Blackfeather Woods the story of a ship

timeline's a bit weird, but ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ @Atshen

The storm had struck hard and quick. It had been preceded by many days of tumult and activity; the entire world had seemed abuzz with preparations for the oncoming maelstrom and, on more than one occasion, her and West had stopped to witness the massive fins of the ocean life slicing through the shallows water in a bewildered agitation — yet, unlike the world around them, neither West nor Kitsch had the foresight to head further inland to avoid the worst of the squall.

But once the rains hit Kitsch, once again, proved to be a useless things in the face of such a massive, ancestral force. Like the snows of winter, the rain upon the coast fell heavy and blanketed everything — but instead of concern for freezing and frostbite, the small girl found herself avoiding areas where the saturated earth had flooded and loosened. The girl lost her footing many times, but most of her focus direct was towards the action of seeing through rain, driving hard into her eyes and blurring her vision, to ensure that her guardian did not leave her side — despite this, it did it take Kitsch long to lose West. Kitsch would never be able to say how it happened or why, but one moment the woman was there, and the next moment she wasn’t.  

It was the strangest thing; how often this happened to Kitsch.

Kitsch had attempted to stay in one place, to more easily be found after the rains had subsided, but the girl’s waifish and weak frame had been whipped around and spun by the force of the gales and was spat out down south, deposited in the very same lands where’s Kitsch’s story began. Expulsed from the worst of the storm, the girl allowed herself several hours of crying and moping, grieving at her misfortunes and the happiness that was almost hers.  Her head throbbed and fur was sodden and the girl wished for nothing more than she wished for the poppy, the fleeting happiness that West kept under tight lock and key — but it soon became clear that neither relief nor poppy would be hers if she stayed here, so Kitsch gathered herself and moved south to that lands that knew nothing of the storm that raged on the coast.

It was many days and the girl had begun to hunger; much of her energy had been used to push forth and cover great distances [for her, at least], leaving very little to attempt hunting. PKitsch knew it would be a futile effort and so she did noteven try, so she picked at carcasses left by predators more skills than she and gagged at the putrid taste left by the sun. Her body was so slight in it’s healthy state that any hunger left her looking wasted and bony; and Kitsch watched disconsolately as her collarbones and hips began to appear sunken after even just a few days. Alarmed at this [and not wishing to revisit the famines of the winter], Kitsch scented out the nearest pack’s borders and threw up a howl to the canopy of the darkened forest, not giving much thought to the action. It was as she did at Teaghlaigh and Neverwinter Forest; a request for harborage more than it was a request for family, driven by necessity rather than want of it. That was the way it had to be, and how sad that reality was! Abruptly Kitsch cut off her call and placed her haunches upon the earth with a humpf.

It was then that she noticed the bodies. 

*isnotAtshen* *bargesinanyway*

Atshen was Dark Master now.

Miraak was not sure how to react to that.

Atshen was no leader. He was a soldier, through and through. Put a soldier in charge with no leader to give them orders,
where would they go? What would they do? Miraak knew that he had to command the man as best he could, push him in the right direction. The boy had no brain within him to lead himself, let alone all of the Dark Brotherhood.

How would he be able to lead the knew recruits, like the starving woman before him. He had heard her call, but lingered deep in the shadows of the forest, watching her for her reaction to the bodies of those wolves who had dared trespassed. Some were frightened of them, and those he ran off. But she? He was amused by her and her thin frame. What kind of wolf starved in spring? Was she expecting them to feed her, for no reason at all?

If you are feeling so inclined, these bodies are free for the taking, he quipped, removing himself from the darkness of the forest. A smirk graced his features. The crows and ravens have left them alone for the moment, His head tipped upwards to regard the cawing creatures above in the canopies and in the sky.

His brother was Dark Master. Blackfeather was volatile, shifting. unsteady, and a deep rift split the pack. Eventually, it would all come to a head, and the storm would break, and the woods would likely fall, and some would likely die. It would do him well to be prepared, and choose the winning side. For what sense was loyalty when it got you killed? 

The call distracted him, and he shifted toward the sound, the note of which was distinctly female. The Reaper set quickly onto the trail, moving silently towards the call with the intent to maim whatever might be on the end of the trail, for rarely did one who called here actually have the fortitude to join them. His approach was fluid and menacing, scenting as he neared the scent of Miraak, and that of stranger. 

