Ravensblood Forest fire blood
winter ghost
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#1
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The crimson of the trees had never been unsettling to the ashen-furred beast. He had hunted in those woods for his sister. He felt a familiarity thinking of his time with Mos and for only a moment his mind drifted to where she was, if she was alive. Kierke would have hoped that if she was indeed dead, he would have felt it somewhere stirring in his gut. He had traveled with his sister for the vast majority of his life. He had seen her through the worst of their lives. She had done the same for him. It would not have settled well to find out that she had lost herself on her own. More than his concern, Kierkegaard realized that he trusted his sister. She was quick and fierce and she would be able to handle whatever crossed her path.
 
Long pale legs moved with a slow deliberant nature through the dark woods. It was eerie. Far more unsettling than it had been in his previous treks through the red forest. He could recall with clarity the noises of prey and other creatures scuttling in the brush. This venture into the brush was not like it had been before. His amber gaze fell on the various rustlings of the undergrowth and the sharp snap of a twig would force his ears to stand tall on his skull, lip quivering over his canines. It was quiet. The prey had all but disappeared from the thick undergrowth that dabbled the territory. Kierkegaard could hear his steps against the earth and – only on occasion – the soft rustling of the leaves as the wind would carry through, prickling his pelt and raising bumps against his skin.
 
The fur along his neck and shoulders stood tall and jagged. His head was lowered so that he could attempt to track any existing prey in the area, though the scents of prey animals seemed to have faded from the trees and the brambles. The famine was frightening here. The ghostly male’s gut clenched tightly inside of him and he raised his head upwards, dark lips curled down.
"I am NOT forgetful"
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#2
Along the coast she went, staring at the sea, waves lapping at the shore with white foam bruising on top of them. If she had missed anything from her former home, it were the waves and watching the sun as it kissed the earth goodnight, right there on the water. She would watch the sky for hours, waiting for the familiar orange glow to bath in. On occasions she even went in the water, but that was mostly in the summer. Oh, how she missed those days. Just endless staring as the sea took her away from all the hate and loneliness. She often fell asleep when the stars began appearing, one by one, shimmering bright in the sky like angels kissing her goodnight. When she began her travels many years ago, she thought about turning back, only to watch those waves and stars again and fall asleep.

But this was not home. This was a wasteland covered in insect bodies. Not even the coast had escaped the attack of the locusts. It was saddening to walk here, breath here. The sea breeze mixed with the poison like smell of rotting insect bodies was sickening and the siren found herself snorting every so often. She had not seen a soul alive yet, which led her to believe most had left or died after the destruction. 

After hours of endless wandering, she crossed paths with the mountains and found an ever so interesting forest. The scent of wolf here was resent, as if many had crossed here already before her. Bi-colored eyes stared at the trees stripped of most of their green. She froze, staring at a red liquid slowly streaming down the trees. Not even in her berry forest had she seen trees bleed, but it was a sad sight, as if the trees had truly been hurt by the insects. Poor thing... She whispered, walking to one of the trees to check it out a from up close. Just as she was about to give an emotional speech for the tree, the ghost with a heart of gold she was, the scent of another reached her.

Her face went from defeated to one of joy and the blood covered siren ran past the tree into the unknown. What she would find here, she didn't know, she only knew that she wasn't alone anymore.
"I simply... Don't remember."
winter ghost
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#3
Locusts crunched beneath his paws every few steps. The large brute did not acknowledge them. They had come and gone; their lives were no more than a passing plague on their world. What seemed to be bothering him more than the carcasses of the bugs was the lingering scent of brine on the wind. He had always wondered what about the sea had lured Caiaphas. The salt was sharp against his nostrils. Still, the ashen male would remain close to the waters and to her pack.
 
He did not know that he belonged amongst a group of women who used males merely as slaves. Kierkegaard found it difficult enough to blend into the life of a normal ranking system. His time in the ranks of the Spine had taught him very little save for the fact that he was expected to respect those above him. He had hunted for them, though. He had found respect for Mordecai until the golden-furred male had disappeared. It wasn’t long after that that he came across Signe. For a moment, the ghostly Sairensu male found himself thinking of the dark-pelted little girl that he had plucked from the water and taken as his own. She had been good. She had brought to him the idea of having pups. Kierkegaard had – in spite of himself – cared deeply for the inky little creature.
 
