Blackfoot Forest do you feel ashamed?
Forneskja
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#1
Private 
for @Marina -- open to her people as well!

there is first agony.

then there is anger.

red, hot, molten. the wrath of a man scorned. the wrath of a man betrayed. he lays upon a bed of moss, sullied with his own rot, grime and blood. but he does not bleed as he did. still, he is weakened. lifting head weakly to lap at the mound of snow before his mouth, seeking anything to quench his thirst.

it is the shuffle of paws at the entrance of the hollow that draws his attention. a bloodshot, yellow eye turning singular upon the woman carrying his brood. there is nothing within the eye but malice, dark and grim.

go. he demands.
Loner
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#2
She merely smiled.

Her offerings were scant; roots and bark she knew would soothe the infection raging in his body, with some preparation. Nothing for the pain. Not for him. Marina stepped closer to drop the meager medical supplies into the snow beside him, for now only assessing him. The rotten scent of him.

This was a fitting end.

She ought to leave him to die here, she thought more than once, but even so she'd gathered what she could for him. You still think I meant to save you. That's cute, Marina spoke without meeting his single eye, still studying his wounds with a detached sort of focus. After a moment her gaze found his, but her expression was unchanged; as if she didn't really see him at all, but his corpse already cooling. Or maybe you think you'll choose death to escape me. As if you still have a choice.
Forneskja
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#3
a growl. it is absurd; her words she speaks now. he would've killed her by now if she weren't carrying his heirs in her womb.

he is delirious from his wounds and the toll they have taken on him; both body and mind. weakly, he stirs, turning cruel eye upon the outside world. there is nothing but snow. but he can sense them out there. watching, lingering.

stupid bitch, his words are a hushed, hissing whisper. clenched between teeth. they will kill you. then they will kill him. his words come ragged, broken, heaving from him with the effort it takes to speak.

you must not leave! it is not with worry for her he speaks, but for his unborn children.

a paw reaches out to grab her by the face, but he misses, foreleg falling painfully and recoiling against his chest.
Loner
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#4
They won't.

Marina was certain of this, and though she could not have said how, it was her mother's voice echoing in her memories; a name long-abandoned. They would have called you Sea-Snake. Her father would have had a different name for her, Thalia had said, but Marina was neither of these. She was no Corten. She was no Sea-Snake.

Something else; something not quite either, or perhaps both, but who could ever know? Maybe she was only losing her wits. She bent to chew the bark and the roots with a bit of snow, mixing them into a paste. Whether the man allowed it or not, she moved to smear it across his wounds, silent and insistent. Only a single root, long and thin and pale compared to the rest, was spared from the messy ointment.

You'll eat that one - or you'll continue to rot. I guess there's a bit of choice after all.

She knew enough to keep him alive, at least for a little while. Long enough to decide what to do with him. A dead man walking; a rapist and a traitor both, if the hunters were to be believed. A perfect father, perhaps, for a yellow-eyed devilchild. Maybe she truly was losing her wits. Suppose she killed him herself? Buried him somewhere only she knew? Then at least one day she might bring her child to his grave to say: look, there is your wicked father, lying in the bed he made of his sins; look, so you know the path you should never take; look, so you know what an evil thing you were made to be.

Perhaps she would give him to the sea instead.
Forneskja
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#5
she tends to his wounds and he is too weak to fight her. it is only dimly now that he realizes the stiffness in his back leg. the effort with which it takes to try and move it. the pain it shoots up to his hip.

there comes a half-whine half-snarl, bitten with pain, his teeth lashing out at her now. it is her fault! her fault. because it cannot be his fault. his pride won't allow that. crazed eye zoning in on her, but each bite falls short.

this woman has the upperhand. a fact which infuriates him so. weakly, he lets his head fall to the moss he lay upon. breaths coming in pathetic, wheezing efforts through his bloodied nostrils.

fuck off.

he shoves the root away with a paw.
Loner
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#6
I've been asking myself what I want from you.

Marina spoke as if he did not seek her blood even now, as if he hadn't said a word at all. She stood back to survey him again, pleased that he didn't seem in danger of dying just yet. Then and there she had decided that they would move again soon.

At first it seemed unknowable. A question I couldn't answer - but now, now that I've seen you again... She let out a breath. I want my child to be free of you. Take a few hours to rest. Then we'll move again. I'll drag you if I have to - or my companion will.

She turned away, putting some distance between them. Not enough to give either of them any privacy, but some symbol of disconnection between them. She would wait a few hours, as promised, before she addressed him again. Marina glanced over her shoulder only once more, adding:

You shouldn't have chosen the daughter of a witch.
Forneskja
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#7
he fades.

only to come to consciousness again when he is forced to his paws. snapping teeth angrily, saliva dark with old blood flying from teeth. he limps towards the entrance, still, knowing that he has little option.

loping painfully onwards, squeezing wounded body through the entrance with a furious growl directed at no one but himself. he is weak.

fuck it all. a beady eye pinned on his captor.

he goes to speak, surely to insult her in some way, but all that comes is a dry cough.
Loner
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#8
She might have forced him further into the mountains, but a storm was brewing. Marina urged him on with a watchful eye cast ahead, careful to avoid letting on that she had no real notion of where they should go next. Winter was thrashing out its last from the sky in harsh periodic flurries; surely it would kill the man to be caught in one now. She had no intention of letting him die without her leave.

So she guided the dying man to the small mouth of a cave just as the winds began to truly pick up. Into darkness, then, and not a moment too soon. Marina glanced back at the shrieking, cracking sound of a weakened tree giving way to the storm, having held out against too many before it. She looked away just as the wind whipped a thick limb against the cave's entrance with a deafening crack. She felt the sound in her bones, and didn't stop to watch the snow packing itself into the slim cracks of light around the limb.

