Blacktail Deer Plateau the swelling of broken violins

@Olive

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it would not be long now, armand told himself. already he had begun to burn with fever, and this warmed his mind even as his body suffered beneath the cold and brumous skies of heralded wintertime. he walked, but oft he walked with the boys at the painter's palazzo; armand laughed with them, he heard their jokes, and when he finally collapsed, his lips parted and he breathed not the icy air, salted with the nearby sea, but the breath of his master, his maker.
the boy stood beneath a pregnant moon upon the highest point of a cold and empty plateau, and wove in trembling steps, once more in a dream. and as before, as always, the great man stood with his back to armand. it was only when the ganymede tread a third step that the wolf began to turn, and behind him the sun rose to gild his fur in scarlet, and a smile began to bloom upon his lips.
armand's body tore him violently from the dream and threw him down upon the grass with a jerk, for he had been too close to walking over the plateau's edge, and boy spasmed there in a fit of anger, shrieking with an inconsolable rage until he weakened himself and lay still, save for the tearstained breaths he drew through clenched teeth.[/tr][/td][/table]

He was a writhing thing, akin to a fish that found itself unceremoniously thrown to land at the behest of a wolf’s ivory teeth. Olive watched his for a moment’s postponement, her cream figure smudged and concealed by the shadows of a distant treeline. He shrieked and cried, throwing his small body about in a visually disturbing manner. Never before had Olive seen an animal act in this manner [that was not in the throes of death] and the sprite found herself fascinated. But it was a lurid interest that quickly manifested itself as sorrow and heartbreak for the broken boy.

What caused him to anguish so? The woman was thrust forward with a sudden resurgence of empathy and strode up to his side, moving slowly and fluidly in hopes of not frightening him. 

“Beloved, what ails you so?” Olive exclaimed softly as she rounded nearer to him, traveling lightly on her feet. As she strode ever closer, the harlequin noticed that he was no larger than her own petite frame and his fur was matted with tears. He looked not only in spiritual pain, but something physically ailed him too. “Center your soul within your body; listen to your breaths and feel your lifeblood flow through your veins, uninhibited and free. You are here in this moment, and in this moment nothing cruel can touch you.” The fae whispered instructions to him in earnest, wishing to abate this creature’s obvious pain.

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armand turned his head until his cheek lay against the grasses, and fixed his eyes upon the soft verdancy set in a lovely face. her words churned about him with unwelcome cheeriness, and he rolled back to the sharp points of his spine with a low sound of annoyance. and yet her face loomed above his own, the sweetness of her tones mishandled by his bitter ears. armand softened toward the woman, and blinked, clearing the cold webs from his vision until he met her gaze once more with clarity wreathing his features. she meant no harm, this fairy-woman, who had undoubtedly sprung from some ring of violets.
but she knew not the ire he carried, nor the memory of all he had seen. "all the world is words," armand whispered up toward the dream of her face, the gunmetal and smoke wreathing into a cloud of soft down beneath which her sculpted form was clearly visible. "and all the world are devils. you -- and i -- we are no different."
armand lifted himself upon until his haunches met the earth -- the boy's head spun and he gasped aloud, a short sound upon which he quickly closed his teeth. "the blood that beats in my veins; the heart that beats in my chest! yes! all these things hurt me," he growled, raising his head to regard her with a pair of sunken eyes set like glittering night into the skeletal narrowness of his feminine face. "if there is a hell, then i am in it."[/tr][/td][/table]

Olive was admittedly a bit taken aback that the wraith did not submitting willingly to her ornamented rhetoric [as wolves often did]. Made uneasy by this, Olive’s throat tightened and her  veridian gaze regarded him closely. Was he dangerous he dangerous in such a state? Did this disconsolate soul event wanted her there? This was an emotion that she really didn’t understand, as the fae lived a generally positive and upbeat existence.

But, misery would always be helplessly devoted to company, this Olive knew - and as he shuddered and shook upon the plateau’s crisped grasses, the boy revealed himself to be nothing but pure misery. As such, Olive was to be his company.

The peaceful crusader did not necessarily know how best to help the him. Ever the empath, Olive knew a distraught animal to also be an animal that wasn’t thinking clearly. Logos took a backseat to seething pathos in these situations, leaving no room for a stranger’s persuasion. Even with this perspective, Olive’s jeweled tone dropped into a smoky alto, growing deeper alongside her situational sobriety.

