April 28, 2017, 01:24 PM
(This post was last modified: September 26, 2018, 06:35 PM by Coelacanth.)
Betrayal of this magnitude was a new and harrowing experience for Coelacanth, but the hurt it engendered echoed a long healed hurt from the tiny Groenendael’s earliest memories: the first betrayal. For just as Lotte had nipped at Seelie’s feathered heels to drive her toward her captors, so too had Selkie nipped at the heels of her infant children to drive them away from Nanaimo. Oh, she hurt! For the first time in hours — days, maybe; she didn’t know how much time had passed — Seelie stirred, a thready whimper trembling upon her lips. Her gamine frame was littered with bruises and punctures, but as far as she could tell, she was generally sound. Dainty paws shifted as she gingerly took stock of her injuries, unfolding the tight bud of her fear-knotted musculature to explore her dimly lit surroundings on tenterhooks.
She appeared to be in a cave that smelled of old blood and the fetid stink of terror, its ceiling and floor infested with ugly, serrated fangs. Yellowed with age and spattered with rust-colored stains whose origins she had no care to discover, they seemed almost sentient in the tenebrae — and she flinched involuntarily at the sight of them, tufted ears flattening and Neptune eyes squinting as she sharply recoiled. The empath felt quite plainly the panic and pain of the Wolfskull’s previous victims, and the grim miasma was intensified by the fact that she was literally backed into a corner. As a rule, Coelacanth was decidedly unfond of cages, caves, and corners — and she did her best to flee, nimble paws darting fleetly between the macabre weave poles like a little black pinball. She moved with instinctual swiftness, reaching the Wolfskull’s maw in record time.
Open air filled her lungs, billowing out the fragile swell of her breast, the parameters of which were clearly delineated by the scalloped gradient of her rib cage — but with only a single pawstep lying between Coelacanth and freedom, she froze. Tufted ears piped alarum as she looked intently down at her catlike paws, tipping her delicate head first to one side, then the other. They stood in sharp contrast to the sallow floor of her prison — and they served as a chilling reminder of everything that had led up to this very moment. She had no reason to expect rescue or respite — she could do nothing but endure. In a spectacular display of learned helplessness, she drew her rose blush tongue anxiously across her lips and issued a shaking whisper-whine of indecision, her ears crumpling like black silk and her carriage folding in on itself as she backed away from the promise of freedom and moved deeper into the cave of nightmares.
There, Seelie curled herself into a little dog doughnut and settled down, waiting for the pain.
It was not long in coming.
She appeared to be in a cave that smelled of old blood and the fetid stink of terror, its ceiling and floor infested with ugly, serrated fangs. Yellowed with age and spattered with rust-colored stains whose origins she had no care to discover, they seemed almost sentient in the tenebrae — and she flinched involuntarily at the sight of them, tufted ears flattening and Neptune eyes squinting as she sharply recoiled. The empath felt quite plainly the panic and pain of the Wolfskull’s previous victims, and the grim miasma was intensified by the fact that she was literally backed into a corner. As a rule, Coelacanth was decidedly unfond of cages, caves, and corners — and she did her best to flee, nimble paws darting fleetly between the macabre weave poles like a little black pinball. She moved with instinctual swiftness, reaching the Wolfskull’s maw in record time.
Open air filled her lungs, billowing out the fragile swell of her breast, the parameters of which were clearly delineated by the scalloped gradient of her rib cage — but with only a single pawstep lying between Coelacanth and freedom, she froze. Tufted ears piped alarum as she looked intently down at her catlike paws, tipping her delicate head first to one side, then the other. They stood in sharp contrast to the sallow floor of her prison — and they served as a chilling reminder of everything that had led up to this very moment. She had no reason to expect rescue or respite — she could do nothing but endure. In a spectacular display of learned helplessness, she drew her rose blush tongue anxiously across her lips and issued a shaking whisper-whine of indecision, her ears crumpling like black silk and her carriage folding in on itself as she backed away from the promise of freedom and moved deeper into the cave of nightmares.
There, Seelie curled herself into a little dog doughnut and settled down, waiting for the pain.
It was not long in coming.
May 06, 2017, 08:16 AM
He knew the Web as thoroughly as the adults, now, perhaps even better was his knowledge. In the Web did he tread now, the only sound beside steady footfalls and the lightness of his breath, that of his own thoughts. He knew of the woman that had been taken in penance for the trespassers' idiocy, the dark woman with the tufted ears and with the distinct scent of brine.
The stone above him sloped, narrowed until he manoeuvred with the stone walls brushing his sides and his head dipped low. From the vantage of absolute darkness, the dimness of the cave was barely visible, the entrance to the tunnel he now used hidden amongst the darkness that seeped down the rear of Wolfskull. The boy slipped silently from the cave, footfalls careful now, whispers of sound. He moves forward, weaving with practised ease between the fangs that pierce the chilled stone below and above him.
When his gaze falls upon the dark woman does he pause, rear sinking as he settles upon his haunches, her breath and his now the only sound. He does not seek to rouse her, merely does he sit and watch with the dead gaze of a corpse. He is utterly still, waiting, watching, the woman curled on the stone.
May 13, 2017, 06:04 AM
(This post was last modified: June 22, 2017, 10:09 AM by Coelacanth.)
Thank you for joining! ♥
“Quiet!”
