Cricket Creek Bog Searching

Just a fat little cult wolf, looking for a new friend.

Her belly was large now. The children within her kicked and rolled, lifting her skin and pinging off her ribs. It was occasionally uncomfortable, but overall wholly enjoyable. Pregnancy had, despite the terrible morning sickness that had plagued her for the majority of the weeks past, been a thing she treasured. And now she was restless, sure that her children would come soon. She had prepared her den, scraping out the dirt with careful paws to make it larger. She had packed it with moss from the very bog she sat near now, as well as tufts of her own fur. Overall she was pleased. The den was warm, the winter chill could be kept out.

Yet, she was restless. So she found herself on the edge of the border of the Sun Mote and Cricket Creek. She could not travel far now, too large was she to risk it. Here on the borders she felt safe though, Molech would watch her and her pack was only a call away. She wanted to hear the crickets sing for a last time before the winter came, and as the sun slowly began to dip the insects began to sing.

Perhaps Molech would deign to send company her way. Perhaps there was a lonely soul out here that she had been sent to help, admist the music of the dying crickets.

this looked lonely! c:

If there is anything that Ysengrin well and truly is, then he is a wind. He is both predictable and not, nurturer and destroyer. He bears with him the rain, but he carries also the wildfire that burns. He goes where he will and he cannot be contained, though he can be withheld. On such a day as this, he is the Wandering Wind, the one who comes and goes and stays and he drifts from the Grouse Forest to the Bird Pool, to here.

He watches the sunset with his careful, calculating eyes. Rarely does Ysengrin find pleasure in such material things, for materialistic men do not survive long. Instead, he loses himself in the thrill of the hunt and the suspense that awaits him in planning for a momentous occasion. Under the light of the disappearing sun, he knows that he will be well-hidden if he desires to look for prey, but he does not. He simply prepares himself to move on.

And so Ysengrin stares with his gleaming gaze until he picks out the figure amidst the grass - plump, he thinks, and indulges himself with the possibilities. So large - surely it must be a pack wolf, for loners like him are known more for the rib-marr about their frames than fat a-plenty.

He decides not to call out, observing instead the sounds the dying crickets make, the surroundings, the sharpness of the autumn air - anything and everything. Death is not usually so... pleasant, if the chirping can be called that, but Ysen supposes that crickets and swans are alike in that matter. They all have swansongs, the final breath of the dying.

Thanks for joining it!

She sat in peace, her children for once not applying their powerful limbs to her tender parts. The crickets, or Molech, had calmed them and perhaps they slumbered. She inhaled deeply, noting that the chill of winter was hidden just behind the fresh autumn scent. It would not be long before the cold months came, and with it she would bring new life. An end to much, but a beginning for her and the Malkaria. Many young would come during the winter it seemed. There were many more to hunt for them, though, many to keep them fed. She did not fear the cold.

It did not occur to her that she was taking solace, pleasure even, in the songs of the dying crickets. Her mind was not turned so darkly, the cup was half-full. A change in the song off to one side drew her eyes, ears flicking to catch the sounds, or rather the silence. She caught sight of a distant figure. They too seemed to be enjoying listening, even as the crickets around them went silent for fear. She lift her head, watching the other for a moment, before calling softly to them. The nearest insects went quiet for a brief second as her voice moved across the land, but soon resumed the song once the threat was past.

"Hello, silent stranger. Are you enjoying the song, as well?" Her voice is slightly raspy but still feminine, with an edge of weariness in it that she has not been able to sleep away in recent weeks. It is not for lack of happiness though, simply from the strain of growing new life. She makes no move to rise, doesn't want to disturb the peace her young have. So instead she watches and listens for the other, wondering if they will approach her or speak at a distance.

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he nods, still silent, still observing the cricket swansong. they prepare to die; he, just begins to live and such irony also amuses the boy. they sing in their simplicity while he gladly contemplates his own existence. ysengrin turns his head at the raise of voice, noting the deathly quiet next to him. ah, this should not be so - he wishes to sing to accompany their melody but he does not. for he must listen to another speak, and he must hear every word!
the youth supposes it would be rude to not accompany a lady in her musing so he waltzes forth, gracefully slipping onto his side. he still opens not his mouth; barely nods instead to, in childish mischief, play up the silent stranger role. if she wills him to be silent then let his tongue not wag! ysen will listen to every word she says, and silent in his unfamiliarity to her he will be.

