Blackfeather Woods nothing but the burnt edge of an unfinished history
ásabragr
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Ooc — torvi
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#1
Joining 
for @Astrid and @Potema if you want to throw her in here alisha ...perhaps he could be taken as a captive since he slipped from the face of the earth the last time? :0 might be fun to play captive!kja, but ofc we can play this out and see where it goes icly! :-)

Atli is not sure why he can’t just leave the Wilds behind once and for all. The back and forth and inconsistency drives him crazy. He’d came for Potema the first time …and perhaps it is for the priestess that he comes back now. Some part of him thinks that it’s true because he hadn’t wanted to leave the first time, not really. He’d balked when he’d learned of her pregnancy admittedly. It’s not as if he’d been ready to be a father when he’d spawned Vaati with Potema ( though admittedly he didn’t mind that as much because he hadn’t ever anticipated seeing either again ) and he hadn’t been ready to be a father when he’d spawned Arille. He certainly doesn’t want to be a father to children that are not his own but Potema’s been a nagging enigma in his mind. Something about her is gravitational to the northerner even though there is a part of him that wishes that he wasn’t so taken with her. Atli knows that he might be resigning to his death or a fate worse than death.

He nears the borders marked with rotting carcasses, blood and bones, lifts his muzzle skyward and lets out a howl announcing his presence and lowers his body to the ground in submission, part of him fighting the action. He was a King once. A poor King, for sure, but even so. Now he is prostrating himself before the borders of a pack led by a girl for the selfish want of attention of it’s High Priestess; because if there’s one thing Atli Kjalarr’s always been good at: it’s being selfish.
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#2
She had been lucid only because there were little poppy seeds left for her to binge on. She found their supply dwindling day by day by day; scraping the bottom of the proverbial barrel. And she had become angry, not only at herself but at the wolves around her, who she in part blamed for the seeds' quick disappearance. Though most of her anger came from the sudden withdrawal, her brain pounding, demanding more of the opioids. Her body gnawed on her from the inside out.

So it was surprising that she was found so far from the Glen. Not out of any maternal attachment to her children, surely not, but from her desire to find more of the new vice that she had latched onto, her only saving grace after her recent birth.

A voice calls to her, and she wonders if she hallucinating. Atli. He had come here once before, with a promise of protection. Then he had left without a trace, leaving her vulnerable, susceptible to Cicero. She answered his howl with a snarl, her body trundling over to the voice's origin point, gaunt and wild-eyed.
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#3
i think someone's lovesick. oops.

He watches as Potema approaches him, trying to ignore the catch in his throat at the sight of her as she morphs from the dark: gaunt and wild eyed. She makes no move to hide her approach and Atli does not rise from the ground as the High Priestess approaches. He offers no excuses: no attempts to try to paint himself in a good light. He’s not good and he accepts her rage. He has earned it, he knows. “High Priestess,” Her title falls from his lips the sound raw as it leaves his throat but with undeniable reverence. He could be more than what he was: he sees this now. He alone is responsible for his actions thus far in his life — it was high time he stopped blaming Ragnar ( and everyone else ). He does not know if Potema is a second chance kind of woman, but he wants one: a second chance. He wants it so bad that he’s willing to do the ( perhaps ) dumbest thing he’s done yet in his life and put his life on the line for it. From his damaged eye she looks like an apparition: a wisp of smoke that flickers and licks like a flame that seeks to grow into an inferno. In his good eye she is pale and stark against the dark palette of the woods and angry. Gods if she isn’t the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. Some cynical and dark part of him thinks that if he’s to die by her decree then dying by her teeth would not be so bad.

