Foggy Bottom Way ratero

it was the taiga that yawned in calling, and silvertongue almost answered. but the land was studded with the memories of blood and pain and eager welcome of death; the sharpfang turned away from the coolness of its fall-shifting details and went south. those memories of mother and father were all but gone, but her blood remembered such terrain and the bright dry heat. she'd come here for something anonymous, something that replaced akavir in deed if never in person, a man to fill the void left by the mayfair and arric, if she was being truthful. something wordless with no names given, a healing of sorts, to be wanted and unknown. from wren, too, she was running, though this was not a truth she allowed herself to contemplate. evening found her staring open-mouthed up at massive ironwoods as she padded between gigantic spires of stone and — "mierda!" forepaw stuffed to mouth, staggering back as the scorpion scuttled with glinting black carapace into the night. the pain was immense, and behind it a thrum of numbing poison etched upward into her throat. silvertongue fled on limping step as far as she was able, until a stumble tilted delicate head against low-hanging archway, and she collapsed in a groaning puddle of stung skin and trembling breath, rolling to one side to see the stars before blackness claimed her with resolution. silvertongue did not fight it, she hoped only that the venom of the glittering creature would steal the future while she slept, and with it, any chance of waking.

She should have been resting. She should not have left the valley again.

Yet Andromache was overcome with the desire to see the place of her fall once again. She could not seem to erase that day from her mind, though she tried to turn her thoughts only toward healing, toward the building of an empire. So she departed; alone, in silence, expecting nothing but the whispering sounds of the desert to greet her.

What she found instead was a woman. Andromache recognized the unnatural way she had fallen almost immediately; something was wrong, but what? She swept closer with a quickness that made her wince, injuries still not fully healed, and caught the faint scent of blood. It did not yet occur to her that the woman had been bitten, as she had. She stepped closer, sniffing around her to locate the source of the blood scent.

Mature Content Warning

This thread has been marked as mature. By reading and/or participating in this thread, you acknowledge that you are of age or have permission from your parents to do so.

The participants have indicated the following reason(s) for this warning: Language.

The desert was not a place he reveled. He was a wolf bred and raised in rich foliage, fresh waters, and had once lived upon mountains. Sand seemed uncomfortable to him, and he found his teeth clenching with irritation as he traversed the desert—trying to track down any type of wolves that fit the description Wren had given him.

Succulents were dressed about the lands—certain plants that gave Akavir pause as he travelled. It was strange to him—and with a certain amount of distaste, he was reminded of Akashingo and their self-proclaimed kingdom.

And such a train of thought caught him off guard when he saw the heap of silver fur—another inspecting her closely, and for a moment, the foggy memory surfaced from the moment he had found his dead wife—pale fur, staring blank eyes.

“No,” he uttered, the word spoken so calmly, as if he wasn’t even in his body. He descended closer to her—it had to be a mistake, there was no way she would be here…

And yet there was Silvertongue. Gilded in the light—peaceful looking in a way that was unnatural, and that stirred nausea within his stomach. “No, no, no,” he uttered now, faster, his voice hitching in its panic as he descended closer.

A gutteral snarl was given to the other who was snooping about. “Back the fuck up,” he growled, but his eyes were only for her, and he nudged at her. “Silver,” he murmured, because this just didn’t happen in life twice. Wife or not… One didn’t lose love like this twice, did they?

the richly appointed room was filled with light. a morose prince, hardly more than a boy, played senet with a servant girl who looked on him with adoring eyes. she had seen past his melancholy into the core of his inner furnace, fed by longing and love. here she had placed herself, a grain of sand in the heart of a ticking watch, and now the springs had run dry, now the mechanisms were snapping. the boy was fading, and in her dreams silvertongue fell twice as she ran after his dissolving memory. she awoke to blackness, then pain, then the slow blinking awareness that crawls over one's shoulders in an unwanted cowl. first, she was not dead, and now she stared back into the worried, haunted eyes she had intended to escape. for a time all silvertongue found herself able to do was stare at the creek wolf. the laugh was a thin, exasperated rasp, self-deprecating and mad until it became tears, and then her face twisted. he'd thrown her aside for purity; that was the only truth she knew. akavir had put her away but still seemed insistent on finding her in the most horrendous moments. "go home, akavir," silvertongue said in deadened voice, sitting upright with effort and cradling her forepaw against her chest. should he move to touch her again, the hair-thin control would snap, and with it her teeth. the stranger was at last noted, a pretty unknown with striking eyes that seemed dreamscape. but her own were again and only for akavir, who had become the vehicle for her own hatred and self loathing, and it showed in the tremble of chin and mouth, the hardness of her eyes. "you will not let me die in peace?" silvertongue demanded, a sing-song tease edged in razored ice.