Abraxas stole near, until the woman came into sight and he abruptly stopped. He shifted to blend more deeply into the shadows, no longer did the thought of tearing into the stranger cross his mind. For she was beautiful, an idea that the boy had never stopped to consider. Beautiful was alien. The desire to not kill or maim stemming from so odd a barrier was alien. he was still, watching the woman, and wondering at the odd observation that had come to him for the first time in his short life. tthings, it seemed, could be beautiful.

Once the girl had settled herself and allowed her periphery to dapple into view, she saw it — all of it. Somehow the macabre scene had, at first, gone unnoticed by the girl in her withdrawn egress. But the smell hit her sensitive nares and her vision darted around the spectral woods, torn every which way, from dismembered limb to skull to the grass, stained red with ancient blood. Bile rose in her slender throat and she backpedaled in immediate disgust, stumbling over her tangled legs but catching herself and continuing to reel until she was many yards away.  It was the first time the oujo had laid witness to a dead body; nonetheless many, and certainly not in such a grisly manner. The spread was fear inducing, as nearly every part of her mind rang out in alarm, shouting danger! danger! danger! until it made her dizzy.

Oh, but she had heard stories of this! Her old wet nurse, on nights where the nascent princess fussed incessantly and refused to sleep, would regale her with tales of great battles against their foes; fields littered with bodies of those who wished them harm. These stories, horrific in the way the old woman told them but disturbing in their own right, had always fascinated the girl. These wolves must truly be powerful! Without intention, the pearl found herself taking small, flighty steps back towards the odorous border and — just as her coal-dusted nose made to press into one of the corpses and feel the bloated flesh against her bare skin — a man appeared.

Kitsch’s head shot up and she whisked away from the cadaver in a birdlike flutter. Once she had flitted far enough away that she might be able to feign revulsion [rather than reluctant interest], the pearl dropped herself into a genteel curtsy — both out of a well practiced sense of politesse and a beseeching sense of self preservation. Perhaps this stranger, the envoy the pack within the woods, had murdered these souls all himself. Perhaps he had liked it. Either way, she needed to play it safe. If wolves who provided far fewer warning signs had done her harm, then there was nothing stopping the specter in front of her. 

The dark stranger did not move to harm her, instead choosing to speak plainly.  It seemed the bodies were for sale. ”Wha—?” she stammered. Her owl-like, watchet gaze peered up at him. ”Really?" she gasped, her beguiled tonality attesting to the fascination of moments prior.  She was less questioning of his words than she was his blasé attitude towards his own blood-soaked borders; it seemed almost as if he was bored with it, his constant exposure making it trite. She was fascinated and within mind she fought a battle between staying and fleeing. Safety was not a certainty in either choice, so she forgot the danger that loomed — in both the man in front of her and invisible boy in the bushes— forgot to introduce herself and forgot to state her raison d’être. Instead, she gave utterance to an airy ”Wow…” as the girl looked around. It was nan’s nightmarish tales, come to life!

He feels a presence somewhere, but could not place it. He figures it is either one of Nemesis' brood or Potema's, a silent child there to watch and observe rather than intervene. He does not mind it — he can handle it on his own, after all. This emaciated woman posed no threat to him, as old as he was. 

Her body, he felt, even in plump, fat summers would be thin and svelte. Some of other men might find her attractive, and while he noted this, he felt no lust to her form, even buried under the dust and dirt from long travel. Miraak watched her body shift away from the carcass and curtsey, curtsey to him, as if he was some great lord or king, more than simply a servant of the Dark Master. He chuckled at the sight, his own private joke, drawing his hind legs underneath him.

He was surprised by the awe on her face, rather than the disgust or fear he expected. His eyebrows raised in surprise, then he continued on. Yes, they are, He smiled faintly, amused by the small white and black creature. Are you willing to take or no?

SPOILER ALERT
this post is weird, I'm not in the best mood to post LMAO

One step at a time, was the safest way to achievement. He knew he had to be patient, silent, awaiting the moment when she, from the shadows, from beyond, sent him a signal. It was always her will, by her were the threads of mortal lives pulled to weave her plans, to weave her desires, and nothing could be done from this side of the veil to make a change.