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She watches the shape slip forward from the bush and dark, drawing closer and then sliding onto their side. She noted instantly that he was a male by scent, slightly younger than she herself, though he was also built of a lithe form. His colors were pleasing to her eye, red and grey mixed. He did not speak, but lay playfully and listened to the song around them. She smiled at him, intrigued, but took what she considered to be his lead and continued to listen to the insects.

Finally, after many moments of peaceful silence she turned her gaze back towards him. "It is a peaceful night for listening to the crickets. One of the last we may yet get of them until next year. The cold will come soon, and their songs will wait under the snow for the next season." She paused, considering her words, before inhaling and speaking again. "That is why I came here, as I am, so that I might hear them one last time before the cold months." He didn't ask for an explanation, but she thought the silence did.

"Is that why you are here, as well? To listen to them sing their last?" She let her eyes rest on him, wondering now if he would speak back to her. Perhaps she should name herself, and break the spell about them, free his tongue. "I am Asherah acolyte of the Malkaria, I reside within the Copse behind me. And you?" She directly addressed him this time, wanting to hear the voice on such a calm and quiet creature.

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he is to be the silent stranger, is he not? ysen smiles, turning his face half-away, as if hiding some terribly humorous secret that he cannot reveal and yet finds amusement in holding it to himself. ah-ah-ah! he is not to speak, not to make even a small tune escape his lips, so he views them as mangled, ruined things that he cannot bear to open. but of course, they are not, and the stranger persists in speaking to the boy. oh, the heavy burden of silence granted by another, only to wish it gone by the very giver! the boy appreciates this irony, and he smiles again, for it is true.
he nods at her words - gentle, unassuming words. surely she must be young, to see such innocence in the world! and her sight pure, her vision unsullied by the horrid mud-stain on nature's satin. yet she speaks with much wisdom, the wisdom of a woman who has seen much and learnt much, and willingly shares it with the world. she is a mother also, he sees, admires the swell of her belly and the gentle sloping of her shoulders. ah, a shame that he cannot speak!
he nods again, tucking away this precious, precious name and pack-calling into his mind, for him to later weave stories and tales with. names have power, so his Madir tells him. let none know ysengrin, says she, once upon a time, let none harness the magic of your call.
he tilts his neck up just so, drawing a line across, shrugging his shoulders helplessly. look, i cannot speak, he seems to say. see, i have been silenced, his eyes plead. he drags a nail up and down, up and down, in jagged, leaning edges. know, my voice is gone.

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The male responds to her in all but words. She regarded him curiously for a moment, wondering why he holds his tongue. When finally she directly asked something of him, and no answer came, she was confused. He shrugs, his eyes looking at her pleadingly. A nail is drawn across the dirt and her eyes drop to watch the progress. For only a moment longer she is confused, and then she accepts the reality that he has given her, the reality that she unknowingly placed upon him.

"Ah," She says softly, a bit surprised still. "You truly cannot speak?" She watches him, wondering at how he survives as a loner with no voice to explain his actions. "You have my apologies, stranger. I did not know. You above all than, must know how to enjoy the song of the crickets. I suppose it is both a blessing and a curse to be without a voice." She looks to him for silent confirmation. "Is it hard as a loner?" He, of course, cannot give an out and out answer but he speaks well with his eyes and body.

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ah-h-h-h yes, he drags his nail across his neck oh so slowly, caught up as she is in the plight of the poor loner, the unfortunate rogue who has been relieved of his voice! he so very nearly believes it himself and ysengrim's eyes are a disquieting kind of sadness in themselves. in a way, he is bound not to speak for himself - for others, yes, but for himself? nothing.
you truly cannot speak?
he shakes his head, eyes sorrowful but a-twinkle with knowing gaze. he speaks not through words, indeed, but his gaze is expressive as ever and his lips curl up into a silent smile. ah, no! so sadly is the pretty lady wrong in assuming his inability to communicate with actual voice but she is still not wrong.
he gestures at the cricketsong, motions to the falling leaves and the last of the branches a-turning bare. he enjoys it, yes, but then he knows death is scarlet, and scarlet bleeds out across snow-white.
oh! she wants tales of his life as a rogue, but in truth he is no longer rogue - although ysen does suppose that the scent of his lord does not linger well on his frame. he has not set foot inside the territory truly. lingering on outskirts and so his scent does not seem to belong... the youth shakes his head again. no, no, no - life as a loner is not hard.
he bares his teeth in a small, apologetic grin. boys have no stories to share, he seems to say with it, and notes to himself the recent pack-scent on this woman as well. pack-life suits one well, then?
"speak"