She'd only just found it, that cruel set of pinprick wounds Andromache remembered so well, when the man descended upon them. Dark-furred, imposing; distraught. He snarled and the princess surrendered her hold on the situation. She could not afford another conflict.

Before she could speak to offer her help, the fallen woman roused. Andromache stood back and addressed her in the heartbeat that followed her words; You'll want treatment for that bite. One of my men may know something. Our home is not far, And she let the offer hang there between them, not acknowledging the man who had snarled at her. Akavir, she recalled immediately, though it hardly mattered.

i couldn't help it

Unbeknownst to Akavir, Wren had trailed not far behind.
A short while after he left, she, too, followed the trail; south, far south, where grassland churned to sand. It reminded her hauntingly of Akashingo.
Akavir sought those who had harmed their pack, and she, of all, thought justice should be served under her watch. If not her, then who else? Eshe? Mae? No. Wren was much too hard-headed for that.
And as these sands grow more and more barren, his scent grows stronger; deep in it now, well into the gulch;

No.

This wasn't real. There was no way, was there? No, no, why had she gone—
You will not let me die in peace?
Something abhorrent, something gravely animalistic burns. Divots cave the terracotta soil and she is not thinking, not thinking as she barrels toward the strange blonde woman and she'd meant to strike her, strike Akavir, do something but her body does not let her, and the strain upon her limbs grows apparent as her feet sink dumbly into the silt.
She stares with eyes blown wide as the turquoise of Silver's seek to strike down Akavir with a lick of thunder. She wishes that she had not come here.

The stranger lurched back from him, but she was of no concern to him, at least for the moment—no his eyes were imploring as he looked over Silvertongue, and a rumbling growl escaped his jaws at the sight of the pinpricks of blood—a bite?

And thus—he began to maneuver her—his chest heaving in the midst of rising terror as Ibis’ cold eyes stared back at him—and when Silvertongue’s words cut to him—a viper ready to strike, it was with fire that his eyes held her own—champagne, pale and flickering—his lips lifting in a snarl as he was about to rent out his entirety to her, to beg—

— but then Wren was there, and his words were lost. A reminder that he had no place in speaking them, let alone thinking them.

She raged at him—he made to latch her paw, drawing it closer—inspecting. “Not without you,” he growled, daring her to defy that, his own terror and fear from the initial shock beginning to drift to his own anger. Why did she keep pushing him away?

“What bite is this?” His words demanded from the stranger now, sharply, even though she graciously offered her home—would it not be quicker for him to take her back to the creek? And as he drew the Sharpfang closer to him, albeit likely with force, his mouth descended, trying to suck what he assumed was venomous from such a small mark and draw it from her.

the woman spoke. wren's scent sparkled on the wind. akavir dragged her toward him. she tasted his fur, his breath; another time, another man, another bed. ramesses and his black-lined eyes; "vete a la mierda lejos de mí!" silvertongue screamed, and this time she snapped viciously for eye, for cheek, for brow, for ear, infuriated that he should come here, ignore her, touch her. "go to your fucking home," the sharpfang snarled, eyes dilated and teeth bare, on her feet now and scrabbling backward toward the stranger. "you have done enough!' a freshet of tears scudded down her face; she was breathless, shocked; akavir no longer respected her enough to refrain. had he ever? certainly not now; how could he when he knew the truth of how she had been pharaoh's whore? her eyes sliced now to wren, who deserved none of it but why was she here either? why did so many demand on taking so much from her? good foreleg, passed shaking over her dirt-stained brow; silvertongue knew she would regret her words if she spoke again, and now only swirled with some paroxysm of horror and hateful sickness.

Her lips parted to answer the man, to explain that she had been bitten by a snake; that time was of the essence; that they were gathered nearly at the doorstep of her home. But the woman started to scream, to scramble back toward her, and Andromache was reminded that she was no mere passerby but a princess. She drew forward to offer the protection of her larger figure, howling for @Nikolaos, @Euryalos, @Faustus.

If you wish them gone, ασημένια κυρία, say the word, Andromache murmured into the breathless silence that followed the injured woman's words, meant for her ears alone. We should move quickly. It will only get worse.

A voice, the voice of a princess, rose high above the lowlands.