“The blood in your veins and the heart that beats inside you - are they not the very organs that sustain your life and permit you to draw breath?  You can appreciate their innate power or you can loathe them for the pain they cause. One of those options requires much more suffering.” The auburn male sat up during her impassioned soliloquy and she leaned in towards him, remaining upon all four cream colored paws. 

“We are each in our own hells.” The seraph tasted the thick words.  “Life is hell…so, we are forced to look towards the heavens.”

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why did she speak so? armand gleaned nothing from her words but an optimism he did not wish to hear. she spoke of his organs -- how did she know they did not pain him? they did nothing for the child but keep his body locked into a world where he did not wish to live. the boy scowled, and openly, and at length he raised himself up to pace some shaky steps away from the woman. he turned to behold her then, this creature swaddled in the burial shrouds of a small and beautiful child, some wraith just escaped from the stale breath of the grave.
"you do not believe the words you speak," armand hissed, returning to the woman's presence with a gaze that had edged itself in ice. "all these endless platitudes and the prattling, like the clacking empty teeth of dead skulls." as quickly as his wrath had come, it abated. "but you are lovely. there is no need for loneliness when the wine of beauty is upon your tongue."[/tr][/td][/table]

Olive winced as the boy spat acrid words back to her, deigning to stand up and place additional space between them - the space she had closed moments prior, as she sun her heartfelt words to him. Her ears swept backwards and pressed tightly against her skull, lips tightening and constricting her ivories. He was young, and it was common knowledge that young were subject to an adolescent sense of angst and constant vitriol - but his sentiments stung her nonetheless. Rather than indignation, dispiritedness crept up and expressed itself strongly through her emerald eyes. If he could only halt his chaotic spiral for a moment's clemency, the anguished boy would learn that she spoke the truth; ancient wisdom passed down to her by forces much greater than he or she, and corroborated through her own testing. The harlequin did not speak emptily, nor did she consider her beliefs simple platitude. It was sad to her, that he couldn't open himself to ideas that challenged his own torment. 

And as quickly as it came, it was gone and the boy was speaking of her loveliness. Olive canted her head at him, doubtful of the sincerity of his vivid articulations. Really, the sylph did not appreciate her intelligence being insulted [while her beauty was exalted]. Loveliness was but a shell, for true beauty exuded from the mind and the soul.

As a generally even-keeled wolf, Olive was hard pressed to ever experience such dizzying oscillations. Should she leave? Should she force her company upon him?  A small part of her wanted to pick up shop - but her thin haunches sat firmly upon the earth, unable to be moved. 

“I cannot ignore your suffering.” the woman spoke matter of factly, ignoring his diversion in topic.

 Olive then spoke softly, but confidently.“If words and ideas cannot soothe, then tell me how I can help you. Speak naught of your story, if that is what you wish - but I will not leave you.” Olive curtailed the brashness of her stance, drawing her petite form in and assuming the look of an obliging compatriot.

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if he had lashed her delicacy with the scourge of his tongue, and left there a bruise upon the paleness of her innocent mind, armand did not care. the world had no sun within it, no golden rays to fruit themselves within even the mellifluous of voices, as the woman bore. yet she met his insults with a stoic countenance and settled herself with a yearning for the ugly knowledge that armand did hold locked beneath his tongue. for armand, there was no logic within him, only words sharpened by pain and unreined emotion to guide him, for this was how he had been made, how he had been reared -- the cool hungry mind of his creator had not translated into that of his own.
transcendent in his own hatred, now directed at the feather who deserved none of his ire, armand came full into his milieu, but found some scant reason with which to check himself. "there is nothing to tell. i was born. i wish to die. the content of the parts between the sum of my existence is irrelevant." and here he paused, ears wilting suddenly, the minute light gleaming from the thousand threadlike veins that gathered along the cup of his auds. "if you must know it, i was born. taken from my family and put to work in a darkened den of incense, all manner of lusts and debauchery perpetuated against my form. taken again from that by a man who shaped the filthy clay of my being into a child of hope. but i ran. i lost him, and the darkness found me. i became its king, until once more i was spat out, and here you find me now."
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The soul that affronted her shone brightly with an intriguing sense of red hot despair; fractured through a screen of pederasty and disillusion. His anguish was just [in that aspect], but the manner in which he wished to die perturbed Olive. It was macabre and desperate, as if his life held no value now that it was unrecognizable.  His auric facade demonstrated a reluctance to speak, but the words brought forth appeared [to Olive] to earnestly seek a listening ear. Olive waited quietly as the melancholic story lapsed, petite ears flattened against her skull and veridian stare keenly probing his own. Death was an beguiling topic to the greyscale femme and she found herself ruminating on it often - but she desired know this gamin’s truth, as she knew very few wolves who sincerely wished desecration upon themselves and followed through. Still, she bit her tongue and responded in a forthright and sincere manner.