But Damien's eyes had their own version of the world. Yes, Nemesis still held a title that Damien desired, and yes, he'd been kicked down the ranks to the very bottom, to disgrace, to rejection, but those words were only that, words... Damien had never ceased to act as though he owned the very land on which he walked, the air flowing in and out of his lungs. Damien was the Dark Master of Blackfeather Woods, the true one, the heir of darkness, the spider monarch, and behind him were those who mattered... Everyone else was waste.

Dark-coated ears hear everything, every.single.thing, and Damien does not miss a chance to enforce his self-claimed authority. He appears from behind him, the young one, brushing past him with a low snarl, owning the place. Nemesis' spawn and their throats remain intact only because Damien holds respect for Nyx and Kove, otherwise they would be long gone, or better even, inside-out decorating the very borders at which he stands.

Sure-footed steps are taken out of the shadows. Damien enters the scene as though he'd been personally appointed to it, and his eyes take everything in. Her svelte figure, her peculiar markings, and the object of her attention. Rotten, a body lays before them like a piece in a museum. For a moment Damien gets lost in his imagination, a crimson picture of Atshen's head rotting in it's place, but the others' voices snap him back to reality. If the first thing you see disturbs you then perhaps you've come to the wrong place, he speaks, not even addressing Miraak's presence. Where the old man's loyalties rest still remains unclear, and deep down Damien harnesses strong rancor for not having received his unconditional support. His voice and eyes are devout to the blue-eyed pearl for the moment, and hers is the only voice he wishes to hear formulate a response.

skipping abraxas with permission!

The older man seemed interested, which in turn kept her attention, and Kitsch cut her watchet gaze to give the corpse [now quite a familiar thing] a sidelong glance. It did not repel her, but she did not want it. "Oh," the kitten sighed demurely. "No...." her gaze swept back the man, running her gaze from his graying muzzle to the tip of his onyx tail. He reminded her of Rollo. 

Another brute apparated from the shadows, a wolf who further commanded her attention with his booming words and disregard towards Miraak. In front of these two dark souls, large of frame and imposing in their impression, her hummingbird heartbeat fluttered out of control and her tongue began to salivate curiously — and at that moment the kitten realized just how much she missed the warmth and sublimity of the poppy that West held so dear. It had been her detriment, of course, as her clouded mind had resulted in her many woes; but Kitsch was quick to dismiss the poppy's blame and take that burder upon her own shoulders. She had the chance to turn him away and did not; so did she not ask the man for her ruinment and deserved everything that he gave her? The drug was faultless; in fact, it was the only thing that had saved her from an all-consuming sadness following the attack. The two men before her looked like wolves who may appreciate the opiate as she did and might keep it in their stores. 

Kitsch would be lying if she said this wasn't another reason that kept her twiggy legs in place, amongst the flies and detritus that littered the earth. The possiblilty of fully stocked medicinal caches excited her and it was the thing she craved most; even more so than the want of food in her paper-thin belly.

"It does not disturb me," she defied him incredulously, suggesting that any other princess might be shied away by the potential for harm... all the warning signs were there, after all. But even the pearl was surprised by her relative comfort around such a morbid scene — even her initial surprise had begun to abate and was replaced with many, many, many burning questions. 

It did not occur to her that she still had not revealed her reason for appearing at the macabre outskirts of the bleeding, foreboding land; that she would soon starve if left to her own devices and instincts [or lack thereof]. That she was lonely and craved the validation that only society could provide her with. To the others she must be a youthful, ink-dipped plaything that had stumbled upon their home with no rhyme or reason — but Kitsch neither the ability nor the will to see herself in such a way. She was nobility; albeit besmirched and ruined, but royalty nonetheless. As such, Kitsch gave a distinct nod of her head and furrowed her ashen brows, ears tuned towards the men and awaiting their next move. 

The anticipation was almost as addicting as the poppy.

 

He hums in amusement, a soft chuckle rumbling through his chest. He opens his mouth to speak, but closes his mouth at the sight of his nephew. It had been a while since the older man had seen Damien, but he defers to the young man as soon as he arrives, stepping aside. He is still amused by the little woman, defiant and airheaded in demeanor, but he is no longer in control here. He watches to see how she passes Damien's test.