Atli doesn’t want to die. Not yet. He wants to live and he wants to atone to her …for her. “I have earned your ire, High Priestess,” He looks at her paws, ears slicking back against his skull as he speaks. “and I know I do not deserve your forgiveness. I know I deserve any punishment you see fit to give me.” He also knows that he’ll take it: so long as she is the one to make the judgement call because it’s her that he’s came back for. She pulls him in like the gravity of a super nova; and even if he could fight it he wouldn’t. Even as she bares down upon him like the goddess Hel he’s enraptured, he thinks the world of her though he barely knows her. She put a spell on him the night that they conceived Vaati and tha tmagic has seeped into his bones and swallowed his heart until he notices no other woman ( which is quite an accomplishment for him, admittedly ). He doesn’t want any other woman. He wants Potema. “I was a fool and I let it get the better of me. I came back for you. I came back in the hopes that there’s still a chance I can make it up to you. That I can prove to you that I’m worthy of you.” Right now? No. He wasn’t worthy of anything. He knows this. He’s not blind, anymore ( well he is partially blind but in a literal sense ); but he was willing to devote himself to her: wholly this time. To let go of his previous ambitions. To accept her as his goddess, if that’s what she desires.
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#4
o no honey wat is u doin

Mature Content Warning


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The participants have indicated the following reason(s) for this warning: mutilation

He grovels. It is a gesture that she takes to immediately. It had been a long time since she had been given any respect, and the first time in what seemed like years since she was venerated like she was now. It was a welcomed emotion after the weeks of self-pity, self-hatred, the clouded judgement and the feeling of emptiness ever since her second litter, the cursed ones, were born. But her asperity still remains, both from the days-long withdrawal and from his sudden return after a sudden departure.

She says nothing as he speaks. He pleads with her, begging to return to her. And something clicks in her head.

He came back for her. Her. When had anything been done for her sake? She had been sent away for the good of the pack. She was forced to get pregnant the first time for the good of the pack. She was prevented from killing her second litter, the deformed, bound to be insane ones, for the good of the pack. Even the ones that she had first bore were traitorous, inconsiderate fools. She had done nothing but sacrifice her whole life for the happiness of someone else, for the continued existence of a pack that withered despite their best efforts.

She wants him back. For a flurry of reasons that are increasingly, entirely selfish. The cogs in her head begin to turn, different thought processes and possibilities working at the same time. Eventually she speaks, her voice raspy from unuse, cold with anger and detachment — chipped ice. Don't move, She commands, though she knows that he wouldn't leave.

The witch turns, facing the blood-and-bone ornaments that decorate the pack's borders, her eyes searching through the half-consumed skeletons. This was rather impromptu, though it would make the punishment even more delicious in her mind. She snaps a fractured bone — some femur — one end long and sharp.

She makes her way back to him, eyeing his body for a blank canvas to mark him. She settles on his right thigh. She speaks over the bone, her eye still settled on where she would brand him. I'm going mark you with the shadowmark for worthless, They had not used shadowmarks in forever — what use was the practice when all they did was stay huddled in their little dark fortress? If you cry out during this consider yourself gone — and I will make this hurt, She doubted her own strength, but had no lapse of faith on her ability to hurt him. 

The witch approaches him, lining up the sharp end of the bone with the top of his thigh. She presses the point near the top of his muscle, deep as she can without permanently harming his ability to walk or run. She makes a circle, though that act is by far the bloodiest process, having to stop and change the angle time and time again. Once it is complete, jagged as it was, she creates a square inside of it, finishing the mark. The bone clatters to the ground, her mouth stained red by the process, though she is used to red staining her pelt. She laps at the wound and in between licks whispers — Ñuha mijegon odre vala, — affection taking over the rage that she released through marking him.
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Potema offers Atli silence as he speaks, standing in a league that is so above his own and he takes her silence as a neutral sign. He’s not sure if it’s necessarily good or bad but her teeth have yet to make contact with his throat. He still lives and draws breath, he’s still able to worship her with gaze. Her voice is like chipped ice as she speaks, the rasp of her tone is an attractive sound to him. He holds as still as he physically can at her command, Caribbean blue eye watching as she snaps a femur bone from the border’s decorations and approaches him. She explains over the bone held betwixt her jaws that she will mark him with a shadowmark — mark him as worthless. He has already suspected that she sees him as such: and really he doesn’t blame her. He is. There isn’t a promise that he hasn’t broken: he loves and leaves because it’s what Atli’s good at. His ears slick back to his skull as Potema warns him that if he makes any noise he’s gone. As she carves her shadowmark into his flesh with sharp and jagged bone: her movements uneven and with frequent pauses to change the angle of the bone.

