Wheeling Gull Isle i am clawing at porcelain

a wild naturalist thread appears! :0

A satisfied breath expels itself from Witchdoctor’s lips as he studies his morbid collection: skulls and spines of small rodents, a collection of smaller, ritualistic bones in a small bird nest he’d snatched off the ground after dumping the eggs out after the nest had presumably fallen from a tree. The fate or lack thereof of birds was hardly his concern and certainly not his problem. He scoops the large fan leaf acting as a package around the lavender hyssop he’s collected from the mainland — taking advantage of what’s left of the sandbar — into his mouth and walks three steps before he deposits it in the empty poison cache. A giddy sense of excitement fills him as he tucks the leaf packaged flowers into the hole in the earth he’d meticulously dug and then works to re-cover it. Though in small doses it can soothe coughs and be used as an antiseptic he has gathered it for the the epileptic reactions it can induce if taken in large doses. The Witchdoctor is careful to mark the toxic cache: with a squirrel’s skull not yet picked entirely clean: bits of flesh and fur hangs from it in places. It will work nicer as a marker for the children because while it’s toxic to adults it can cause children to have seizures and convulsions.

If there is anything of him in the older children and the newborns ( when they got old enough to venture out of the den ) then they’d be smart enough to understand the warning …or better yet leave his medicinal/poison caches alone. Period. They are his and if they want to play with flowers there are plenty of harmless wildflowers for them to frolic in and munch upon; and if that wasn’t good enough than the little beasts had what was coming to them { enter assholish, supercilious shrug here }. Witchdoctor might not be able to avoid being a father to them but there was never any promise that he’d be a good father.

The voices in his head were quieted, muted, tempered by the Isle; though if he listened close enough he can hear faint whispers. He doesn’t listen. Instead, he studies his little decoration/warning and picks it up betwixt his lips before moving it to the left an inch before he takes a step back and bows his head low to study it, ensuring that it sets just right over the earth stamped down by his paws.

Tapat was clearly lost without Hemlock. He was often shadowing her or trying to help her. Now she would stay in her den all the time which meant that the boy had to turn to his own devices. He had a tough time adjusting to the new territory. He kept on having panic attacks, thinking he was lost and without anyone he knew. The only good thing was that he was living on an island now. He couldn't really go away from these new lands.

He was doing better after a few days. Lots of repetition helped. He knew the lands around Hemlock's den and often tracked the scents he did know. However, he had roamed too far, or so he thought. Another wave of panic went over him. He let out a squeak and started to run blindly until he found a scent he knew. He rushed to it. Soon he saw Arturo. His alpha!!! He let out a squeak in excitement and relief. He had forgotten how this man wasn't really his leader anymore or that he snapped at him while leaving their territory.

"Arturo!!," he let out and almost crashed into him. As usual, the submissive boy showered him with licks under his chin to greet him. His tail wagging quickly. He was glad he found someone he knew. He didn't pay attention to what the other was doing or if he was disrupting something. He snuggled against his chest because he was just so relieved that he found someone he knew.

Oh boy will he be in trouble xD Feel free to continue with your trade btw <3 Tapat will ask many questions :D

Arturo! Arturo!!? There is no time for Witchdoctor to react, confused by the rush of pallid fur in his direction and the screaming of the voices in his head. He is horribly disoriented and the pallid young adult that rushes at him stops just short of crashing into him. There is no time for relief because the boy begins to cover his chin with licks and then snuggles into his chest. Witchdoctor freezes, every muscles in his svelte body pulling taunt as he takes a deep breath. And then another. And a third. Get off! Get off! Get off!!!! The voices scream like banshee’s in his head and his ears pin flat against the strong curve of his skull as he tries very hard not to tear a chunk out of the youth for touching him without permission. For calling him Arturo.

It comes back to him as he slides out of the boy’s embrace, putting space between them because he feels grossly suffocated having someone invade his personal space so enthusiastically. Fierce gaze of twin burning suns studies the pallid boy and recognition slides home. Him. The whiny boy. Just my luck. Witchdoctor mentally sighs. “Arturo is dead.” Witchdoctor deadpanned. There, he said it. Spoke it out loud. Validated it. It felt …well not exactly liberating ( because Witchdoctor was not, in any shape or form, pretending to be the gangster ) but it was good to finally hear the words leave his lips. “I’m Witchdoctor. Got that? Witchdoctor.” He repeats for good measure, still ignorant of Tapat’s memory condition and that he would forget soon enough.

