Greatwater Lake the undertaker's thirst for revenge is unquenchable

@Kitsch. Vague because I don't know the extent of her wounds.

West always found physical pain easier to deal with. It could be masked temporarily in most cases and when it can't, she'd found ways to grin in bear it. In the heights, she'd had an herb supply enough that treating physical pain wasn't often a problem. Unfortunately, she'd left all she couldn't carry behind and kept herself forward. 

Now, she isn't so sure she'd made the right choice. 

Fighting through symptoms of her withdrawal, on top of the physical pain inflicted by the psycho that attacked her, West can barely scrap by to drag her bruised and beaten body away. She doesn't know where she's going, these lands far from familiar, and the caldera simply drifted from her addled mind. Exhaustion begins to creep into the crevices of her body, parts she didn't know could feel pain, parts she didn't even know she had, and she collapses on a hill near the lake. Her legs won't budge another inch, even if she'd found what she'd been looking for. 

A low whine escapes her muzzle and she drops her head. The sound of crunching nearby causes her to look to the side to see a single buffalo standing several hundred yards away. It hasn't noticed her presence (not that she'd be able to do anything) and so West watches the creature, giving her something to distract herself.

Since joining the ranks of Teaghlaigh, Kitsch had filled out quite a bit. Her ribs did not jut out so starkly and her hips regained their girlish roundness and her personality, too, had begun to flesh out once more. The girl was young and her body easily bounced back from destitution — she started eating again and just like that her youthful energy was back! Kitsch was able to run and jump and cavort about as she did before and again she was restless, unable to stay confined to one place. Arturo ran a tight ship but still Kitsch had enough solitude to slip away unnoticed for a few days, which she did often. It was not as much for her love of exploring [of which, she really had none] but instead to mill about and look for clues for her family's whereabouts; any way to get back to her family and domain. The pearl so missed her family and her position and simply refused to give up hope for it.

That’s where the ink-dipped girl was that day: walking along, her charcoal toes each tapping the ground in quick succession as she proceeded onwards in her bouncy gait.  Kitsch walked without fear of the wilderness, for she was no longer dying and the young girl reckoned that nothing bad could ever befall her again; she was Kitsch, after all! 

Kitsch plodded along until the briny scent of blood drifted past her nares. Kitsch’s charcoal-tipped nose lifted to the wind and drank in the scent, following it to a woman laying amongst the grasses. Kitsch could be blasé about just about anything; but physical injury was something the provided and immediate threat and it unsettled the oujo. Kitsch rushed the fallen stranger, suddenly unable to hide her concern and not caring if the neighboring bison stayed or left. Her aquamarine gaze probed the various wounds the mottled stranger sustained. “Oh! Ma’am, are you hurt?” Stupid, Kitsch! Obviously she is! “I mean — you must be in pain. How can I help you?”

For a while, West watches the buffalo. It’s quiet and it doesn’t do much other than keep her mind focused on something else. For a little while, she feels lost and the pain is only a dull throb as a reminder. Her eyes are heavy and if she were to close her eyes for a second, she’d fall asleep but the pain in the back of her mind is enough to keep her in the land of the living. It’s there, calling, teasing.

The buffalo moves but with no real urgency. West blinks a few times to turn her head and watch as it takes a few paces as if to avoid something. Concern fills her and pain distorts her features as she struggles to look for the culprit. The sound of snow crunching causes her head to turn to see a (mostly) white wolf coming in her direction rather quickly. Her ears press against the back of her head and she works to draw in the worst of the damage and protect them—and herself—from whatever is to come.

She’d been caught off guard by someone vicious and ruthless, with no reason or answers for why and she’d barely scraped away. The wilds have offered nothing but pain so far and she wishes for nothing by to return to Windsong and face the consequences that won’t even make a difference when she becomes lost to reality. The stranger’s words barely register in her mind but she swings her head, a low rumble of a growl in warning. There is little West can do to defend herself in that moment but it doesn’t stop her. She’d never gotten far without putting up a fight.

“What do you want?” she croaks out, green eyes narrowed with suspicion.

The pearl had rushed upon the injured woman in the grasses, but still the standoffish reception was entire unexpected. Kitsch had expected to see something of gratitude and hope tangled with the stranger’s features upon her entrance;the messiah had come! So what if she possessed no healing powers whatsoever nor the goodwill to stay by one’s side and see them through nights and nights of fitful recover— Kitsch was there and now all would be saved! Afterall, nothing from her past experience led her to believe anything different.

