@Lucy ♥
Though he believed himself fully recovered from the fever dreams of walking trees and stone birds, the wolf found himself overwrought by a need he was incapable of understanding. He had no way of knowing what had truly transpired: that he’d been drugged, slowly and deliberately, until finally his body developed a dependency to the herb and the woman who offered it. He misconstrued it, falling neatly into the trap that had been so carefully laid, and believed firmly that he needed Her — but when he tried to remember Her, he saw Easy’s face, knowing all the while that it wasn’t right. She wasn’t right. She wasn’t the blue-eyed girl.
Words came more clumsily to his tongue. The long months alone had already taken their toll, and compiled with the hunger and the knitting ribs and the longing and the hurt — sometimes the ache went deeper than his flesh, burrowing into his bones and the roots of his teeth — and sometimes the pounding of his head was violent enough to make his eyes water — and all too often it bent him double and folded him up, small and insignificant. Always he was hungry, but most days he was too sick to keep down what he managed to forage and scavenge. Always he was desperately lonely, and sometimes, on the really bad days, the eyes were jade or turquoise or gold and She became He — but the only name he knew was Easy.
He hated her sometimes, that girl who was never the girl.
He leaned forward, standing at the deceptively innocent creek’s edge, and as his lips touched the water a shiver ran through him and he recoiled violently —
this place —
this place!
He whipped around, his baleful brimstone eyes faraway, pupils swallowed up by a tidal wave of sickly yellow. Now he remembered — this creek — he’d stopped here on his way back from…well, somewhere — a push from behind and he’d been swept away by the vicious current. At least, he thought it was this river. Utterly turned around, his ears and eyes strained toward the west — but the nearest mountain also bore a sense of deep-seated wrongness.
Thoroughly agitated, the wolf curled in on himself to lay down, turning his head away from the river to lap at a dirty puddle of thawing snow. He couldn’t trust his own memories, but he still couldn’t bring himself to drink from the river and risk turning his back.
Not even when he was alone.
Words came more clumsily to his tongue. The long months alone had already taken their toll, and compiled with the hunger and the knitting ribs and the longing and the hurt — sometimes the ache went deeper than his flesh, burrowing into his bones and the roots of his teeth — and sometimes the pounding of his head was violent enough to make his eyes water — and all too often it bent him double and folded him up, small and insignificant. Always he was hungry, but most days he was too sick to keep down what he managed to forage and scavenge. Always he was desperately lonely, and sometimes, on the really bad days, the eyes were jade or turquoise or gold and She became He — but the only name he knew was Easy.
He hated her sometimes, that girl who was never the girl.
He leaned forward, standing at the deceptively innocent creek’s edge, and as his lips touched the water a shiver ran through him and he recoiled violently —
this place —
this place!
He whipped around, his baleful brimstone eyes faraway, pupils swallowed up by a tidal wave of sickly yellow. Now he remembered — this creek — he’d stopped here on his way back from…well, somewhere — a push from behind and he’d been swept away by the vicious current. At least, he thought it was this river. Utterly turned around, his ears and eyes strained toward the west — but the nearest mountain also bore a sense of deep-seated wrongness.
Thoroughly agitated, the wolf curled in on himself to lay down, turning his head away from the river to lap at a dirty puddle of thawing snow. He couldn’t trust his own memories, but he still couldn’t bring himself to drink from the river and risk turning his back.
Not even when he was alone.
when you're dead, there will be no grave to remember your name
146 Posts
Ooc — Mary
Offline
March 12, 2018, 03:22 PM
There was a distinct fear that no matter how long she searched, she would never find Cypress or Rannoch again. She had started to believe that it would have been better for her to leave the wilds and search beyond the limitations that she had been born into. All her thought and yet she had not taken an action to leave; the ghoul had merely nestled down in a new location every night and waited for the morning to start her search again. The nearby packs had caused a great deal of anxiety in regards to finding the boys, so she had steered clear of them and kept mainly to the unclaimed territory. Lucy knew that it would not have been like them to spend their time as loners, but that they would have suited a pack quite well.
Trekking across the rocky slopes on slender limbs, the inky girl kept an eye out for passersby that she would wish to avoid conversing with. The little shadow was more fond of her travels for the sights than the company. As the thought passed her mind, Lucy frowned and wondered if she would be fortunate enough to see Skwol again, or if he had thought her childish and departed. The latter would surely have broken her heart, but she understood it well enough to toy with the thought a while longer. For all the unfortunate things that had fallen her, the ghoul still had a shred of optimism in her bones. It kept her searching.
The scent of another crossed her nose, and the inky youth canted her head in the direction of the aroma. There was something familiar about it, but a familiarity that brought a fresh wave of fear. The morbid curiosity that dug against the lining of her stomach was all that it took for her to be urged forward. The shadow moved in a prowl, stretching the length of her legs out as far as she could reach and stepping on light paws.
At the river there was a dark creature, bent to drink. Something about him was strange, though, as though she could smell his broken state. Lucy watched him for a short while, trying to determine what could have drawn her attention so tightly to his cloaked frame. It was not until he had lifted his skull that she saw the radio collar on his neck. Her fur bristled immediately and she hunkered down behind the nearest stretch of brush or stone that would conceal her. With ears pinned flat to her skull, she peered over her cover at the larger male. The warm copper of his eyes reminded her of Skwol, if this had been his dark twin. Without the strength to inch closer, she merely followed behind him at a short distance and debated confronting the male.