He bites down on his tongue as the pain spreads white hot through him. His leg trembles with adrenaline and the pain…the agony as she carves up his flesh with her brand. He thinks he can feel the unbridled rage in the movements of her rudimentary carving; a part of Atli that finds the action almost intimate. The metallic taste of blood lingers upon his tongue as he presses his teeth too hard against the soft flesh and it offers him brief respite from the unnerving heat and pain that radiate from his right thigh. She finishes carving he assumes when he hears the bone clatter to the earth and the tremble and pulse of his thigh is soothed by the feel of her tongue drawing across her handiwork. His right ear twitches as she whispers between laps but her words are foreign to him and they might as well have fallen on deaf ears.
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#6
He had within these few moments proved several things to her. That he was immensely remorseful for his actions. That he was devoted entirely to her, and was afraid of breaking his promise to her yet again. That he followed every order she gave him to a tee. That he was physically and mentally strong enough to be hurt in such a way. 

By the time she finishes lapping at his wound the blood had stained most of her mouth and some of her face. Her tongue swipes over her mouth, though it would take a thorough washing to truly rinse it off. Her head pounds again, sudden in its pain, enough to get her to gasp for a moment. The witch's brow furrows as she rides the wave of pain as it flows through her, and when it finally passes she blinks, as if seeing for the first time.

Her body turns around, back towards the Woods, her shoulder against Atli's. Potema nudges him — Come with me, — and begins to walking to the nearest tunnel. She won't let him die from infection, though she toys with the idea of letting some infection set in. No. If he was going to be useful to her and prove himself he had to be at full strength. She would heal him with what materials she had. Where they would go from there she had yet to decide. She had little worth in the Spiderlings' Glen now that the pups were eating meat. They had each other for warmth, and if not, one of their older siblings. There was the matter of the other boy that Ganon had brought to her, @Cyron. Perhaps she would take him with her, to a den away from that wretched place.
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#7
i feel like this is def. kja & potema right now, lmao.

Atli or Kjalarr or …whatever — those names meaning nothing to him, they’re just reminders of all the chaos and pain he’s left in his wake, remnants of the the boy-man who’d played king and had, ultimately abandoned those wolves too — the shadowmarked draws in a raw, ragged breath and lets it out slowly, as if he could exhale the pain out of his thigh through clenched teeth. It’s the only sign of his discomfort, accompanied by the favor of his left, hind leg and the slight limp he adopts to keep from disturbing the carved flesh too much. It is his deserved punishment not just for Potema but also for everyone he’s done similar to ( that list was awfully long ) but mostly it was for her and he bears it with the conviction of a man who knows he’s guilty of his crime.

Kjalarr looks to her as she presses against his shoulder, the scent of his blood mixed with her scent strong upon the air. For a moment the disgraced northerner wonders how deranged he must be that seeing her muzzle stained with the crimson of his blood does things to him. The sight is twisted and erotic to him and his breath catches in his throat, trapped as it constricts with that breathless wonder. She nudges him and he obeys, following her into the tunnel, reminds him immediately of Ankyra Sound’s grotto once more ( it’s rather a good thing he’s not claustrophobic or afraid of being underground for prolonged periods of time, he thinks ), though he has not explored them at any length. He hadn’t been around long enough for a thorough exploration the first time he called the dark woods home.

She’s had her babes, he realizes. It’s taken him a while, through the haze of his selfish want for her to accept him back into her life and then through the blinding pain as she carved her the mark upon his flesh to realize it. It’s a fleeting thought. He does not inquire about them because though they are part of Potema but the truth is he doesn’t care. Not enough to ask and not enough to want to ask. “How’s Vaati?” He’s unsure if she has implemented a ‘speak-only-when-spoken-to’ law or not but he thinks ( hopes, really ) that he’s given the right to his single phone call to ask about him. Vaati is his son after all ( their son ) …not that he’s been much of a father to him ( though in Kja’s defense that’s not strictly his own fault; not entirely anyway ). Still, it’s not uncommon for the father to want to check on the prosperity of his spawn.
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#8
I haven't watched it yet aahhhhhh
 

The witch strode through the tunnels of the Web, her charge, her man, trailing behind her, beckoned on her command. The feeling of power she feels from it is intoxicating. The knowledge that she had some ensnaring spell on him that pulled him back to her time and time again. Perhaps, in her lust, she had cast it, unconsciously trying to. And perhaps, it was intensified by her heat, to the point where the fire that she had ignited burned long after their parting. He lusts after her without her needing to be in estrus, and was willing enough to be permanently branded by her to atone for his sins.