Tapat was confused when Arturo didn't respond well to his greeting. The boy was confused as he had been very respectful. Perhaps too close for comfort but they were packmates! Tapat lowered himself to the ground when the other looked mad. His ears flopped back in submission. The worst of it was how the male said Arturo was dead. It confused the poor boy even more. Because he finally recognized Arturo by visual and scent. Now he was someone else?

"But.. But.. You smell like him! Look like him!," Tapat whined and looked upset. The last thing he wanted was doing something wrong. He hated that. He wanted to help and be good! He battered his puppy eyes up at the male. "Oh so a different name then? I don't know if I will remember," he admitted and looked away shamefully. Arturo was definitely different than before. He would have to stay clear from him. Hopefully, he would remember.

Witchdoctor watches as the boy lowers himself to the ground and his ears lay flat in submission. Witchdoctor lets out an exasperated sigh, his weight shifting. Evidently, the poor boy was horribly confused — it was written all over his face — and Witchdoctor lacks the patience to explain it and wonders if he does, somehow, find the patience he needs if the boy would even remember. He suspects there is something wrong because the boy had forgotten his very strict orders about not whining about whats-his-name not being able to find them on the trip here. There’s a part of the doctor that wonders if he can possibly give the boy some kind of medicine to help with that. Not because he’s good and wants to do it out of the kindness of his heart but because he doesn’t want to keep explaining everything for the rest of his life. In all honestly, the only reason why Witchdoctor didn’t try to lose the boy by now is because Hemlock appears to have affection for the forgetful youth.

“Yes, well, that’s unfortunate.” Witchdoctor grumbles as it’s pointed out to him that he looks like the deceased gangster. Alas, there wasn’t anything to be done about that. He was stuck in his body, trapped in these bones. It was his body now. “Not just a different name. A different …everything. I am not Arturo. I will never be Arturo. Not just in name but in personality. In interests.” He explains with a slight grind of his teeth. There is nothing like being compared to your inferior edition. There was nothing good, nothing great about the gangster. He was dull and his death is a breath of fresh air, as far as Witchdoctor is concerned.

Tapat kept himself against the ground, unsure if he should move or not. He kept his eyes on the other to read his body language. At least that was something he could understand. Tapat was so confused because this Witchdoctor traveled with them. Tapat was certain of it because he practiced everyone's names and scents until he remembered. But now this wolf was telling him that he wasn't Arturo?

Tapat blinked at the man spoke. He seemed really confused. The words he was speaking weren't really connecting in his brain. A different personality? Tapat just stared at him in confusion. His feat slowly ebbing away as he was forgetting the previous outburst. "Um... Okay," he spoke hesitantly. "Can I help?," he asked then. He liked helping and perhaps that would make the other like him more.

“C’mon. Stand up, stand up,” Witchdoctor encourages in a tone that is more snappish than it is encouraging, truth be told. “I’m no leader, boy.” What was his name again? Surely Hemlock had spoken it at some point …Tee? Tap …something. He was rubbish with names. He couldn’t even remember the names of the gangster’s spawn …his older children with that Lotte woman, after all; and really he would need to make an effort to remember their names because he doubted calling them Thing One and Thing Two was going to go over well. It’s comical to him but it occurs to him that it might be insulting to them. Immediately follows the question: does he care? That’s a bit iffy. He feels like somewhere inside him he should. They are his kids after all, at the very least in the most basic biological sense ( although he gets an unorthodox sense of welling pride as he considers that the angry boy [ Ceallach ] may be more of his than the deceased Arturo’s; to think that his influence was always there. And it was. Simply dormant ).

Help. The pallid boy — he should really learn his name, Witchdoctor thinks — wishes to know if he can help. For a moment, Witchdoctor’s muscles tense and then he lets out a barking laugh. “Oh, sweet child,” Witchdoctor coos the words in a condescending manner. “There is nothing and no one that can help me now.” Though Undersea quiets them to a near mute the voices snicker and sneer lowly in his mind. Even if there was …apart from the voices what does Witchdoctor want to be cured of? Nothing. Being unhinged, a madman is just too much fun. Liberating. Catching onto the idea that Tapat will likely forget that in a few seconds Witchdoctor sizes the boy up, inhaling deeply and letting it out. “You want to help?” Witchdoctor inquires figuring he better snag the offer while the pallid boy possibly still remembers. He snatches the pile of slippery seaweed from his horde den and plops it at the pallid boy’s feet unceremoniously. “Don’t fret it’s just seaweed.” In case the boy thinks he’s trying to poison him or something. Witchdoctor takes much better care of his poisons than to carelessly let them lying around, after all. Not because he necessarily regards anyone’s life but his own but because he is a meticulous toxicologist and botanist and he makes the effort of organizing and preserving the best way he can.