Long, thick-knuckled fingers form a crude muzzle — trigger and middle clamped over the delicate bridge, thumb bone jammed against the soft hollow of the underjaw. Plagued by hyperacusis, the woman has lost her temper with Little Girl’s incessant piping. “Stop! Just stop! Please stop!” she groans desperately at the downy-furred, round-bellied puppy, who responds to the forcible silencing as well as anyone can expect a three month old Groenendael cross to. She whips back and forth like a live wire, reaching up with both forepaws to try to shove away the woman’s hand, hips bucking and spine snaking as she fills the air with muffled whines. Slivers of whalebone white frame cerulean irises, exuding panic, as she loses control of her bladder and her oversized ears fall back in shame.
The long forgotten memory forced itself upon Coelacanth, a self-inflicted hurt that unearthed a wellspring of other memories. This dingy prison was not so different from the veterinary clinic’s metal cage — the sting of disinfectant had not been enough to sufficiently mask the acrid tang of other dogs who had panicked and mourned and bled there. “Quiet!” when she howled for Amoxtli. “Quiet!” when she wanted her mother and father. “Quiet!” again and again, calling her by a name she did not recognize. “Little Girl, quiet!”
My name is Coelacanth.
Her tortured reverie was interrupted at last by a change in the air pressure — subtle, insidious, but easily identifiable to the hypersensitive creature — that brought her delicate head cautiously up and around.
Seelie lacked intimate knowledge of the Wolfskull’s secrets, and she did not expect to be accosted from behind. Her Neptune eyes were trepidacious, mournful, but far from expectant as she swept her sights in a wide arc — and when they landed upon the gray phantom they flew wide, slim muzzle parting to unfurl what might have been for others a shrill shriek but what was for Coelacanth a sharp expulsion of breath with no tone to encompass her fright. She jumped, momentarily airborne, landing in a soft tangle of ink and feathers. Her tender heart lurched unevenly in her chest; it leapt into her throat and beat against its confines like a trapped and frenzied bird; it dropped like a lead anchor into the pit of her stomach. Terror fashioned of her gamine framework a tight snarl, conjured a disarray of hackles along her sharply arched spine.
With her tufted ears pinned back and her cerulean eyes half-lidded in a timorous squint, Coelacanth regarded the young wolf who dwarfed her in size. Almost against her will, and certainly against her better judgment, she tried to warn him away: velveteen flews tautened, lifting just enough to reveal the tiniest glint of alabaster — barely the tips of her upper canines. The feral display was so unlike her that she stilled her expression midway through, though, licking nervously at her quivering lips as she conveyed a confusing mixture of, “Stay away or I’ll bite!” and, “I’m sorry; please don’t hurt me!” An airy whine stirred in her throat, warring for the space with a ticking growl no louder than a housecat’s purr.
Abruptly, she tucked her head beneath her paws — a canid’s equivalent of throwing the bedcovers over her head to discourage monsters — and when she emerged long moments later, the specter was gone, leaving her even more unsettled than before.
Long, thick-knuckled fingers form a crude muzzle — trigger and middle clamped over the delicate bridge, thumb bone jammed against the soft hollow of the underjaw. Plagued by hyperacusis, the woman has lost her temper with Little Girl’s incessant piping. “Stop! Just stop! Please stop!” she groans desperately at the downy-furred, round-bellied puppy, who responds to the forcible silencing as well as anyone can expect a three month old Groenendael cross to. She whips back and forth like a live wire, reaching up with both forepaws to try to shove away the woman’s hand, hips bucking and spine snaking as she fills the air with muffled whines. Slivers of whalebone white frame cerulean irises, exuding panic, as she loses control of her bladder and her oversized ears fall back in shame.
The long forgotten memory forced itself upon Coelacanth, a self-inflicted hurt that unearthed a wellspring of other memories. This dingy prison was not so different from the veterinary clinic’s metal cage — the sting of disinfectant had not been enough to sufficiently mask the acrid tang of other dogs who had panicked and mourned and bled there. “Quiet!” when she howled for Amoxtli. “Quiet!” when she wanted her mother and father. “Quiet!” again and again, calling her by a name she did not recognize. “Little Girl, quiet!”
My name is Coelacanth.
Her tortured reverie was interrupted at last by a change in the air pressure — subtle, insidious, but easily identifiable to the hypersensitive creature — that brought her delicate head cautiously up and around.
Seelie lacked intimate knowledge of the Wolfskull’s secrets, and she did not expect to be accosted from behind. Her Neptune eyes were trepidacious, mournful, but far from expectant as she swept her sights in a wide arc — and when they landed upon the gray phantom they flew wide, slim muzzle parting to unfurl what might have been for others a shrill shriek but what was for Coelacanth a sharp expulsion of breath with no tone to encompass her fright. She jumped, momentarily airborne, landing in a soft tangle of ink and feathers. Her tender heart lurched unevenly in her chest; it leapt into her throat and beat against its confines like a trapped and frenzied bird; it dropped like a lead anchor into the pit of her stomach. Terror fashioned of her gamine framework a tight snarl, conjured a disarray of hackles along her sharply arched spine.
With her tufted ears pinned back and her cerulean eyes half-lidded in a timorous squint, Coelacanth regarded the young wolf who dwarfed her in size. Almost against her will, and certainly against her better judgment, she tried to warn him away: velveteen flews tautened, lifting just enough to reveal the tiniest glint of alabaster — barely the tips of her upper canines. The feral display was so unlike her that she stilled her expression midway through, though, licking nervously at her quivering lips as she conveyed a confusing mixture of, “Stay away or I’ll bite!” and, “I’m sorry; please don’t hurt me!” An airy whine stirred in her throat, warring for the space with a ticking growl no louder than a housecat’s purr.
Abruptly, she tucked her head beneath her paws — a canid’s equivalent of throwing the bedcovers over her head to discourage monsters — and when she emerged long moments later, the specter was gone, leaving her even more unsettled than before.
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