She doesn't know what to do with that loyalty. It was one thing to lust for power but once power was without your own grasp, it was a matter of what to do with it now that it was there. She had him back. And she had every intention of having him stay with her. With her whispered words was declaration of possession to the world, every aspect of it. It was to his body to the spirits around her to the Gods themselves that no matter his state, broken or proud, he belonged to her. 

She enters the infirmary, gesturing for him to lay down on one of the beds of moss. She hadn't been able to manage the place in weeks, ever since her bastards had been spawned from her, but it was still tidy despite the neglect. Perhaps she was too meticulous and she didn't need all of the cleaning. Her body starts to move towards the herb store, where it gnaws at her for more poppy, but she quells the insistence to answer Atli's question.

She snorts out a bitter laugh. Vaati has made mistake after mistake in these past few months. Every folly brings us closer to ruin. She loves her son as a mother loves her child, but that does not override the anger and resentment she holds for him, for the things he has done. Potema moves to the herbstore and grabs a bit of moss and a few scraps of herbs to chew into a poultice for him. It is enough to prevent infection, the moss she soaks and uses to clean the wound and the poultice she spreads thinly over the scar, covering it with a gauze of cobwebs. She is silent the whole time, making no more comment on the state of her son or what Atli had missed while he was Gods-know-where.
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#9
it's sooo good. my favorite so far! ^-^

Kjalarr follows Potema into the Web dutifully. He is almost surprised at how easy it is for him to let her take the reigns, to lead him, to control him. Especially as he’s spent his whole life defying authority and clamoring towards his own. Taking it and then throwing it away when he gets too bored with it. Not good qualities for a king. Perhaps, he thinks, it’s a sign that with age does come wisdom and that he’s heading down a path of personal growth with Potema at it’s center: right where he wants her. Kjalarr cannot explain the never ceasing pull he feels to her: that insistent thing that keeps bringing him back and he thinks it doesn’t need explaining. All that is needed is that he feels and heeds it. Whatever spell she's casted binds them together but now…now he bears a physical brand of the bind. He is marked as worthless …he is marked as hers.

At her gesture, the shadowmarked lays — slowly as to not further aggravate her handiwork — down upon a bed of moss, glimpsing around the tidy infirmary with the curiosity of someone who has no idea what any of the things she’s gathered and chewed into a poultice is for. Cobwebs are simple enough, at least, he thinks. His ears perk atop his skull and then flutter back to rest at half mast as she lets out a bitter laugh in initial response to his question and then launches into an explanation. Vaati, it would seem, has not been idle …and evidently not in a good way, necessarily. She is not detailed about the mistakes their son has made but Kjalarr is smart enough to deduce that his mistakes also effect her and the wolves of the Woods as a whole. Dangerous mistakes, then. “They say the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,” Kjalarr muses envisioning himself as the tree. “I’ve made a lot of stupid and reckless mistakes in my life because I was hot-headed and couldn’t stand the idea of being wrong or ruled. It cost me my family at least three times over, my friends —” though it wasn’t as if he could claim he had any friends because …he didn’t. “and almost my life on two accounts. I regret them. All of them.” Kjalarr cannot claim, cannot promise Potema that Vaati would eventually realize these things: or that he would ever come to regret his decisions. Vaati was not Kjalarr anymore than Kjalarr was Ragnar.