Euryalos raised his great head, focusing on that distant song, before he would boom a howl in response.

It would take him some time, stocky creature he was, but he would come thundering their way, audible pawsteps heralding his arrival.

Euryalos will arrive in one round, he isn’t visible yet but his howl was audible, and as he gets closer it can be noted that his pawsteps are getting louder

Also arriving in one round!

Nikolaos was a simple man. He heard his princess call, and he answered. His own howl mingled with Euryalos's call. No questioning in him, not now; he would learn later what had brought him down from their blissful little valley. He hastened his path to the waterfall, a misty place he'd quickly learned to avoid. It was not ideal.

He caught up to Euryalos with a brief snort. They would go together, as they always did.

dtv wolves are welcome to lightly pp/npc faustus!

Akavir, this heave of breath comes out sharp, but not cold; he wanted to help, she knew this, she knew it, and her eyes burn with something like a plea. don't fuckin' touch her.
The rallying pain that belonged to Silvertongue twists deep and dull inside the chasm that was now Wren's body. Rigid, heavy, every move felt as if she were made of stone. And then, a first for her; a rabid, venomous show of teeth peels back her lips. One that says so much more than words could. Back away.
But Wren does not make her own approach, lest the scorn of her lover be then turned upon her, and Wren could not bear the thought while her heart stutters so—
In desperation, she swivels in the direction of the woman, the blonde. A sting, a bite; something, somehow, had gotten to her, and the trembles are fought with a seething clench of muscles. There was not enough time to bring her home, and Akavir's approval was not exactly sought as sound explodes to shards in her ears.
Belladonna was not dying. No, not fucking today.
If you fuckin' hurt her, as hard as she tries, Wren cannot will the rest of the heinous warning from her mouth. Again does she look to her lover, and again does she feel the walls of her throat swell and close and the familiar weight of dismay.
She is not wanted and yet she chases anyway, and what does that make her?

His attention to the wound—fear locked in his chest—he was blindsided by the savagery of her attack. A shrieking voice—piercing his ears with a ring and for a moment he did not feel the pain that soon blossomed from the score of fangs that sliced across his eye and cheek—toward his temple. Wren’s voice seemed distant—a frowning glance revealed her bared fangs to him—but his focus was on Silver as she danced away his blood on her muzzle, to the arms of a stranger.

He remained stunned, blinking the blood from an eye as it began to drip down from the wound.

"you have done enough!’

He stared at her—incredulous, his own lips pulling back to a silent snarl as the stranger moved forward—a howl to what he assumed was for her comrades.

What had he done to deserve this mistrust? What the hell had happened to her?

“Silver,” he began, his voice a rasp. Wren’s words were hollow to him, and he blinked at her in disbelief—she threatened the woman, accepting that Silvertongue was just going to run off with a complete stranger—one who spoke that her injury would be grave.

“Silvertongue, you can’t be considering going alone with some stranger somewhere.” Disbelief—a final plea—and a tension that roiled from him—eyes straying to their surroundings, waiting with a finality of reinforcements—

—for yet another fight.

last for silver here mostly bc im EMOTIONAL <333

a low, pained grunt sounded in silvertongue's throat. she thought — oh; and sagged against the stranger who had called for others, who spoke in a voice vaguely familiar with a vinegar taste; but she could not connect arsenio to anything now, not even his name. slitted glassblue glowered at akavir, softened for wren; she blinked several times and finally pushed figure back onto her own legs; "my name is ruined," silvertongue said in a voice tremorous with multi-shattered pride; "every time i have tried to be something — more — these things, they follow me. i should have said nothing," and that, that she meant, no matter; no matter; "now this thing has hurt crowfeather, this thing i tried to hide, and did, for so long. i have no regrets in hiding what i was and where i came from. my regret, only, is that the ones i loved had to discover it." to akavir, finally, a relented look. "yes, i love you, foolish man. the day you came to tell me you knew was the same you — i — well. it was ended. and i know you have another. go, because this cannot be while you know." gulps of air, for tears again had come, and now silvertongue looked to wren, into the face much-beloved; "it is your pain i do regret most, querida," the sharpfang admitted in a yearning voice. "that day, i was ready to give us up for him, and you will know how unfair that is to you, and to the love i bear you. and now see what i have done," tears streaming as silvertongue swept her eyes from wren's expression to the blood seeping from akavir's face. "i am not meant to love! it was taken from me. yes. i will leave with her, even though we do not know one another." a sobbing slipped; "i would rather that than for anyone else to know my shame. i want a hundred strangers and faceless enemies before i am robbed again of what little esteem i still possess, even after all this. unless you had lived it," silvertongue cried, "you would not understand. now, go! yes, i want you to go! i want them to go, in peace," she stressed to the unknown woman, and now she sank to the sand and fell into a stupor once more, quieting until all her movement was reduced to the abiding breath.