“If you want to help, you can assist me in untangling this seaweed and laying it flat to dry in the sun.” It tastes better after the sun’s dried it to a crisp, not-slimy state, in Witchdoctor’s opinion.

Tapat mind was reeling. Artu---Doctor wasn't a leader? But he was their leader? Tapat let out a soft whine in confusion. His mind was spinning. The man urged him to stand up, snapped at him, really. So Tapat pushed himself to his feet but his head was carried low and his tail was between his legs. In these moments he really missed Hemlock. His bond with her was growing so strongly that he was capable of missing a wolf.

He stood before the other with his still submissive/fearful stance. His murky yellow eyes battered away. His ears perked up at the endearment. Had he done something right? Tapat battered his eyes up but cast them away when the other told him nothing could help him. It wasn't really what the boy meant by helping him. He kind of meant like a task. The male seemed to catch on though because the follow-up question was if he wanted to help.

Tapat nodded instantly. "Y-yes!," he spoke and then jumped back when the male plopped a pile of something before him. It had a weird scent. Tapat sniffed it. The Doctor told him that it was seaweed. He used to help Hemlock with plants. The teenager nodded that he would do it. He grabbed one piece gently and tried to untangle the mess. It didn't go well at first but after he got one untangled and laid out in the sun, the others followed. Tapat liked to think he did well as he placed the last one out on the sand. He trotted back to Arturo. After his task, he had forgotten Arturo was dead. He was back to his happy self. "I did it! I did it!," he spoke happily.

Tapat: Life of Witchdocter's slave XD Love it.

lolol. tapat is a treasure. ♥

At the display of submission that Tapat offers him: head hung low and tail betwixt his legs Witchdoctor lets out a low, unconcealed huff of exasperation and rolls his eyes, wondering if it were possible that they could roll out of his head. He was fairly certain he’d been fairly clear: he wasn’t a leader. It’s not that Witchdoctor overly minds the submission itself: he rather likes that it conforms to his ideals of superiority in himself. Rather, he does not want to be a leader and besides Undersea already has a leader. Or leaders. It’s not entirely all that clear on who’s actually in charge of this Isle and frankly doesn’t give a damn. As long as he’s left alone to do his own thing his newborn children could be crowned the alpha pair and it would be met with the same matter of indifference by the Witchdoctor. He does not crave control as his gangster counterpart had and it’s extremely liberating: not having a fuck to give.

Witchdoctor cataloged that Tapat responded the best to having been given a task. Witchdoctor had, initially, intended to help but Tapat had already gotten started and the madman didn’t wish to interrupt the pallid boy’s concentration, thus the doctor reclined back upon his haunches and was content to oversee the work from his throne chosen spot. Evidently, completing the task made the boy jovial again because he was peppy and happy as he declared that he did it. Witchdoctor might have admired that resilience if he hadn’t suspected it had something to do with a forgetful memory. “Yes, yes, admirable work boyo.” Because Witchdoctor still couldn’t remember his name and figured that if he didn’t make an attempt to learn it that it might become very exhausting to specify which ‘boy’ and ‘girl’ he means besides saying ‘Not-Arturo’s’ though that was how he classified Ceallach, Eirlys, Seri and Tapat in his mind. “What was your name again?” Witchdoctor inquires, gaze lingering upon the younger male.

I know. He is so wonderful, haha. Love him so much <3

Tapat let out a happy whine in glee when the other said he did well. His tail wagged along with his front paws moving in excitement. It was almost like a happy puppy. Basically, the boy was still a puppy. The pallid boy had forgotten about the whole ordeal from before. He didn't think that Arturo was dead, but when he looked at the other and thought 'Arturo' somewhere in his brain it said it was wrong. Tapat decided to disregard it as he did a good job and he was extremely happy about it.

The boy was asked what he was named. Surely, Arturo knew his name? Wait, no. Not Arturo? He blinked at the other for a second when he realized that the other must have forgotten like him! So he would help him remember like the others would help him remember. "I'm Tapat!," he spoke enthusiastically. His head carried a bit higher now he had done something right. "Why are the plants like that in the sun? Can we eat it?"