Kitsch looked upon West with soft indignation. “Um,” the girl stated tersely with a twist of her lips. “Lady,” she continued with a tilt of the head, throwing her baby blue gaze down at the stranger, which then traveled down West’s body and crawled over her wounds once more. Then, her eyes suddenly snapped back to the woman’s own.  “You’re hurt.” Kitsch mentioned again in blatant redundance, speaking slowly. “I’m just trying to help.”

West stares up at the girl, unfolding the information. She doesn’t know what happened, can’t predict it had been a wolf that attacked her, especially if she isn’t looking too closely. Her wounds are substantial and localized from her trying to flee but they do not resemble much more than a cougar at best. A predator, at least, and for all she knows, the girl could have the same ill-intentions.
 
It takes her a moment to unravel her legs and stand, pushing her front end and trying to sit. The snow near her rump is stained red with her hip oozing blood. Her joints are stiff and tired and her shoulder throbs in tune with her pulse.
 
“I was attacked,” she finally growls with the hope it will clear up her confusion or at least explain her position. West remains sunken in her posture, trying to ease some of the weight off her leg so her torn muscles aren’t pulled more than they need to be. The extra stress on the other limb causes it to tremble and it takes everything she has to keep herself upright. She isn’t going to let the girl see any more weakness than she has already and it’s enough to make her stomach churn.

The injured lady attempted to draw herself up into a proper seated position and Kitsch gritted her teeth and she watched the attempt. The snow was stained a sickening shade of pink behind her and Kitsch could literally see inside the woman; was witness to the sinews, blood  and cords that made up her muscles. Though she tried to hide her pain, it was certain that the woman had to experience much of it — the pearl had never seen such a sight before and it was truly grotesque. The sight and smells of the torn woman offended Kitsch’s eyes and ears and delicate constitution and the girl had to steel herself against the urge to retch.  Kitsch averted her gaze, facing West but staring past her. “No, no, please…” She started, sincerely. “Please… don't sit. Lie down.” Kitsch didn't like seeing anyone in pain... that’s why she had guards to do her bidding: so she would never have to see the consequences of her own actions. They were the ones who faced situations like this, not she. 

Of course, Kitsch had not caused West’s wounds… but the experience was new all the same. “Was it… a punishment?” the ink-dipped girl spoke softly, as if West was a fugitive and someone around them would hear. After all, that was all the pain she had ever known or had ever given: punishment at the hands of one’s superiors.

It’s the first time she really gets to look the girl over and she’s objecting to her movements. Her lip curls to flash her teeth should she try to get any closer to help. The last thing she wants is to be touched. The wounds need to be cleaned and a salve applied to prevent infection but the cold wind has been working to numb it and slow down any bacteria. The psychotic wolf that had attacked her had to have something and she realizes the information hasn’t even crossed her mind.
 
A defeated sigh escapes her lips after a moment as she’s further questioned and West shakes her head. She bites her tongue on the words that nearly spill out. She’s already said what happened without the details, what would lead it to a punishment? As much as she wants, she doesn’t question it, brushing it off as naivety. Before she gets a chance to respond, her leg gives up beneath her and she hits the ground again with a pained groan. West sinks into the snow and closes her eyes as acid collects in her mouth to form the words: “Do you know anything about plants?”

Her question elicited a curt shake of the head from the woman, but nothing more. Kitsch’s eyebrows knitted together in consternation, as her question was completely valid! If the perfect pearl were abetting in a crime, didn’t she had a right to know? Kitsch did not love to follow rules — nay, that had something that had been required of her and was non negotiable part of her aristocratic blood. In her youth, Kitsch had rebelled against the advisors and censors that cajoled her on the straight and narrow, and such a desire never fully went away.  Even if this was the product of a crime… It would not drive Kitsch away. Now that she was unguarded and free, she could break the rules if any way she desired. 

Kitsch’s mind was torn from her unanswered question by the stranger crashed to the permafrost with a thud — Kitsch’s face fell and she moved to rush forward, but she stalled in the middle of her movement and instead tapped the ground anxiously with her tiny paws. It was clear upon West’s features that she did not wish her company to come any closer, and here Kitsch felt truly helpless. It was this reason that the girl was contented when West took the reins and directed their interaction — Kitsch never seemed to do well when left to her own devices. Kitsch twisted her lips at she thought of the proper way to respond. 