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She watches the sadness in his gaze, and is truly and wholly caught in his tale. She is deeply intrigued by this silent stranger, and wonders if he might follow her home at the end of things. Was he lonely? How nice it would be to learn more of him and how he survived without a voice. She follows his gestures, eyes flowing from one thing to another. She understands what he means, or thinks that she does. There is a certainly kind of vanity in supplying another with words in your own mind. There is beauty in everything, she imagines he means, even in endings. She nods to his silence, smiling softly. "Without endings we would have no beginnings. These songs might not seem so lovely, if we were not deprived of them for a time." She muses, inhaling of the cold night air.

She smiles softly at his refusal to weave a tale and nods with understanding. She finds her own voice similarly hiding within her, perhaps in sympathy. "You wonder of my home?" She asks, and then waits for confirmation. "My home is lovely. Just behind us, there. We are family and we share our meals as well as our values. And now I am blessed to bring more to the world, to grow our numbers." And here, the question that seems to always follow talk of the Sun Mote Copse. "Have you heard of Molech, silent friend?" She was sure that he had not, but asked anyway. Perhaps one day someone would surprise her by responding yes. "We worship Molech in my home. A wonderful, giving God." 

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he is fluid, moving from sentence to sentence and unuttered words, translating worlds through what he does and the way he looks at her. and ysen, though he is a boy, tastes success, pulls it nearer, weaves his intentions into his dance - he nods, at the query, and he settles in to listen.
blessed! blessed is she, to be filled with children, so the good lady thinks - and ysen would agree with her - oh, he would shout for joy to the heavens, but 'tis winter and winter children are the children who die the most, who suffer the most, who must fight and battle ev'ry day for survival against the harsh elements. pity! and he knows not of this molech, but if he truly is a benevolent god, then he would gift them with spring waifs, small babes grown up in the comfort of summer and autumn, and well to last the winter. he shakes his head no, but offers a smile at that.
tell me more, prophet

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He seems interested in Molech, and she returns the smile. Though her eyes were bright before, they glow even more as she begins to talk. She radiates with love and fervor, with belief in what she speaks. "A wolf with many arms, The Many Armed God. Molech asks much of you, but returns it tenfold. Without Molech I would be dead now, and dear stranger, I believe that with all my heart."

She watched the other to gauge their interest, but pressed forward to complete her story a little. "My life was miserable before I joined my family here. I was ready to die, no hope, no reason. Food did not interest me, and I had no purpose. As I contemplated my very life, Molech sent one of my sisters to me. She found me, scooped me from the pit of darkness I had descended into and shined the Light of Molech upon me. With the Malkaria I have found family, joy, and love. Here now I am blessed, full of life and birthing more soon enough where before I was full of darkness, with death hovering above me."

To any other she was sure she sounded as if she was being overdramatic, but it was true. Her life had lead her here, there were too many things that must be explained away. Molech had lead her to this spot, to Eshamun, to the Light.

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sometimes, when ysen is feeling good, he allows himself to smile a little, dance a little, and indulge himself in a little study of religion. sadly today is not that day, although he takes the information in stride with a wink, and a curving of his lips to show contentment. oh! the very notion that a stranger should choose to share such personal thoughts with him! surely her devotion must be great, and her willingness to spread the light greater.
the boy shakes his head in pity of her past, and makes to stand. and then, very carefully, he plucks a cricket from the air that has come too close -- and offers it to the lady who has entertained him so. he tips her a smile, and a little tip-tap of his feet, as if to say, why thank you, and i must be going now
he drops the twitching insect near her, and eyes the barren trees and the bristled bushes, before he, too, bounds off into the dry, brown landscape and blends in amongst the dust in his wake.

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exit ysen, thank you for the thread!