A noise pulled the pale man from his thoughts and he turned to cast his head in the direction of a white-furred creature who seemed to be approaching with an expression of excitement on her strange features. Drawing his brows tightly on his head, the male frowned at the sight of the red that splattered her muzzle and followed up to the darkness that was a single eye. Peculiar… her appearance gave off more of a threatening air than her scent. Kierkegaard felt the fur along his spine bristle and he stopped in his tracks, peering at her curiously with golden-orange eyes. His expression never changing.   
"I am NOT forgetful"
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#4
The forest was mostly silent, empty. The only sign of life for her was the scent of a male, one she followed without stopping. After a while, the sounds of the waves and the sea ebbed away, leaving her alone in the silence, mountain walls shielding her. She didn't know if the smell of another was just an illusion, made up by her unconscious mind to feel less lonely, or if there was truly a soul here. She watched the trees bleed as the only sound she could now hear was her own breathing and her paws making contact with the earth below and the crunch of an insect here and there. 

The journey to the core of this forest of bleeding trees was not long, just eerie and quiet. Even here, one could smell the strong scent of the sea, the salty smell that haunted her nightmares and gave her most beautiful dreams a nice touch. The smell she loved and despised all the same. She blinked at the sight of something white, something that stook out from the dark red of the trees. Her aqua eye glistened with fear and curiosity while her other eye remained the shadow color which she was born with.

The form before her turned to watch her, liquid golden eyes scanning her almost with the same expression as she. She raised her non-existent eyebrow at him. She stared at his appearance, unsure if she should run or stay. He looked more dangerous than friendly, though she knew looks could betray. She tipped her head to the side in confusion. Hello? She managed, her red stained face still staring at him.
"I simply... Don't remember."
winter ghost
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#5
”Hello?”
 
Her voice struck his ears and he quickly flicked his salmon colored tongue across his lips and teeth. With a slow blink at her, the ashen male bobbed his head in response. When his eyes came back up to meet her face, he sat silently and peered at the woman’s peculiar features. Her muzzle was draped in crimson, though the great ashen ghost could not tell if this was due to blood or something else. One of her eyes was dark, blacked out. And if the amber-eyed male had not been keen enough to notice the glint of light that sparked in it, he would have thought it had been ripped from her skull and the crimson was all that remained. That would have been interesting indeed.
 
The pale woman’s other eye seemed to be a transfixing teal coloration, hardly void of color at all. In fact, it stood out in stark contrast to her seemingly empty socket beside it. It was not until then that he began to pick up other things about her. The stranger carried the scent of the sea, though she did not seem to belong to a pack. It was the mixture of scents on her pelt that told him this. His eyes grazed over her figure and he frowned softly. Perhaps he was mistaken, but her physique was well kept for the lack of prey that he had noticed. She very well could have had access to prey. If this was the case, Kierkegaard knew his interest would grow. If not, he was not entirely sure why she was there.
 
Flicking his tail upwards, the ghostly male waited for a moment longer in silence to see if she had something more to say. He was a creature of few words. A beast of action. Oftentimes, the Sairensu male came off as difficult or rude. These things did not concern him. It was not in his interest to please those around him. The great ragged monster was certain that he need only take care of himself.
"I am NOT forgetful"
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#6
2 peculiar creatures alone in a forest with bleeding trees was one of the fantasies that hadn't gone through the siren's head yet. Hell, anything regarding bleeding trees was more of a nightmare than a fantasy. Despite the eerie surroundings and the feral looking guy -who appeared to be around her age-, the sea witch found herself oddly comfortable. He nodded, not saying a word. It didn't bother her all that much, she was just happy she wasn't alone anymore. She looked at him and could almost feel his fiery eyes burning her skin. Was he looking at her eye or the blood-like berry juice on her face? She couldn't tell.

She let her eyes dart around his body, starting at his face where his golden orbs had that curious glint. Her eyes lingered at his square chest and his shoulders that seemed to be strong and muscly. She could now also notice the darker hues in his coat, and she couldn't help but be intrigued. He was taller than her, slightly but noticeable, a good quality for a man. At the coast where she grew up, most males had been smaller than her.