“Kinda,” Kitsch said, distracted by her thoughts. Kitsch had many different tutors and governesses, all teaching her on various subjects and ensuring she would be educated enough to one day lead their pack. But like any child, she abhorred school and instead preferred to waste time and eternally vexing her sitters with youthful antics. She could visualize her naturalist tutor, but Kitsch had not spent the time memorizing his words. When will I ever need to know this stuff? Kitsch questioned and she now knew the answer to be: this moment!

Kitsch quickly rooted around for an answer. “I, um, I started to learn…” and hoping to take the attention away from her ignorance, Kitsch squinted her eyes and learned closer in a feigned attempt to diagnose and treat her wounds.  “Looks like you need, uh…” Kitsch glanced towards West, grimaced at her nearness to the wounds … and quickly yielded, visibly slackening she shoulders in a dramatic sigh. 

“Okay, okay… I never learned did learn much.”

Kinda.
 
West heaves a breath of relief, waiting for what is to come. Her eyes close and she’s able to relax. She can at least get something started until she can get home and have a little help. Raven knows plenty and may even have a cache of plants somewhere she hasn’t yet found.
 
I, um, I started to learn…
 
Her chest feels heavy suddenly and she turns in the snow, peering up at the girl that isn’t looking at her. There isn’t an ounce of confidence in her voice and West’s head rises off the ground. She doesn’t make a sound yet, waiting to see what’s coming out of her mouth next.
 
The woman closes her eyes as the other continues to ramble and waste their time and, ultimately, actually confess. She sighs heavily and shifts her posture, trying to formulate the proper words before she blurts them out. If she could, she might have lashed out at her pretty face but she’s had enough practice through the years to not let the waste get the better of her. Pushing it all away, she groans with frustration.
 
“I don’t know this area well, I’m not from here. And the snow doesn’t help,” she explains, uncertain how much help she’s going to get after all. “There’s a few things that help with the pain. The inner bark from willow trees and it takes some work to get to. Valerian and it’s root—small, white flowers in bunches and it doesn’t have a pleasant smell,” she pauses, biting the inside of her cheek a moment and rolling over one thing before she gives in. “There’s a poppy—it won’t have bloomed by now but the stem is tall and there’s a seed pod. It doesn’t really smell like anything,” she says, her mouth dry and her heart beat speeds up and surprises her. If the girl can’t find any of those, she can give her another list but she waits to see if she’s up for the challenge.

Thankfully the woman upon the ground did not get angry with her; but then again, no one ever did. So Kitsch stayed silent, listening and nodding her head as she was instructed on the different characteristics of three different plants, all meant to deal with pain. Pursing her lips, the young woman did her best to store the small bits of information in her brain, for it seemed the responsibility locating such items had fallen upon her pale shoulders. Kitsch had no real desire to go retrieve all these things [especially not the plant which west claimed was difficult to harvest], but Kitsch had offered her help so she guessed she had to do it now. Fine. Whatever.

Most of the plants were unfamiliar to Kitsch, all except one: poppy, though the drug was familiar to her by name only. Sometimes her mother would ingest some when the pressures of ruling became too much for her. The substance had always been kept far from Kitsch, though, so she knew nothing about it except how the word sounded when spoken by her mother's tongue. The fact that Kitsch recognized even a fraction of the plants bloated her ego and Kitsch was suddenly certain she would not fail in the task. With a silent yet distinctive nod, Kitsch began to saunter away from West, towards a thicket of trees — but then a question bubbled up, giving the girl pause. Kitsch threw her sculpted maw over she shoulder, shouting back to the woman in the snow.

“Where do they all grow? Any specific places I should look?”

There’s a rush of relief—albeit temporary—when the girl takes to the job and absorbs the information. She doesn’t see the change of emotion through her face but the girl doesn’t know anything outside of what she said so she’s very likely to return emptyhanded. She considers briefly telling her the other plants to look for more options but she doesn’t want to overload or confuse her and she brings back the wrong thing. If anything, she can pick up on her surroundings and if she does return, she may have seen something else.
 
“Willow and valerian like to be near water,” she says and since they already have the lake nearby and neither of which she’s seen yet (no matter that she doesn’t realize valerian likely isn’t bloomed here in the cold), she doesn’t have high hopes she’ll locate it anywhere else. “And poppies don’t like shade, so a field is most likely.” West clenches her jaw and slowly lowers her head back down to try and keep from moving her battered body.