Keep moving, Marina forced herself to sound steadier than she felt. Maybe he would think that she'd planned this. Maybe that was just her own wishful thinking.
Forneskja
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he is too tired to stir anymore commotion. he only moves best he can through the snowfall, occasionally wincing, hissing as snow pelts him in the back and grates upon his fresh wounds. picking up his paws best he can to continue moving, eager to get out of the snow before it turns into a furious storm.

the mouth of a cave appears. as he steps into the beginnings, he slips upon a patch of ice and goes skidding to the floor of the cold cave. a snarl coming in tenfold, chattering behind stained teeth, whispering past the ones broken from his conflict. he is numb to what goes on outside the mouth of the cave, too focused on the trembling of his muscles as he tries to get back to his feet.

flopping like a fish out of water.
Loner
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#10
Lmk if the pp should be changed!!
He couldn't get up. Or maybe he wouldn't get up — and that thought inspired a hot burst of energy like flames spitting from between her teeth. Marina snapped wordlessly for his scruff, heedless of his wounds. She had said she would drag him, she had said it.

Later she would not be able to say where she had gotten the strength, nor how far she'd dragged him. She only knew that eventually the darkness opened into dim blue emptiness, slivers of light and whispers of mountain runoff and the edge of the water.

The water.

Marina threw her burden free into the shallows of it with a shriek, and her shoulder buckled, burning white and silvery-blue. Some far-away part of her that still possessed logic and the will to go on said: oh, now you've done it, you've torn something inside of yourself. It was lost in the turmoil of other thoughts, feral thoughts gone loose and frayed with grief.

The water had taken everything. Everything. Why not one last gift?

She lifted herself dripping from the water, laughing now, weeping. Take him, then, Marina spoke to the water, the first and last love of her driftwood life. You took everything else - why not him?

Or is this what I deserve? Him; the answer to my longing for a man I was never meant to have. A man I hardly knew, yes, and while his eyes were on me I scarcely remembered the husband who adored me. I was never content. So you took it all. You gave me this.

Take him, Marina nearly choked on the words, stumbling back from the water. Her foreleg would bear no weight upon it, her shoulder swelling quickly and turning stiff. Take it back.
Forneskja
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#11
no.

no.

his head shakes teeth coming to snap furiously at the woman. but he's weak, frail, and misses his target. with each snap of teeth. simply fanning over her silver fur and failing to make purchase.

no!

no!

he is dragged to the edge where water lurks, tapping at the edges, growling hungrily for him. waiting to devour. to devour him. he yells, shrieks, growls, snarls. when he is pushed over the edge, it is with a parting gift to the woman; his teeth scoring her shoulder, tearing open hide.

the water is set to consume him. his forelegs dig, dig, dig. splashing frantically as he reaches for anything to hold but he is only met with the crystalline water. the blue pool soon is muddied with his black blood, soaking him through, leaving him shivering, shuddering.

his head goes under. then comes back up with a mighty breath to fill his lungs, a snarl echoing off the walls of the cave.
Loner
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#12

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Marina only watched the man’s struggle with wide eyes, still drifting back with slow unsteady steps, but her mind was elsewhere; far off where the air was salt-scented and warm. The last place she could remember truly being happy. The last time she'd remembered the names of those who had loved her. She only remembered his name, now.

Dutch.

Marina had never truly loved him. She hadn't known him well enough to call it love, the desperate deep-rooted bond she felt to the shadows of children both lost and unborn, a husband forgotten, a wife departed. No, it wasn't love. This grief in her, then, could only be for the briefest glimpse of a soul so beautiful as to leave its everlasting imprint behind her eyelids; for the knowledge of how she knew she could have loved him, if things had been different.

So many nights she had lain restless, imagining what she might tell him, how she might bare her soul and then say: see how we are the same? Maybe then he would understand why she saw his eyes in every sunset, though she tried to tell herself to forget. It was best to forget. Theirs was the love that only could have been, might have been, never would be now that their time had passed. Like every sunset he’d faded into the night, his choices made, and she was certain he never even thought of her now.

Why should he, with enough love around him to last a lifetime? No less than he deserved, but even so Marina could only think bitterly of all that the sea had taken from her. All it had taken, everything but this: the ghost of a beautiful what-if looming over the grotesque corpse of cause-and-effect, an angel with torn wings weeping over the blood. She remembered Dutch only to feel the full tragedy, she was sure:

Remember when you wanted that beauty? Look at you now, all sullied from the inside. Open your eyes now; watch him. Watch him drown, or tear himself from the water to kill you where you stand. Either way, you'll know it's what you deserve.
Forneskja
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#13
stærk claws at the ledge with trembling limbs, water streaming from his blood-matted fur as he drags himself upward. his body shakes with the effort, teeth gritted against the cold and the pain. he doesn’t stop—not when his muscles scream in protest, not when his breath comes in ragged, wet gasps. survival drives him forward, blind and unrelenting.

behind him, the woman lingers, frozen in her own stupor.

each pull, each inch forward, is a battle, but he crawls on, his claws scraping against stone and dirt as he nears the entrance.

he collapses just inside, his chest heaving, panting as though the air itself burns. for a moment, he is still, motionless but for the rise and fall of his battered frame.

with a groan of effort, he forces himself toward the narrow wedge beneath the fallen tree. the opening is tight, but he presses forward, clawing and squeezing. mind running rampant. he must escape. he will escape. she will try to kill him again. he won’t die by the hands of a fucking whore.

he bursts free. stærk lies sprawled in the snow, wheezing and trembling. he is too exhausted to notice the vultures swooping in.

fade <3 will tag in death thread