She breathed in deeply, taking in his scent, ignoring the salty smell of the sea. The scent of a loner entered her nostrils and a gentle smile appeared on her muzzle. She couldn't tell if he was from around here, but dearly hoped he was a traveler just like her. The flick of his tail brought her back to reality, and she opened her mouth to say something but closed it only moments after. Can you speak? She asked, concerned now because he hadn't said a word yet.
"I simply... Don't remember."
winter ghost
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#7
He watched her curiously observe his features. Following her eyes as they trailed the length of his frame and the ragged state of his pelt. When she had completed her visual search of his being, she settled back to his face. Tilting his ashen skull to the left, his lips curled downward leaving him with an aberrant expression on his face.
 
While she had taken the time to observe, Kierkegaard had breathed deeply to establish she did not belong to a nearby pack. He had hoped, due to the heavy brackish water scent that clung to her pelt, that she might have belonged to Caiaphas. She did not carry the tang of pack life on her pelt. The white woman was just as alone as the Sairensu man. But it did not make her any less unusual. The close proximity that had been made allowed for the ashen ghost to breathe in the scent of berries on her coat. Glancing back to her muzzle, he realized that may very well have been what was causing the lush crimson coloration. He did not understand why, nor did he take the time to inquire. It was in that moment that she parted her lips to speak, asking if he was capable of talking.
 
Fixing her with a steady stare, Kierkegaard bobbed his head once. “I can,” he drawled in a rumbling baritone. “Sporadically,” he then added with a sigh. It happened that the ghostly figure did not always believe words were the most beneficial way of communication. Body language could speak novels.
"I am NOT forgetful"
241 Posts
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#8
*Googles all the words I don't know :p*

He moved, ever so slightly, and now appeared less threatening than he had first seemed. Then again, Ondine hadn't felt threatened at all ever since their eyes had met. She followed his movements, mirroring him with the hint of a grin on her face. She was a real talker, so she had no idea what she needed to do with a man that barely spoke, if at all. Maybe trauma had turned him into an introvert, or perhaps he was born this way. She of course hoped for the latter, although she liked hearing about some drama.

She sat down, movements slow and steady, no hesitation whatsoever. She knew her appearance might scare some or make them think she was a merciless killer, and while that was precisely what she wanted, she did not want this male to feel uncomfortable. Sitting seemed to be a good start, but she didn't ask for him to do the same. What he wanted to do, he could do, she was a fairly careless creature when it came to social interaction.

His long spoken words made the siren's ears fall flat down against her head in shock and quickly perked up again. So he could indeed speak, and what a lovely voice he had. Or perhaps she though this since it had been quite some time since she had heard someone speak. She wondered though, with such a mesmerizing voice, why didn't he use it more often? Thank goodness. She exclaimed with a sigh. 'thought a mute was the only thing I'd find in this bloody forest. She joked. No, she had nothing against mutes, she just found it more enjoyable to talk to someone who could talk back.
"I simply... Don't remember."
winter ghost
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#9
I get carried away sometimes. My apologies D:
It had not been trauma that had turned the pale brute introvert, but a solitary life. Companionship had never been desired save for a small few. He found detachment to be the easiest choice. It allowed for the loss of very little and meant that he did not yearn for anything he did not need. It was a minimalistic life but he had lived it and survived through it, and though it was despairing, Kierkegaard did not know better. Emotion had never sustained him; at least not until recently. Having found himself dealing with sentiment and fervor, the pale ghost had become more despondent. He had not been taught to react to feeling, merely instinct, and now that these questions were upon him, he did not know how to address them.
 
Turning his attention back to the white woman, he noted that she seemed relieved that he was not a mute. It was peculiar that the rose-colored female would admit to such a thing. With a placid expression on his ragged face, Kierkegaard watched the stranger make herself more comfortable by taking a seat. He did not join her, but remained standing.
 
“Hmm, you may have been better off with a mute,” he remarked with a small smirk before it vanished from his lips and he returned stone-faced. A rare moment of witticism from the rangy male before he turned his head away from her and looked to the forest. A sigh fell from his nostrils and he faced the dark-eyed woman once more. Kierkegaard was not a conversationalist. The strange woman very well may have been better off with a mute for companionship.
"I am NOT forgetful"
241 Posts
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#10
No apologies needed, a challenge is good :)

Life alone had only been for the earlier stages of the siren's life, and while that made her the perfect mix between introverted and extroverted, it had been quite a dark time. I mean, tragedies happened all the time, but to lose both parents so soon just because you were different was a little difficult. Being an outcast in her own home by the sea was also not the best thing for a child. Luckily she had been bright-spirited and quite positive about it all, otherwise she might have turned out a wreck, a sunken ship that first had the potential to roam the seas.