West shared the information Kitsch needed so Kitsch pranced away, her movements fueled with the urgency of West’s expectations. The small girl moved closer to the buffalo as it snuffed around in the snow; the beast was unperturbed by her nearness and continued to razor away at the soft spring shoots that poked through the ice. Kitsch lifted her lip towards the lumbering creatures in mock fierceness as she passed by; as the young girl was convinced she blended in quick well with her blanched milieu quite well and looked nothing like more than several bouncing inky dots in the last of the winter’s snows. The buffalo probably didn’t even notice her presence in the slightest.

Kitsch’s trajectory jutted towards the grand lake adjacent to them — it was a far walk and Kitsch soon found herself quite bored with the task, so she entertained herself by repeating a mantra of “Small, white flowers, near water. Tall, seed pod, likes fields” under her sweet breath. It would do no good if she forgot her instructions so soon after being told, now would it? Eventually Kitsch made it to the water’s edge and she stopped to survey her surroundings. Kitsch’s lively aquamarine gaze bounced from rock to grass to water but could not locate the small white flowers. She walked along the waterline, unsure exactly what she was looking for but looking intently all the same. Tthe youthful girl maintained a healthy love of flowers so she kept at her task for some time, eventually coming across a small vine with buttery yellow flowers. She decided these were good enough and plucked them gingerly with her lips. Carrying the blooms in her mouth, Kitsch made to leave the lake -- Kitsch had made the decision long ago not to even bother trying to find and extract the inner bark from a willow tree, though the was one sweeping against the lake’s northern bank. Certain that the bark would not be missed, the girl turned on her ink-dipped heel and headed towards a small field that was barren of trees and thick underbrush.

But there was less here to see than there was at the water’s edge. The winter had been a long and hard season, leaving most plants dead and dying in its wake. The snow was no longer soft and new, but compact and icy from a constant cycle of thaw and freeze, thaw and freeze, thaw and freeze. Kitsch lowered her charcoal nose to the ground but the permafrost had stifled any and all scents, so Kitsch deigned to brush aside the snow with her paws to glimpse at what lay underneat. Most of what she found was nothing more than dead and brown grasses, but eventually she came across the most interesting of flowers. It did not have petals, but the stem was long and it was tipped with a bulbous head [wow nsfw]. This particular plant’s stem was battered and beaten by frostbite so it played against the ground; but it’s leaves and seed pod remained in tact. There were several other similar stems laying in the proximity, so Kitsch pulled three from the ground and clamored back to where West lay.

“Is this what you wanted?” she inquired, despositing the buttered flowers and long stems in front of the stranger’s face.

West watches the girl leave, ultimately lowering herself back down to the ground. Her head rests between her paws and she turns to that one wound is against the snow. It melts quickly but it helps to numb the area enough to reduce some of the throbbing. Kitsch is successful in finding something, anything, she can worry about the inflammation and infection later. There’s no telling what’s growing in the mouth of the crazy woman.
 
In her absence, West feels herself drift off into a light slumber. She doesn’t know where the girl had gone off to but she struggles to keep herself away without someone there. Regardless of her vulnerability, she allows herself to fall asleep until the girl returns.
 
She is startled by the voice, her body jerking to attention as she wakes and a grimace crosses her face. It takes a few seconds but she shakes her head and looks to the ground, seeing the pale yellow flowers. She blinks a few times and glances up, but from the corner of her eyes she sees the poppy on the ground next to it. Without a bloom, it had gone unnoticed at first, and she feels her heart begin to race. It has been so long since she’d taken the opiate, the withdrawal symptoms mostly over but the need remains deeply rooted.
 
“Yes,” she all she can say as she reaches forward and devours one of the poppies in a matter of seconds. It takes effort not to eat the others but she does pull them close, disregarding the others she had brought with her.

Kitsch had done something right and the pearl tried hard to swallow her beaming pride. The girl liked to do the right things, liked to be praised. West did not offer any praise per se, but that was alright because Kitsch was quite busy praising herself. But of course she picked the right plants — she was Kitsch, a renaissance woman, capable of doing any task… ever. Kitsch did have an ego too big for her body, but the girl was entirely unaware of it and actually believed herself to be quite modest. There were just… so few times that she was subject to other’s judgements [rather than their unquestioning adoration] that there was no reason for her not to believe it. Having been fed a lie all her life, she was now blind to anything else.