“To survive is to suffer.” 

Olive drew herself back after speaking, not wishing to cozen the man into an uninvited embrace - though that was all she longed to do. Instead, she spoke again - despite his apparent abhorance of her rhetoric. “Do you how to best catch a bird?"

"Here's how you do so. You must take berries from a bush and place them in a crevice with a small opening. The opening should be just big enough for the bird to stick his clawed foot into. When the bird graps the berries attempts to retreat, he will find that he cannot fit his foot back through the opening. If the bird would just let go of the berries, he could escape. But he just… won’t."

Olive wondered if her story would be relevant to the nonsensical boy and hoped he could recognize the principle within the parable. Armand was the bird, grasping at something that did not serve him [but could not seem to let go of]. Platitude or not, Olive knew philosophy to be the healer of all wretchedness and she sought solace in it’s teachings almost daily.  The bantam woman's voice fell several octaves again.

“Attachment leads to suffering, but detachment harkens freedom. You must forget the life which torments you and start anew; emancipated from your pain.”

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armand grit his teeth but sprang open the closed steel trap of his mind to admit her words into its teeth. it was true, he supposed -- he was the bird of which she spoke, grasping something he himself did not fully comprehend. the alacrity of his acceptance alarmed the pathetic wastrel — armand found himself building a veritable wall of recalcitrance against the woman, lest her soft eyes behold that she had slipped her tongue beneath his skin and found him wanting. 
but even as the words crept like thorns to his tongue, to be hurled into the yielding delicate flesh, armand felt them wilting between his teeth. why fight against the truth he knew to be his lot? "i fear you do not understand how much pain is married to me, and i to it," the boy whispered mournfully, and now he felt an etching of sorrow for how he had treated her moment before. it was with brimming eyes that he looked to the woman again. "i have lost my way, and i do not seek to find it again, and it smites me when i meet another who has their feet firmly planted on the path i once wished to walk."
armand inhaled deeply, wanting suddenly to be taken into her arms, where he might write his apology upon the linen-fine countenance of her face, the gentle train of her ashen veil; where he might seek to mend the crevasse he himself had torn.[/tr][/td][/table]

It was impossible galvanize a soul that was closed off, uninterested in what lay just beyond their familiar sense of melancholy. The unawakened were often addicted to their own person brand of misery, as if the gloom gifted them purpose.  Olive understood the thinking behind this: true happiness was an intimidating paradigm, as it shone a spotlight on the beings’ shortcomings and challenged the person to not only accept, but overcome. It's an act that requires tremendous strength — strength that Olive was not sure even she could summon, should the woman ever have to wrench herself out of the deepest circle of hell. If the eternal macrocosm saw it fit, Olive hoped she would never have to surmount a trial such as the one that unfolded before her. 

But the boy in front of her, was he not the picture of perfect brokenness? Was he a being addicted to his sadness, or had his soul truly been assassinated by life’s contingencies? These questions were difficult for Olive to answer, as he kept his words well guarded and he shielded the details of his story with an aegis of crucifixion. Perhaps it mattered not, as the boy’s verity was not hers to claim. His secrets would remain his own for as long as he would keep them… and for that tenure, Olive desired nothing more than to be his most egalitarian shepherd.

And then the golden tempest’s tone downshifted and the poisonous lace that fringed his words unraveled [albeit slowly] as it fell from between his lips. The perfumed seraph’s ears slid from their dwelling against her skull and assumed a relaxed position. If this boy labored to change his tone [for her sake, most likely], then she would do the same for him. Noting a further change in his posture, the perfumed seraph sidled up next to him. Her rose-stained tongue parted her ashen maw and licked his shoulder encouragingly, smoothing a small part of his haggard pelt. Not wanting to startle him with [what could be] an unwelcome touch, Olive pulled herself back slightly and whispered softly to him.

“What’s your name?”