Her past made her strong, made her appreciate the more beautiful things of life, like meeting a total stranger in a forest where trees bled and was located in a wasteland. Okay, the last two things were quite unfortunate, but meeting a stranger wasn't. Not this stranger at least. He seemed calm enough, maybe even peaceful somewhere.

Hah, I doubt it. She laughed. I think it would look quite crazy, me rambling about life to someone who can't talk back. She almost wanted to add; if I don't look crazy already, but decided to leave that part out. Her nose wiggled as the male's attention went to somewhere in the distance, and with a confused look she looked the same way. It didn't seem to be anything though as soon after his attention went back to her. She flashed a baffled smile at him. Hey, what's your name? She asked, her head tipping to the left, remembering that they hadn't been properly introduced.
"I simply... Don't remember."
winter ghost
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#11
Tragedy had a way of changing that which it came in contact with. Life was fickle and hard, and it crafted with it some great and terrible things. A difficult past could meld the personality of the crimson-soaked female. Something that would have devoured a beast of lesser mettle. She very well could have been destined to witness the hardships that she had. But the pale brute did not gather much of his faith to put it on fate or destiny. He regarded the strange happenings in life and attributed them to chaotic control. The universe thrived from it. It bent and changed with that chaos. So would the beings that existed within. 

The white woman made a remark on her own sanity and the prospect of speaking with a mute in the dark parts of the wild wood. Kierkegaard did not opt to respond. He merely cast her a look that was neither please nor dissatisfied. A small silence filled the air between them. For a moment or two until she parted her lips once more and inquired his name. Exhaling a deep sigh, the ghostly male flickered his gaze back to her and frowned softly. What did it truly matter if they shared callings? Was it a necessity to divulge his own identity to the peculiar woman in the wood? Probably not. He would have gotten along fine without stopping to even converse with the dark-eyed stranger. Still, he had a feeling she would not cease unless he shared more than a noncommittal grunt and a monosyllabic reply. 

"Kierkegaard," he answered her with a flick of his ears and furrowed brows. Absently, the ragged beast did not even think to inquire about her name. Instead, his gaze drifted back to the trees and the slight movements that were made in the patchy undergrowth. 
"I am NOT forgetful"
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#12
You can fade with your post of you want :)

Perhaps total silence was one of her bigger fears, as when silence fell upon the pair it made her nervous. Had she said something wrong? Reading his face was a real challenge. It was like staring at a wall without any decorations or pictures hanging on it. Something inside her told this wolf wasn't awfully fond of being near her, and she wouldn't blame him for it. She was sometimes a little too enthusiastic when she met someone which turned some off.

A long sigh left the man's mouth and the siren made a hurt face. If he didn't want to share, she wouldn't force him. Her eyes went awkwardly to the ground and her tail thumped softly on the ground in boredom. She watched the smallest of bugs make it's way to her feet, but didn't do anything with it. And then the soft voice of the stranger came which made her slowly raise her head again.

He didn't ask for her name, though she felt like she needed him to know. Talking was like trading, you got what you gave, and her knowing his name but him not hers was an unfair trade. Ondine... She whispered. She got up from her spot and bowed before him as an official greeting. Then, she turned to walk a few steps away from him. It was nice meeting you, good sir. She called out to him as final farewell, her ears lowering as she departed. 

-Ondine oouut-
"I simply... Don't remember."
winter ghost
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#13
He was, simply put, a difficult man to get along with. So wrapped up in his own life of seclusion, there were times that the ashen male could not bring it upon himself to be troubled by conversing with others. Her intentions were good, and she did not make him uncomfortable, but his mind was not latched to their chatting. It was a surprise that he had managed a proper response to her inquiry. But he had offered his name when she had requested it. When his golden gaze fell on her, he could see that she was growing bored with his silence and would have preferred a more vocal companion.
 
The pale woman returned his introduction with her own name and then rose to her feet. He watched carefully, without saying a word, and when she bowed to him in farewell, Kierkegaard did dip his head in response before watching her depart. And when the brute was alone again, he found that it suited him far better than the company of strangers. Pointing himself in his intended direction, the ghost wandered from their meeting place in search of seclusion.