“Maybe he will and maybe he won’t,” …and maybe he wouldn’t live long enough to get the choice either way though Kjalarr does not speak this aloud. Kjalarr wasn’t sure that behavior was genetic per say but he almost feels inclined to apologize to her for the trouble Vaati is causing. Potema is silent as she works and Kjalarr falls to silence as well, focusing on the feel of her tending to his fresh brand in an effort to keep himself distracted. “I am shadowmarked, I am yours …but what will happen to me officially?” He assumes he will be some sort of captive but he doesn’t dare make assumptions in these dark woods.
534 words

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#10
She dressed the wound without the normal dedication that she normally reserved for her medical treatment. Atli had resigned his fate into her hands, taking the punishment without even a word of discontent. But he was hers. She took care of her things — minus three — and she did not want him slipping away again.

The witch gathered her things, the remainders of his dressing scattering the floor. Those that were still whole enough to be used once more were placed in the herbstore, with the rest left on the infirmary's floor. She swept them towards the entrance, shaking her body to remove the last scraps of the herbs and cobwebs from her body.

All the while, Potema listened to Atli's weary enumeration of his faults. Once her tidying had finished, she laid near him, her head resting on his shoulder.

Perhaps you can give him your words of wisdom, But her voice still remained cold, bitter — dried then frozen. There was a sarcasm — irony, really — laced within her voice. Nothing of Atli's advice would chance the course of the pack or their son. But if they were to survive this, her son, who had taken a largely authoritarian role in the litter, would need to learn. She hoped that he would.

She wanted to say she didn't know. But she had to keep some semblance of control. She was silence, deliberating for a moment, before she spoke. Officially you will be a prisoner of Blackfeather Woods. You left the Woods without leave — this is your physical punishment. You will work for me until I say you have regained your value — and you regain a position here. No doubt Astrid or Vaati would object, but at this rate Potema had no regard for her fellow Dark Council members. This was her decision — he was hers.
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Kjalarr watches as she cleans up her things and a wave of fatigue settles over him. It is sudden and heavy, threatening to pull him under but he reminds himself this is an infirmary and not a place for sleeping. At least, not for patients like him. Not for patience who wounds do not demand a staying presence in the infirmary. Still, the temporary rest is nice. He is weary from his travels and as the pain ebbs thanks to her tending to the wound he realizes that tolerating the pain of the brand as she carves it into his flesh has also added to his fatigue. He lets out a quiet noise of content as Potema lays near him and feels her head rest against his shoulder. “I can give them but will he listen?” Kjalarr is doubtful. If Vaati is anything like he was as a boy then the likelihood of that is non-existent. There are as many differences as there are similarities between Vaati and him when he was a child, however and it unsettles him to know that his son is measurably worse and at such a young age. It’s troubling for any father to hear …even one that cannot even call himself such. Absent or not it did not change that he was his father. Blood was thicker than water, after all. Blood calls to blood.

If Kjalarr knew that their son had been promoted to leadership he would have told Potema that it was a stupid decision. He was a kid — a terror to the Wilds at that — and that anyone who knew how to actually lead a pack would have never promoted him to a place of authority but presently he doesn’t know and therefore mulls over what Potema has shared with him with growing unease in his stomach …unable to help himself from wondering if they would have to put him down. Could they? Evidently, Vaati’s proven himself as much of a domestic threat as he is a foreign threat and why should the whole suffer for the one? But Kja’s just a prisoner and has more important things to tend to: like making up with Potema. “What kind of work, High Priestess?” He will do it, no matter what it is, but he thinks that if she wants him to go out and gather medicines for her she will end up being sorely disappointed …or potentially with a dead prisoner. He’s not got the talent for that kind of thing and would likely ( incidentally, of course ) poison himself in the attempt. He’s tempted to call her Potema, to let her name roll off his tongue, to say it again and again with the reverence of a worshipper praying to his goddess but settles for what he knows to be her title.
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#12
I doubt it, She grumbled, her voice low and laced with the malice that had only seeped from her as the days went by. Vaati was unwilling to parlay with anyone who opposed his views. Even kin. She did not know much of Atli — Kjalarr — her marked man as a child, other than the laments he had given as an adult looking back at it all. Everything seemed to suggest that Vaati mirrored his father in more than looks. She was glad that she bore only one of his offspring. 

