Redsand Canyon her flesh held the scent of honeysuckle drenched in battle
All Welcome  August 01, 2020, 08:34 PM
Saints Of The Dying Light
@Donovan Azura maybe? set sometime after her joining thread (timelines oof) set in territory #5 (catacombs), looking out on territory #9 (redsand canyon). I figured they prolly would have stashed her somewhere after the healers looked at her? Oh yeah, (last note oml) but by way of explanation, she would still be a bit confused and disoriented

When at last, she woke - truly - she was in the dark once more. 

Several slow, heavy beats of her heart had thudded by before the waif tried to move, which were spent attempting to puzzle out the situation she'd found herself in. In those infinite seconds, her mind raced for explanation against the impending fearful realization of amnesia. 

Here was different, light penetrated - silver and silky. This was safe; this she could focus on. 

Staggering, the shattered creature struggled to her paws on failing legs. It took her a minute to blink away the black void that clouded her vision, just as it did to hobble to the mouth of the cavern where she must've been stowed. 

The healer did not have to squint against the moon - a longtime companion - and swept her surroundings from within the shadows with a wounded gaze. 

Freezeframes of petrified waves, dunes of sand turned some shade of pewter by the night as far as her eyes could see. The occasional column of ruddied stone standing warden against the dark. 

Her first thought was that the gaping hole in her memory could be attributed to Aliroth, that he had somehow returned her to the clutches of the Ravine. In her mind - which was still fractured with disconnect and throbbing as though beat like an anvil - it was the only thing that made sense. The only true memory she could recall was a hazy image of Donovan's face (surprisingly enough) but this had a dreamlike quality - the golden ambiance of it surreal and foggy.

The only evidence to disprove her addled theories were the signs of a healer's touch: the perfume of poultice, the sting of herbs against her open wounds, the cobwebs binding them.

Resources were never wasted on slaves; she could think of but one reason they might save her. There were many things she could not remember but the fate of concubines was not one. The druid could still see the redhead girl who clung to her as the slavers brought them in, just as she can still see the mutilated remains of her body when it was removed from the tunnels. 

To hell with that. She will not sit idly by and wait for the next assault to come. 

She tiptoes out onto the shifting sands with a heavy limp, a silver beacon flashing beneath the moon - I am here. 

Without warning, she buckles to the ground and slowly twists in the substrate - hissing and biting back grunts as the grains scour her flesh and grind into raw, superficial wounds. Blood will bead up but the sand will camoflauge her scent with luck, her coat stained ruddy by its dust and her own lifeblood. 

Pacing her lopsided gait to move faster is a new agony in itself, an awkward stumble of a lope somewhere between a flinching trot and a stuttering canter. 

She cuts through the desert, southward, uncertain of her location but unrelenting. 

She runs as if the very hounds of hell are chasing after her. No alarm has sounded yet - but perhaps they already are.

"I am tired of being crushed beneath the weight of greedy men who believe in nothing."
common northern druidic draconic 
August 01, 2020, 10:00 PM
Donovan Azura
Saints Of The Dying Light
The Grandmaster*
Donovan doesn’t instantly wake when the small wolfdog pads away. He doesn’t notice her soft footsteps that lead out of the canyon. Though when he does wake he has a gut feeling that something wrong, but when the male looks about, surly enough, he finds the dainty female missing from her spot a couple meters away from his own. Instantly he has a short bout of panic that electrocutes through him. Quickly standing he looks around, instantly putting his nose to the ground in search of her. 

Donovan follows her scent and as he looks out into the canyon he sees her small form hobbling off like she’s rightfully being chased by death itself. He knows she’s probably confused and scared, doesn’t know where she is and Donovan doesn’t even know if she remembers that the Saints found her. So he wastes no time galloping to catch up to her. Soon enough he’s running next to her, calling her name and speeding up to get in front of wolfdog.

“Awenfen stop running, you’re safe.” He hums loud enough for her to hear. “We got our medics to treat you and you’re here with us now. Calm down, darling.”
August 02, 2020, 02:02 PM
Saints Of The Dying Light

The dreaded call sounds, strangely enough carrying her name. 

In ringing ears, a panicked mind, his voice does not register. 