    She was a crucible, brewing and folding tempestuous emotions within her chest — but her walls were opaque and thick, so that none of her inner turbulence evinced itself upon her exterior. Even in this bout of egotism, Kitsch’s lovely face was writ with…. impassivity. She watched as West inhaled a share of the spoils and Kitsch’s aquamarine gaze watched with a hint of detachment.  Kitsch did care for the woman’s pain management [it was obvious through the burnt girl’s tizzy of an entrance] but she would do her best to hide that beside a blasé facade — lest she become attached, and eventually hurt. again.

“I’m Kitsch,” she said finally, introducing herself simply, easily. “So, are you good now?” she questioned in typical Kitsch matter, though her question hinted at a concern for West’s wounds. Sure, her pain would be taken care of… but would the injured woman be able to make her way home? “I mean, those looks pretty bad.” Kitsch didn’t really know if the wounds were grievous in any sort of way, but to Kitsch, any blood meant something bad.

West enjoys the silence for a few minutes. The seeds have not taken hold but just knowing they are there, that they will soon work, is enough to settle her nerves for a few minutes. It’s coming. It’s been too long. It repeats over and over again like a mantra that is disturbed when the girl introduces herself. The name washes over her as she feels the slight haze in the back of her mind. Slowly, her eyes open, and she sees the girl still standing there, speaking of her wounds.

“I will be,” she says, steadying her voice so she does not slur her words. It has been weeks since she’d felt like this and can feel her body relax, warmth at the edges of her mind. “They don’t hurt that much anymore,” she adds. She doesn’t try to get the girl to help any more than she has, already having struggled with the information before. Now, lost somewhere in her mind, she just needs to focus on getting home. Her eyes droop down to the remaining plants at her feet, staring at them for a moment too long. “I’m West,” she finally introduces, lowering her head and picking up one of the remaining poppies and tossing it in her general direction and keeping the other for herself. “Keep that just in case.”

Oh, how loathe she is to part with the gem.

The strange, injured woman remain in repose for several moments for responding and each second of silence hangs on Kitsch’s thin coat like a cocklebur — but eventually West responds to her inquiry, opening her eyelids to reveal gems swirled like malachite; they look glossy, yet mollified and for that, Kitsch is thankful. The pearl had not been touched by any infliction other than famine [the pain of which she figured did not hold a candle to the wounds West sustained] and was deeply uncomfortable in the presence of such. But as West’s pain abated, so did Kitsch’s discomfort and the young girl loosened the cinching between her shoulder. She had assisted this poor women and now the pain was gone… such a direct cause and effect pleased her. 

One of the poppies was pushed towards Kitsch in what was altogether a pretty nice gesture. The girl lowered her obsidian-tipped crown to inspect it further, for her blitz from earlier did not leave much time for inspection and scrutiny. The pod was leathery and smelled distinctly earthy… and to Kitsch, seemed to be nothing but an ugly, tumorous, petal-less flower. Nothing special, eh? But Kitsch stole a quick glance at West reminded her that there definitely was something special about this ugly flower, and it would likely be useful later. With an inky paw, the girl slid the withered flower behind her haunches, hidden underneath the feathering of her tail so it would not be forgotten.  “Thanks,” she said simply. Okay, so West was going to be alright. But how was she going to get home? Where was home? Did West need Kitsch’s help with her return voyage? All of these questions simmered in Kitsch’s brain and boiled down to two questions: “Wh- Where are you headed? Can you get there?”

For a moment, West thinks the girl will be quiet. She’s able to close her eyes and feel something other than pain. If she sat there long enough, and quiet enough, she’d fall asleep sitting up. Her eyelids are heavy up until the other’s voice pierces through her subconscious. West winces and shakes her head, looking to find the girl’s face so that she can answer. She purses her lips together and takes a deep breath to steady herself.

“It isn’t far,” she assures, though she isn’t sure. She just knows she doesn’t need the girl tagging along all the way home. “I’d just run to get away from the one that attacked me, I can go home fine now,” she further explains. The pain in her shoulder and flank are gone, even if the wounds are just as bad, but she’ll be able to pick herself up in no time and work on her way home. With all the energy she has, she slowly picks herself up on unsteady feet. They tremble beneath her but she’s able to hold her own and keep standing. When the girl has nothing else to say, she takes her own prize and begins the trek the way she'd come. Eventually she'd have to stop and rest but it was a start and she didn't have to feel the pain the whole way home.