Tapat. Tapat. Tapat. Witchdoctor repeats the name over and over to himself in his head, occasionally speaking it aloud under his breath. Easy! It was an easy name; and if the boy wanted to be of service well… the Witchdoctor wasn’t going to turn him away. Not when it’s free, enthusiastic labor. It doesn’t occur to him that Hemlock might flay him alive if she ever found out he intended to take advantage of the sweet boy but Witchdoctor is the villain, after all and he should play his role accordingly. “It’s drying. Seaweed’s easier to eat when it’s not sopping wet.” Witchdoctor explains with a renewed sense of patience. He seems to have much more patience with things when it pertains to his interests obsessions. “Seaweed’s fairly nutritious though it does not supplement a carnivore diet. It’s a bit of a treat, I think. A snack, you might say. Healthy to eat every once and a while.” He enjoys it but then again he had a bit of that obsession with the sea for a while in the hopes of impressing Skellige. As he was no longer in the Teekons ( as far as Witchdoctor had cared to look, anyway ) he’s moved on from those things. After all, not even Witchdoctor was the same as he was upon his initial debut.

Tapat was curious enough to ask a lot of questions. It seemed that the male was not more eager to answer his questions. Tapat nodded and quirked up his lips. "Oh Okay," he spoke and then looked from the seaweed to the male. He explained some more. When to eat it. It was just a snack. Tapat let out a soft nod. He knew Hemlock was a healer. Was this guy a healer too?

"Can it heal anything? Hemlock is a healer! I help carry her plants! Sometimes she explains what they do, but often I forget," he chatted. He knew he was forgetful, that he had a condition. His short term memory wasn't working well, but once he did remember something he didn't forget it quickly.

“Seaweed can be used as an anti-inflammatory, can help the blood circulation and immune system.” Witchdoctor explains to Tapat, measuredly patient. His annoyance has passed and the pallid boy is safe from the flighty, unpredictable ire of Mr. Hyde the witch, for the moment. Talking about his interests ( or himself in general ) is a quick way to divert and calm him. Tapat mentions Hemlock and Witchdoctor lets out a low, rumbling hum in his throat. He enjoys speaking of her as well though they still stand upon a shaky and uncertain precipice. The doctor breaks himself out of his momentarily wandering thoughts as Tapat’s words “I often forget” send up red flag signals in his brain. Well, that was troubling. Not because Hemlock would likely ever give the boy anything poisonous to carry for her but because Witchdoctor did have a small poison collection; and as nonchalant as he’d been about kids snooping where they didn’t belong the consideration that Hemlock might hate him if she found out that his “toxic garden” had caused the death of not just one of their spawn but one of the wolves that had traveled with them was enough to cause him to cringe. The skull is a fairly big no-no sign but he thinks he might accent it with blood or a rotting corpse, just in case; though both will require regular upkeep and maintenance. “Do you remember how long you’d been in Tea-bag? Tea-la? Tea…hag?” Witchdoctor lets out an exasperated noise deep in his throat. “Whatever the hell it was called?” He dismisses his poor attempts at pronouncing Teaghlaigh without care. It didn’t matter anymore. It’d flopped like everything the gangster tried to do because clearly he was inferior. The voices giggled in his head and a Machiavellian smirk tugs at the corners of the Witchdoctor’s lips, letting the sweetened approval and agreement of the voices in his head build his ego.

Tapat sat down and listened. He would forget about it anyhow, but he liked that someone was talking to him and spending time with him. Tapat had always been curious enough to ask about things, he just had the problem of not remembering it. The young wolf would always have problems with his short-term memory. Luckily his long-term memory still worked. The male asked him something but Tapat was confused for a moment. "Teabag? What?," he frowned. He wasn't sure what the other meant.

The pale youngster kept his curious eyes on the other. This time however his mind helped him. "Teaghlaigh?," he asked. It was repeated so much to him, as they were a family, that he remembered it. But by now he forgot the question the other asked him. He stared a bit blankly at the other. "What about it?," he asked curiously.

this seems like a good place to wrap this up! feel free to reply once more or archive as is. :-)

Tapat capitalized upon the Witchdoctor’s struggle to remember and further pronounce Teaghlaigh which pricked at the greying coywolf’s annoyance, in which the Witchdoctor’s patience had begun to grow incredibly thin as he’s corrected and then asked ‘what about it’. It’s truly not the pale boy’s fault but Witchdoctor cannot stand repeating himself. If it’s something he truly wants to know he could always ask Hemlock, or one of the gangster’s spawn. “Nevermind. Go. Run along and see if Hemlock needs anything.” Witchdoctor says with the intent of shooing the boy away. The Witchdoctor’s kindness ( if one could even dare call it that ) has been spent for the day and now he wants to be alone to collect more treasures for his collection while his seaweed dries.

Yes I agree!

Tapat never gotten his answer why the other asked about his previous pack. However, the boy wouldn't be too worried. He would forget about it anyhow. He then got the assignment that he should check if Hemlock needed anything. He nodded eagerly. "Ok!," he spoke and then dashed off to find Hemlock's den. It was going to take him longer as he was not used to the territory yet.