"Non, non, non," she hisses to herself, a curse beneath her breath, as she struggles onward - steps hitching as he calls out and nearly sending her tumbling to the unforgiving earth. 

Only when the form of his bulk cuts into her path does she falter to a skidding stop, paws digging into the cutting sands as she grounds to a halt. Without thinking, she lunges for his pale throat. 

Someone will die before she is taken captive again - him or her, it does nae matter. 

Only the glint of a molten gaze, the conformation of his handsome, square features draws her up short. Donovan. 

She twists slightly as she dives for his throat, glancing harmlessly off his side and falling to the ground aside of him - where she wheezes for breath. 

"Donav.." the midwife mananges to wisp as she staggers to her paws with great difficulty, backing off a pace as her pallid gaze greedily drinks him in. 

"It vas.. you're real," she breathes as she faces him, swaying and stumbling to stand steady on the uneven ground. 

"'ow? ..'ow did I get 'ere? Ye saved me?" She questions uncertainly, unwilling to consider the heartbreaking alternative - that he might've done this to her. 

A wild gaze absorbs the canyon again. "Zis is yers - yer Saints?" 

"I am tired of being crushed beneath the weight of greedy men who believe in nothing."
common northern druidic draconic 
August 03, 2020, 03:41 AM
Donovan Azura
Saints Of The Dying Light
The Grandmaster*
She’s stumbling in the rough terrain hissing nonsense to herself. She’s definitely not the same as when hed first met her. What did they do to her? He wonders. Whoever they are, he’s content to rip their fucking throat out. The sudden thought of killing whoever’s responsible for her condition is odd to say the least, yet he doesn’t fight it. He’d do it if he has the chance.

Though when he cuts into her path she seems content to fight back. Really, if she had decided to try and fight Donovan, it’d be quite useless. He could snap her neck like a twig without even breaking a sweat. She’s so small and fragile, beautiful and sweet; so different from the women Donovan has usually associated himself with. Right now she’s nothing of the sort. When he speaks, she recognizes him and veers off to the side and tumbled to the sandy ground below. 

Instantly he’s dipping his head to help her up. Donav. She sighs out her version of his name in a soft whisper and he’s looking down to her intently, awaiting her next words. She’s sputtering words of confusion, the answer to all of her questions being yes.

“Yes to all of those. Calm down, darling.” He hums softly. Seeing if the deep, soothing baritone of his voice could soothe the frantic woman. He comes closer nudging their noses together briefly. “I found you at the borders of my territory. Someone dropped you there like a fucked up present.” His tone get a bit harder as he explains, anger for what happened to her evident in his voice.
Yesterday, 06:50 PM
Saints Of The Dying Light

The druid leans into his touch as if starved for contact, caressing the length of his muzzle with her own and stretching to nuzzle the good side of her face against his chest momentarily - breathing deeply as if to imprint the scent of him upon her senses. Had she been able, she might've wrapped thin arms about his neck. 

Awen leans into him as the warlord helps her up, drawing back from her unconscious invasion of his space. She tries to focus on the hushed thunder of his timbres as she finds her balance. 

Her head tips back and ever back, as if faced with the goliaths of druidic lore, uninjured orb of moonlight intent upon the sunrays of the Grandmaster's gaze - which seem to be the only thing tethering her to the present with the pull of their gravity. 

"Who? ..who vould do zat?" she asks dazzedly, the idea almost inconceivable in that moment. 

She did not know if Donovan had any enemies; even if he did, it didn't make sense that they would target her. Why hurt a woman he had met once before, when it would bring him more pain to torture someone closer to him like another Saint? 

And her enemies? She blanched as two came to mind, gooseflesh prickling beneath her fur. 

"I know of only two men who vould do something like zis," she murmured softly, the familiar pain between her thighs evidence enough that it had been a man. "My former mate - Aliroth. Or Takeshi, Emperor of ze Vale ta ze nort'."

"But vhy bring me 'ere? I do nae understand zat," 
she murmured, uncertain of who her true attacker might be, eye gazing warily out upon the night. 

Only one thing was certain: someone had been watching them.

"I am tired of being crushed beneath the weight of greedy men who believe in nothing."
common northern druidic draconic