Not in his range of vision anymore, Miraak chooses to yield to Damien's authority, and while his heart beat and his scent are still there the Dark Master ignores them completely to focus his attention fully on the bold sylph's eyes. Bold because she's aware that she's outnumbered, bold because she knows that she's far from standing at their stature, because her state is deplorable and her life but a poorly-chosen word away from finally extinguishing. She's bold because even though she knows she's a lamb she still flaunts her throat before the wolf's jaws...

You think you're a tough one, don't you? he growls, clearly pissed at the female's disregard for his authority. Two steps are taken forward, one as a warning, stomping the ground at full power, the second a statement that he's not joking. Damien is not a creature of compassion. Nothing does disturb you, is that right? he growls deeper, taking a third step with which he cracks the corpse's skull with barely any effort.

The older brute acquiesced to the other’s sudden, sweeping introduction and moved to the side — but not out of view. Somehow, though Kitsch had only known the greying male for mere moments prior, he already felt familiar and the sight of him, interestingly enough, mitigated the fear Bane so easily instilled in her featherlight bones. It was silly knowing the reality of the situation, but Kitsch was a girl known to latch upon the nearest soul and draw any sort of comfort that she could from them — even if it meant conjuring the emotion with nothing more than her imagination and using it to steel herself against further hurts. 

The shadowed man took a several elephantine steps towards her and quite abruptly the entire zeitgeist of the meeting shifted; where [she believed] there was a small sense of amusement now housed enmity. Her tongue sat useless in her mouth as he spoke of the things that did not disturb her; his commanding force now rendered her aphonic. When a sturdy paw was place upon the skullbones of the carrion and easily snapped the bones, a deep shudder wracked her body and Kitsch tore her watchet gaze away from the man and his victim to stare at the ground at her ashen toes. She, very suddenly, felt as if she were a mouse, staring up at the visage of a monolithic housecat, placed precariously between the rodent and its nesting hole — ultimate salvation just out of reach. safety. normalcy. It was all right there, but somehow life required her to deal with psychopaths to get to it.

“oh…” she gasped softly. The breathless word could, at this point, be her tagline. Oh…

Were these dark woods her ultimate salvation? It was unlikely, she knew, but the immovable fact remained: if she remained alone, she would perish. Then the princess of Saoi Baile would be no better than the corpse at her ashen feet — albeit, she would have died for nothing while they had died for something. What a big something that must had been!

Kitsch still was at a loss for words to address the reigning male’s piercing inquiries, so she remained silent for several drawing seconds. The pearl was generally naive in the way of social cues, but his sarcasm was not lost upon her. Oh, but he didn’t know that she had stared the devil in the face and lived to speak the tale — and, yes, it disturbed her — but she couldn’t tell them that. Couldn’t tell anyone.

Time to change the subject.

“I, uh—” the girl stammered softly, pedaling her front paws against the ground in sudden nervousness. Her ears splayed back, pressing hotly against her skull and the nape of her neck. A blush crept to her cheeks. She could not fuck this up through her typical defiance — having choices was no longer her lot in life. To avoid further maddening the new king and to avoid his biting, sardonic inquiries, she got to the point. “I can’t go back.” she admitted demurely, meeting Damien’s gaze and holding it for just a moment before letting it flit to . It was true, she couldn’t go back. After all, what did she have to go back to? “I—I… I’m not a fighter, though.” Kitsch said this as though it were not obvious from her slight frame and small stature… but then she folded, admitting to the two men things that were not as obvious. “I’m not anything.” Kitsch looked back up to Bane, beseechingly.

“But I can learn… your ways”

Weird post but I wanted to move this along. Miraak's not doing anything but standing there

He wants to mock Damien's brazen display, but in front of a potential member? No. He would not debase himself in such a way. Damien, while of Meldresi's brood, lacks her subtlety, at least here and now. He does not deny that his nephew was clever and swift in his takeover, cementing his lover in the Dark Council with little opposition, but the smashing of a skull was too blunt. There were subtler threats to be made, especially with this little kitten. The entire mood of the encounter had shifted to black comedy to thriller in an instant the moment the Dark Master had arrived.

Despite the quavering fear in her body language, the reluctance and insecurity in her voice, she still stood firm. She offered her services all the while, even if she knew nothing. He looks to Damien, knowing that it was ultimately his decision in the end, but if it were up to him, the girl would stay and be tested.