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oh, but it was diverting, was it not? to wallow in the slough of despair — to drink bitter wine and chew upon the marrowless bones of all that once was. to bed down in the dust of crypts, both real and imagined. and to never stir. to remain there forever — yes, yes. this was armand's lot, and he no longer strove for the happiness he once craved, for new joy could never be so pure as the remembered sort, and so why would he reach for illusions, even if he was able to pluck them down from the tree of life?
why he could not speak openly to this soul, armand did not not — perhaps it was the belief the ganymede suddenly held that she could not carry the weight of all that rested upon his shoulders, and he saw no reason to transfer such a burden to her slight form and nurturing voice; why drip poison down the stone walls of her well when he could merely take it into himself, as he had done for so long?
armand did not realize that he had closed his eyes upon the vision of his compatriot until the lap of her tongue across the tangled fur of his shoulder roused him; the boy blinked lashes against the angular jut of his cheekbones and turned to her. "armand," he whispered, and that was all there was to say; let her guide him now. he would follow.[/tr][/td][/table]

He was fragile, but so was she… but her fragility was of a mental kind, rather than emotional. The ashen dove had always been easily seduced by new ideas and new experiences — and, as quietly as she did, the woman was not opposed forsook deep bonds and ties in this pursuit. She had left her small, natal pack for that very reason, of course. And yet, a year later she found herself settled with a pack of strangers [family]. Yes, her life had too been thrown asunder and shaped into something entirely unrecognizable — but Olive welcomed the experience.  Armand, Olive… they were one in the same, as far as Olive cared. They both felt strongly; the only difference being her own fortune and Armand’s misfortune. 


The golden waif’s title was a mere utterance, but Olive’s ears craved it. To hear him say anything that were not a deliberate jab! Instead he offered his name and said no more. He was a man of few, yet profound words. “Olive,” she replied softly, dipping her chin slightly to christen their formal introduction. 

“I- I, I..." Demurely frustrated with her sudden faltering, Olive took a deep breath. "It was not my intention to rush upon you and offend you with my words.” It was a true sentiment. She felt compelled to apologize now that Armand’s demeanor was lukewarm. Not all misery wanted company, and she had burst in upon the grieving soul in a raucous manner. Even so, she heldfast to her decision not to abandon him and sat resolutely on the ground beside him, close enough that her greyscale pelt brushed against his own.

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oh, what was her name, and how could he have forgotten it so swiftly? it did not occur to the boy that she had not yet offered her title till he heard it extended upon the silver chalice of her tongue, almost swallowed by her hasty explanation. armand leant gratefully into her warmth, for the winds had begun in earnest, and rattled his skeletal body within its ragged cloak until his teeth clacked together rather inelegantly. "i meant to hurt you, for i am a miserable beast, olive," he admitted — her intentions had been pure, and his own malicious.
"what sent you here, to this place?" he inquired, wishing with all his heart to believe that this gentle wolfess had been compelled to find him, to soothe him beyond the scattered barbs of his anger. armand closed his eyes and willed himself to stop shuddering — so pathetic he was! and so weak.[/tr][/td][/table]

At least the boy acknowledged his rancor towards her. He had battered her communion and challenged the utopian ideals to which she clung – all of this she could take in stride, but somehow it stung more sharply it was unintentional. When spoke that way, it was their unequivocal truth; but when premeditated and designed, there was often an ulterior motive involved. As such, Armand used her as a scapegoat for his gut-wrenching emotions. But he saw it, recognized it, and the sage dove easily forgave him. 

Armand shook and Olive closed the space between them with a scooch of her seat. Olive cloaked him with her feathered, grey-hued plume as best she could — for she were petite too and unable to shield him entirely from the winds that buffeted them. But her blood ran warm and coursed easily and powerfully through her veins. Yes, Olive’s body was quite healthy and ingorated by love and [if he would not accept her empathy] she hoped to share that much with him. He had not rebuffed her intimacy thus far, so Olive deigned to lay her slender neck over the boney slope of his shoulder; if only to comfort him all the better.

He asked her why she was there. Wherever her heart called, she went. Living amount her family in Teaghlaigh had not dulled this in the woman. And every since the return of Dakarai, she had such a curiosity about the depraved wolves who existed in the Kinta Flatlands. Her kindred lover did not speak of his time with them often or in great detail, but when he did the thought of such vengeful creatures sent a chill down her spine. However, she was a crusader for peace and she felt compelled to venture ever closer, to silently learn more about them. Maybe they had much to teach each other.