PPing Faustus as mentioned <3

Andromache hardly comprehended the exchange, yet in Silvertongue's words she found some kind of understanding. Here was something she knew; here was a woman in pain, a woman suffering at the hands of a man. She listened in silence, nodding once to Silvertongue's request of peace.

Peace, then, She agreed quietly. Her eyes drifted between Akavir and the other woman whose name she had not caught. I'm not the one she's running from. Words meant mainly for the woman, but for both of them. Who were they to pursue her? Who were they to claim ownership of Silvertongue, of any woman?

My men will handle the rest. They won't come to harm, Andromache assured the downed woman, seeking now to lead her away; to the valley, to safety. If she would not be led, the princess would carry her. She would carry her herself, even as Faustus arrived first on the scene, even as she heard the growing footsteps that signaled the imminent arrival of Nikolaos and Euryalos. No man would touch her.

Send them away in peace. No blood, She barked to Nikolaos in their native tongue.

And though her wounds ached and her heart was much the same, she felt pride. Were they not here to make change? To deliver the most unfortunate among them from systemic, generations-old suffering? If any soul was in need of safe harbor, surely it was Silvertongue. Whatever had happened to her, it would not happen again. Not here.

last from me as well!

There was so much that could have been said, and yet Wren's voice did not come.
Never do her eyes leave Silvertongue even as the static forces further into her head and the words from her mouth come in a jarble. After everything, everything, here she still was, even while her face twists in hideous anger and hurt and a flurry of horror cascades from the depths of hell.
Before her stands the woman that was, time and time again, handed the scarred tissue of heart; the whirlwind of sacrifice and of vulnerability and of nights spent in silence and warmth; Wren had stripped herself to the very core only for it to be ripped from her in one fell swoop of ivory teeth and chipped nails.
Had they not been trying?
The nerves in her limbs shock her with red-hot pricks and the air in her lungs crystallizes into something agonizing. She wanted to scream, wanted to renounce all of this, everything, right here and now—
Finally does her voice come; hardly more than a pained tremble wrought with the fire of a thousand suns. You, do not yell, why are you so convinced that no one is capable of loving you for who you are? You think this will fuckin' fix it, Silver? You think running away for the third time will fix it? Because I can promise you, right now, that it won't. do not scream. When have I-- when have I given you-- we were supposed to build a new life, the tears burn as they strike her cheeks, as the salt chokes her. Do not yell. take a good look around you, Silver. He's not here right now, is he? He doesn't have power over you anymore. I mean, for fuck's sake, look at me. I found out and I still came to you, I have tried-- I told you everything, you are all I want. and I'm still here. I'm still fucking here. And no, I'm not Crowfeather, I'll never be Crowfeather, and maybe that makes me-- maybe I'm not good enough, but god fucking dammit, I'm still here.
Trembling something fierce, her gaze now falls upon the unknown woman and the sharpshot figures of her companions along the horizon. Take care of her.
A final glance is given to Silvertongue and within it lies the months of longing and of laughter and of pain and forgiveness and retribution, of something that still stupidly yearns. I will be-- I'll be waiting, if you ever want to see me again. I'll always wait. what a fucking idiot I am.
Wren would not return home that night.

Adrenaline held him now in a vice-like grip. Silvertongue spoke—a mesmerizing and achingly beautiful speech, just as she was, he was sure, but Akavir barely heard a word over it as his grief began to swallow him. Wren, too, sputtered words—and still, the wolves on the horizon began to close in.

His teeth were bared—a threat to the world as it tore another loved one from him without second thought.

The snarl that gripped his chest became loose tot he air—terrible in his fury, his grief, and his inability to understand why she had always pushed him away.

Always pushed away, somehow—his littermates, as they had scattered to the wind. Ibis. His children.

Somewhere along the line it was hard to not look at how the problem must be him.

He hardened in that moment, chased by tooth and claw by wolves he did not know and with the praise of his previous lover. Only later, when he returned to the creek and was humbled by fermented berries would he fully break.

And then… he would harden once more. Anything to not feel like this ever again.