nares and delicate aesthetic constiution. “I am Kitsch” She introduced herself with a practiced curtsy, curling her ink dipped paw in towards her chest — then, not knowing which wolf was in charge, she spoke to both.

“Oh, sir” the plucky pearl moaned. “Ma’am,” her gaze bounced to the wounded lady before sweeping towards the ground in a grandiose sense of melancholy. Though the act appeared submissive, it’s was not at all self sacrificial. In fact, the idea of submission to these two strangers had never even crossed her mind [so foreign was the idea to her] — but Kitsch did feel her misfortunes very keenly, so her woebegone stance came across as quite authentic. She hung her head for a moment before craning her head to look at them most pathetically. Her aquamarine eyes had metamorphosed into swimming, shimmering pools.  

“I seek domicile within your forest. The wilds are no place for me.”

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In light of the recent events he finds himself increasingly annoyed with Olive and Dakarai and as she appears and proceeds to take over there is a lash of Ceannasach’s tail and a flash of his teeth. He does not need her help. They have broken his trust and he is greatly stung by it (particularly by Olive’s breaking of his trust) and it shows in his dominance and aggression which the gangster does not attempt to reign in. He does not care if this girl knows he is Ceannasach. As far as he is concerned he has no red herring for the moment and for the time being: he is fine with it. He has to know he can trust the red herring and his trust is such a fragile thing when it comes to Dakarai and Olive. This Kitsch should know he (and Lotte) are the king and queen of this forest. Until things were …straightened out that is what Arturo thinks is the most important thing. His burning gaze flickers back to Kitsch, unable to help but wonder if Olive truly grasped just how angry he truly was with her and her ebony lover.

Arturo watched with stoic impassiveness as Kitsch made a submissive show, moaning her words and spoke, with a look that struck Arturo as pathetic. He answers it silently with a hard gleam in his fiery irises. If he is meant to be moved: he is not. He is not a theatrical beast and he only enjoys theater when it is put on display for him by Lotte (though he is, admittedly, a bit biased). “And what makes you think that Teaghlaigh is for you?” He inquires, the smoky timbre of his deep, accented voice a deceptively soft command for an answer. “Teaghlaigh is a Family but it is run as a tight ship,” A ship that he had obviously let go too loose for too long. “we are a close-knit pack,” Or we were he thinks darkly. “extremely territorial,” Ceannasach continues on anyway, not intending to end his little speech until he has said everything and articulated is as clear a way as he can so that Kitsch could decide for herself if she truly wanted to join Teaghlaigh or not. “There are only two rules that the wolves of Teaghlaigh are expected to obey and enforce — and if they break them will be severely punished for it — Ceannasach’s Word is Law —” He supposes that he should include Lotte’s rank in that but he has always seen himself as the voice of all leadership in situations. “and The Family before Everything Else. If you think you can obey and enforce these laws then perhaps we can talk further of the skills you can bring to us.” Arturo leaves it open for her to jump into the skills she has to offer if she decides to accept, his ears cupping forth atop his sharp crown at attention.

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As Arturo’s eyes and ivories flashed, the druid could easily recognize his ire. Never before had the man bared his fangs to her — never had he the reason. But Ceannasach’s intention was clear: stand down. now. An immediate sense of sorrow constricted her chest and windpipes and suddenly, the wounded waif wished for nothing more than exceed his command and leave the scenario entirely.  Olive was flighty like that, but flighty wolves made for lousy leaders. Clearly, Arturo had recognized that about her.

No, Olive hadn’t known just how angry Arturo was with her. What Olive had known was that Arturo was a steadfast creature, slow to trust but quick to forfeit that very same sense of trust. Perhaps that was how Arturo had risen to his current station in life, leading wolves who never recognized that they needed such leadership [much like Olive herself]. Later, the ashen woman would be able to recall her many mistakes: how she had slighted the very man whom she pledged to serve, put the entire family in danger, endangered the man and babies she loved so deeply…. but nothing could ever compare to the pain she had felt in that moment, upon the territory of the stygian hellhounds. If she could survive such otherworldly hopelessness, Olive was certain that she could survive anything — and she could certainly survive Arturo’s ire. She only needed to speak with him, alone, and Olive was certain that all misgivings would be rectified. Olive was one of Teaghlaigh’s founding members, after all; and the two would always have that core connection, no matter what miasma of negative vibrations concealed it.

The petite shewolf, unable to focus on the stranger’s woes, several steps backwards. Her tailed hung and curled between her feathers hocks [one stained pink and twisted from another’s jaws] in a quiet form of submission. Arturo was in control now and unless directly addressed, she would no longer speak; but she would not leave, for she did not want this stranger to understand the sensitive dynamic between Ceannasach and his Poilin. Olive was not an easy woman to lead and her entire mien seemed to repel control... and this, Olive never truly knew if this would lead to her eventual salvation or her eventual defeat — but, for now, all it seemed to lead to was her fall from grace.