She uses him as a pillow, unwilling to move back to the Glen, to let him see the cursed things that she had bore in the time he had left. Whatever I tell you to do, It is a good way to hide the fact that she honestly does not know what to do with him. He had come from no where unannounced. She had been in a lucid dreams for weeks, her brain clouded by the poppy seeds. Her brain is still foggy, with strikes of lightning stopping her in her tracks occasionally, every moment without the precious seeds a struggle.
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#13
It is troublesome to Kjalarr to think that his son could be worse than him but he thinks it nevertheless. He’s done a lot of dumb things but he can say with certainty that he’s never brought a pack to ruin. He thinks of Neverwinter Forest after that thought, though, and thinks that perhaps even he cannot claim that. Perhaps he and Vaati are not so dissimilar after all and perhaps that means there is hope or perhaps it means that in the end the world could only tolerate one of them. Maybe, Kjalarr considers, if he was ever given the chance to be a father …and be an actual father to them a repeat of this could be avoided. He thinks of Arrille, the only son he’s had any influence on and wonders if that boy is even still alive. He’s made more mistakes than he’d care to admit and in his desire to be a better father than Ragnar somehow managed to be worse. “Not all of my children are like him.” Kjalarr speaks with confidence. Of course they aren’t because his two daughters were dead by him shortly after their birth and Arrille…well if he’s alive he’s not causing a fuss. Kjalarr thinks word would have gotten around by two terrors that looks like him if he were.

Kjalarr revels in her closeness: in the press of her body against his own as she leans against him. It’s nice to feel useful even if it’s just to be a pillow for the moment. “Yes, High Priestess,” Kjalarr murmurs. He is an acolyte eager to show his devotion, eager to atone. For the moment, his questions are done. He has asked enough, he thinks and does not wish to risk her ire by continuing them.
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you still wonder if you're
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you're infinitely more —


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#14
Fade here?

She is angry in every regard. Angry with herself and all of her failings. Angry with the pack she had been born into, and been loyal to her whole life. Angry at the siblings who had lived beside her and failed her, despite their promises to protect her. Angry that the children she had raised — all of them — had been failures, to her, to the pack, to her mother, and to the guards. And she was exceptionally angry at the large man before her, laying prone and pilant to her wishes. She had few true lovers all of her life. She had bedmates and many of them, but only two had her heart, and one man had it without even touching her.

Potema looked back on everything she had done and felt herself become regretful for every pompous word she had said, everytime she had thrown her support in with who she thought she could trust. Bitterness welled up inside her, as if salt had been poured into her body. But she had a few glimmers of light, at least that she could see: she could only forgive two — herself and Kjalarr.

He speaks of other children, but Potema is not surprised or indignant. It is clear to her that he had not cared for them either. If she were to assume that they were the same age as Vaati, then he had left them long ago, the first time he came to the Woods. She expected it, both the children's existence and their abandonment, or at least she tells herself that she does.

When he calls her High Priestess she has to suppress the shudder that goes through her. It was the one thing that she had never lived up to become. She could never be the same woman as her Mother, etheral and distant, with an otherworldly presence to her. She tried to, so hard. She wished she could be his High Priestess in truth rather than his own — their own fiction. Her head rests on him for a time. She does not close her eye, merely staring forward, watching the reflection of the pool's water against the cavern's wall. The witch — she was more witch than High Priestess, bitter and hating and isolated she was — rose suddenly, a decision made in her mind. Come, She commands, her body straightened. Her mind whirls at the quick change in elevation, but she stills herself against the wobble her body wants to make. She wants to lead him away from this place, one that holds many regrets for her.
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#15
I'll go ahead and archive this.

Silence falls between them and Kjalarr does not attempt to break it. For the moment, he has nothing more to ask her and nothing overly useful to tell her ( not that she asked, but, y’know ). He’s comfortable in the silence and has since determined that if any other questions pop into his mind that he will withhold them to a future time. Kjalarr has just begin to drift off into a very light snooze when he feels the absence of her body keenly as she rises. He stirs awake abruptly, blinking, disoriented for the briefest of moments, forgetting where he is and who he is with. It does not take long for Kjalarr’s brain to wake up fully and for all the recent developments to sink back in rapidly. Right. She offers a command and Kjalarr pushes himself to his own paws, following where she may lead him.
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you still wonder if you're
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you're infinitely more —