“I find myself where I am needed,” she huffed softly, responding to both Armand and her own internal dialogue. And then it clicked. “It wasn’t those… Blackfeather Fuckers who did this to you, was it?” Olive exasperated, summoning Chusi's adolescent words and picking up her head to regard him closely. Perhaps that pack were the reason found himself alone, on the cusp of winter. If this one pack could mercilessly brutalize two innocent men…then they were truly terrible.

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olive embraced him more closely unto her, and armand felt his shivering subside; he suspended himself there placidly, a small smirk writ onto his lips as she spoke. he did not immediately answer, thinking upon the nuance of her words, though he gave a strong laugh at her obscenity, passing from her sugared mouth as it did. "i know no blackfeather fuckers, dear olive," armand purled after a heartbeat's span of time had passed. "nothing was done unto me; i did it to myself." it was the truth; the boy had chosen this life -- was it even such -- for himself and resisted all change to it.
perhaps if the other boys had not turned upon him! or the dark children had not tried to kill him! armand did oft wonder what sort of creature he would have become had such tragedies not placed their blot upon the water of his life, the black tendrils spreading across the surface of his spirit like some cancerous blight. "i wonder if i should return home with you. what do you say?" in truth, he did not wish to do this; he wished to be left alone, but the winter's chill pressed him into reality, no matter how grudging.[/tr][/td][/table]

It wasn't the Blackfeather crew that distressed Armand so, a fact that made immensely happy. If Armand had to crawl across the wilds, emotionally wounded as Dakarai had been physically, Olive would have had no choice to indoctrinate the wolves into her religion of nonviolence. But instead of placid revenge, it seemed that she were to chauffeur him back to her family of forest wolves. “Teaghlaigh would be happy to have you.” Olive was always interested in the idea of expanding Teaghlaigh’s influence, and plus she found that she enjoyed his company. Though miserable, the golden boy was intelligent, passionate and well spoken… perhaps Arturo would like him, just as she.

“I must warn you — you will find no nightmares and or debauchery amongst the family.”  Olive let a wisp of a smile dance across her lips, hinting at the jest inherent in her statement. She wished no to probe fun as his despair, but wanted to excite him at the prospect of safety. He did bring up the idea, after all. “Our forest is a few days travel from here, but… we don’t have to talk.”  If they were to roam across the expanse of the wilds with each other, the last thing she would want to do is disarm his comfortable silence.

fade here and have another at TL?

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teaghlaigh. armand mulled the name of her country over in his mind, pondering what it meant. he decided at length that it did not matter, and smiled wanly at olive. "i do not mind speaking with you," the boy murmured as a tremble overtook him. the breath that emanated forth from his muzzle rose in a pale plume. "i am tortured, olive, but perhaps the distraction of a new place will give me a renewed focus."
a newborn fawn, the child shakily gathered himself to his paws and regarded his companion with a mingling of gratitude and new affection in his eyes. "will you take me there now, dolce uccello?" trepidation entered his heart — surely olive would not refuse! but perhaps she would find him wanting.[/tr][/td][/table]

Totes! If you want to, feel free to start the thread at the borders. Otherwise I can start one tonight :)

"I am glad you see it that way" Olive uttered, nosing Armand and delicately encouraging him to rise. Joy was steadily growing in her heart, replacing its predecessors: uncertainty and sadness. Olive was impressed at what appeared to be a trifled change of heart. Moments before, the male was unable to see through his blinding phantasm. These lamentations Olive had attempted to dispute, but she eventually accepted them and disavowed to leave him in the throes of such a sorry state. 

This all was a moot point now, as migrating to Ravensblood Forest and seeking her beloved family had been his entirely idea. Whether his wish had been completely genuine or not did not matter, for it was the means to an end: his safety.

Following his gesture, Olive padded forward from forested meeting place in a graceful trot. A sideglance was all that she gave her place where she found Armand upon the ground, conceding the memory back to the earth. It was not only the location of Armand's grief but also Dakarai's frantic flight, and these were thoughts that the nymph rather not shoulder. Olive murmured a hushed prayer for the golden boy's new start, hoping he would find what he sought amidst the sap-strained trees of her home. "Yes, let's leave this place." Mentally mapping the most direct route to Teaghlaigh, Olive assimilated into the shadows with her new recruit in tow.