Kitsch was much too preoccupied with her own anguish to even notice the complicated dynamic of the wolves she faced. Kitsch did see a flash of anger cross the face of the man and the meekness of the woman — but she simply did not care. Kitsch was the one that was starving and Kitsch was the one who had called them here… It was frustrating to the fallen princess that not all their attention was paid to her. So when silence fell over the expectant mother and the shrouded man [who was clearly the superior] began to explain to rules of his kingdom, the young pearl was pleased.

The rules all sounded fair, and similar to the laws her own subjects had complied to back at home — though it was truly strange to see the process from the other side. Then the king asked after her skills and trades; a question that any other wolf might have been prepared to answer, but had not crossed Kitsch’s mind until that very moment. “Oh, well, I — uh,” she stammered,  then huffed and knitted her burnt brows together in deep thought. Did playing and running count as a skill? Because up until now, that’s all she ever had to do: live an easy childhood amongst her friends at court. She had close to zero marketable skills, which she knew wouldn’t make Teaghlaigh’s King very happy — but Kitsch didn’t panic. No, Kitsch was much to blasé to panic in the face of such uncertainty. 

Kitsch's light blue gaze fell upon the rounding of the woman’s stomach, smelt the pregnancy hormones on the air, and immediately knew her way in. “I’m good with pups,” she blurted out, lively gaze jumping from Olive’s gentle baby bump to the smoky brute. Surely they would not turn away the extra help. “I used to babysit in my old pack all the time.” The fabrication slipped off her tongue quite easily — in fact, Kitsch convinced herself of it almost immediately. She had never done babysat before, but how hard could it really be? They would never know.

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Kitsch did not verbally agree to the terms and conditions that Arturo expected all members of Teaghlaigh to adhere to but she did not physically balk at them either and for no this was enough. What did appear to stall her was his subtle inquiry of what skills she could offer The Family: which he valued as much as he did their loyalty. Arturo Fearghal had no time and furthermore no patience for wolves that could not contribute anything to The Family and those that were not active participants in the overall scheme of things. Dead weight would find themselves with his teeth at their throat demanding that they seek their asylum elsewhere lest he decide to make the small leap from threat to actually sinking his teeth into the supple flesh of another’s throat. It was always said that he is a dangerous enemy to have and he thinks that perhaps he is also a dangerous man to know. The gangster is not to be taken lightly and his buttons are not to be pushed. Kitsch reclaims his attention as she blurts out that she’s good with pups and he does not fail to notice that her eyes jump to Olive. He supposes that a pupsitter might be good to have but he knows that between him and Lotte the Fearghal pups would be well watched. As for Olive’s children …frankly he didn’t give much of a fuck these days. Dakarai and her and destroyed his trust in them, and as far as he cared to see it their children were little more than bastards conceived without his permission for he felt very inclined to deal with them in the very way he had threatened as Arturo is left with the stinging feeling that they took his generosity, his permission and trust to allow them to breed and said “fuck you” and threw it back in his face as if they had any right to. He seethes with renewed ire — which is mostly all he feels these days — and reigns it back in because he is conducting business and in front of a potential new member is no time to let his discontent and anger show.

“I doubt my wife and Teaghlaigh’s Queen, Lotte — who also is expecting,—” He speaks about his mate with unbridled regard, letting Kitsch know that if she wanted to be a pup sitter she would likely have to pass Lotte’s inspection; whilst also making it clear that he was not speaking of Olive (for he and Olive had yet to give their names to Kitsch). “Will let anyone near our children. You might have to pass her inspection first, but if you’re good with pups I don’t see why you wouldn’t.” Arturo informs her with a simple rise and fall of his broad shoulders. “I am Arturo and this is Olive,” Arturo gestures idly to Olive. “Come,” He commands of Kitsch with a gesture of his muzzle towards the heart of Ravensblood. “I will give you the tour and introduce you to Lotte.” He offers her, though he does not intend to take “no” for an answer.

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skipping Olive and closing up shop :)

Kitsch gleaned from their conversation that there was more than one litter, which only strengthened her position and their need for her surreptitious skills. He spoke sternly and without consideration for the delicate constitutions of the two pale women who joined him. But just as Arturo seemed not to care about either of them, Kitsch also did not truly care even though she feigned interest [quite well] for her own sake.

“I pray that my skills are well enough to pass both her and your tests.” 

and just like that, introductions were made and she was welcomed into the territory. As Kitsch moved her ink-dipped limbs to step over the scented border, she was suddenly struck with the severity of her hunger. Her stomach was lean and tight against the curve of her back. Her bones ached and downy fur was dulled and she was in no state for someone of her stature to be in. Kitsch followed this Arturo [the pale sylph soon vanished amongst the trees soon after their departure] but her mind thought of nothing but food, food, food and she hoped fervently that their caches were well stocked and overflowing with different selections and that she may once again feast as she had when her family ruled.