The ghoul was familiar with the harshness of the human beings. She had only just shed her own collar of rope that had dug a scar into the back of her neck. This stranger did not seem as though he was at all perturbed by the thick leather that sat snugly against his coat. Lucy did not understand how it could be. She watched him just long enough to see him curl into a tightly stitched ball. Once he had gotten himself into a comfortable position, the shadow emerged from her hiding place and crept closer.
Trekking across the rocky slopes on slender limbs, the inky girl kept an eye out for passersby that she would wish to avoid conversing with. The little shadow was more fond of her travels for the sights than the company. As the thought passed her mind, Lucy frowned and wondered if she would be fortunate enough to see Skwol again, or if he had thought her childish and departed. The latter would surely have broken her heart, but she understood it well enough to toy with the thought a while longer. For all the unfortunate things that had fallen her, the ghoul still had a shred of optimism in her bones. It kept her searching.
The scent of another crossed her nose, and the inky youth canted her head in the direction of the aroma. There was something familiar about it, but a familiarity that brought a fresh wave of fear. The morbid curiosity that dug against the lining of her stomach was all that it took for her to be urged forward. The shadow moved in a prowl, stretching the length of her legs out as far as she could reach and stepping on light paws.
At the river there was a dark creature, bent to drink. Something about him was strange, though, as though she could smell his broken state. Lucy watched him for a short while, trying to determine what could have drawn her attention so tightly to his cloaked frame. It was not until he had lifted his skull that she saw the radio collar on his neck. Her fur bristled immediately and she hunkered down behind the nearest stretch of brush or stone that would conceal her. With ears pinned flat to her skull, she peered over her cover at the larger male. The warm copper of his eyes reminded her of Skwol, if this had been his dark twin. Without the strength to inch closer, she merely followed behind him at a short distance and debated confronting the male.
The ghoul was familiar with the harshness of the human beings. She had only just shed her own collar of rope that had dug a scar into the back of her neck. This stranger did not seem as though he was at all perturbed by the thick leather that sat snugly against his coat. Lucy did not understand how it could be. She watched him just long enough to see him curl into a tightly stitched ball. Once he had gotten himself into a comfortable position, the shadow emerged from her hiding place and crept closer.
much to my surprise when I opened up my eyes all the sheep had turned to wolves
they were standing there with their fangs all bared and it seemed I was the fool
they were standing there with their fangs all bared and it seemed I was the fool
Closing up my outdated Cypress and Eirlys threads. ♥
The intensity of his harrowing emotional trauma and the fingers of withdrawal that dug dirty nails into his quivering flesh bred within the dark wolf a chronically hyperesthetic aspect; his skin was alive and rippling with droves of tremors, and atop his narrow crown the hellhound’s ears twitched and swayed. Restlessness made him coltish but he remained maladroit as crepitating limbs wormed into a subpar foundation and brought him to stand unassumingly before the ghoul. He did not whip around but turned with slow deliberation, a gnarled treant with spidery limbs. At once he drank in Her black fur and blue eyes.
Not Easy.
This was the girl.
He didn’t know Her name anymore, and his uncertainty was made plain with a mute bid for distance, a shuffling of scarred limbs into something malleable and soft. Tall ears swept back against his skull, his wild mane of fur making it impossible to tell whether his hackles were lifted or he was merely a windtossed victim of his environment. “I waited for you,” the words gritted from his jaws like marrow from cracked bone, his tongue weeping venom. The accusation might have been applicable to his lost brothers; to his first best friend; to his first love; or to Easy, the only wolf with a name. He spoke with no inflection, each syllable parceled out with the same acrimonious nuance, the contortion of his already foreboding facial features betraying what travail it was to birth such vitriol. “You did not come.”
Uneasily, he lurched to his paws and forced himself even further away from Her, realizing how blatantly he’d overstepped his boundaries. She did not deserve his ire, even if She had not come back to him. At first, he strove only to get himself out of lunging range — but his will was weak and his body took over. He kept moving long after She was out of sight.
Not Easy.
This was the girl.
He didn’t know Her name anymore, and his uncertainty was made plain with a mute bid for distance, a shuffling of scarred limbs into something malleable and soft. Tall ears swept back against his skull, his wild mane of fur making it impossible to tell whether his hackles were lifted or he was merely a windtossed victim of his environment. “I waited for you,” the words gritted from his jaws like marrow from cracked bone, his tongue weeping venom. The accusation might have been applicable to his lost brothers; to his first best friend; to his first love; or to Easy, the only wolf with a name. He spoke with no inflection, each syllable parceled out with the same acrimonious nuance, the contortion of his already foreboding facial features betraying what travail it was to birth such vitriol. “You did not come.”
Uneasily, he lurched to his paws and forced himself even further away from Her, realizing how blatantly he’d overstepped his boundaries. She did not deserve his ire, even if She had not come back to him. At first, he strove only to get himself out of lunging range — but his will was weak and his body took over. He kept moving long after She was out of sight.
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