Arrow Lake ou l'Optimisme
Mature  October 14, 2020, 03:17 PM
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Ah! brisk fall! The feeling of a gentle breeze upon rising from the (obviously enticing) but cloying warmth of a lover's embrace. Cool and fresh upon the face. A kiss from the sky. The promise of stark winter. Oh—

But any more waxing poetic is a digression from the tale;

Donatien du Pont stands aloft, poised upon a jagged rock away from the lakeshore, peering down below. To the denizens of the canyon he must look merely a tiny shadow; he feels godlike, perched here. Or at the very least a grinning eagle.

He wets his lips, thinking of ways to whet his appetite. It's been a long trek from the Great White North, and he's found little for sustenance and even less for company. Already skinny, he's been whittled down to nothing by the summer.

Oh, cruel, dry summer. And even worse down here!—

The mountains give some comfort, and the autumnal air even more so. And the prospect of wolves nearby—he smells them; they've marked their borders with pungent pride—excites him. His tail wags without volition, madly, gleefully.

He stands erect in more ways than one, thinking of all this world could offer.
October 14, 2020, 03:38 PM
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It had taken her some time to prepare the meal she carried with her. And while she salivated at the thought of simply eating the plump rabbit herself, she knew better than to do so; and would refrain. It was but the first of many she intended to seed about the area, here where she was within sight of the mountains, and not far from the meadow which still boasted enough of a greenish hint to the dying grasses and flowers to signal to her that her potency was correct. 

The rabbit she carried with her, now, had been poisoned. 

Not the rabbit itself, of course- it had died in her jaws as she'd chased it down through the dusty grassland, and she had torn into the small creature to retrieve the warm, muscular heart it had and had devoured that for herself. And in its place- with paws that would be washed fervently afterwards- she rubbed a thin poultice of toxic herbs. Stuffed within the rabbit's body cavity, she felt it less likely to draw suspicion. 

And now- catching sight of the thin, stoic figure near the lake, she paused. She saw, or thought she saw, somewhat of a shadow about him- a spectre that haunted him, perhaps, she thought. She clenched her teeth into the rabbit's fur, where it had begun to whiten in preparation for the winter- just enough to make the rabbit's ribs crackle in her jaws.
October 14, 2020, 03:46 PM
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"Un plaisir pour les yeux," says the rake, his smile growing impossibly wider. Nimbly, slowly, he clambers down the boulder and does a drunken serpentine her way, head cocked. There's food in her jaws and that almost, almost, distracts him from the beauty of her visage.

He's hungry, after all. And an empty stomach makes for a wandering mind.

Who must you be? he asks in slightly broken common speech, his voice crackling, hoarse from disuse. Even whispering to himself through the short summer nights has not sufficed to tend his throat. 

But she's pale, like him, and she deserves a word or two. Perhaps more. Is she from the North? Her eyes are so light. Lined with coal. . .

And her mouth lined with prey.

And her mouth—
October 14, 2020, 04:14 PM
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With the grace of a panther prowling over treacherous terrain, the spectre locked his violet gaze onto her and picked his way down from the vantage point where he'd been poised moments ago. Had he been searching his reflection in the waters, she wondered? Or had he seen a reflection at all- what glimpse of shadows might he have spotted rippling in the autumnal sky behind his shoulders had he been looking hard enough to see past his own reflection? Her dark lips pulled tight, the thin black line drawing apart at the corners, revealing molars stained by the rabbit's blood. The fur on the bridge of her muzzle wrinkled in a sneer as he moved toward her. 

She didn't speak- but she clenched her jaws, crackling through the ribs, feeling a few drips of blood and spittle dripped onto her pure white feet. Through him she stares, just above and beyond his shoulder; his shadow trails behind him, lengthening as they did in the fall, tall shadows even at noon. Even as he sways in his step, his shadow continues to point like an unerring finger of accusation. She dropped the rabbit with a soft thud.

"You have a fate you must fulfill," With a voice dry and rattling, she breathed, conviction shearing its way into her hoarse whisper. "And if you do not- you will perish when the shadows disappear." Her prophecies were often both direct and vague in nature- whether it be in terms of task or timeline or both; and she preferred to leave it up to the individual to parse through her words and interpret their meaning. She stepped back from the rabbit, inviting him to draw closer.
October 16, 2020, 03:44 PM
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Not coal, but scars—the exposed skin around her eyes, the line racing up her head. Scars, marks of battle, though more precise than anything he's ever seen. There are combat scars, and love bites, but these are different entirely. They were done deliberately. And that.....

is quite intriguing indeed.

She speaks and he's riveted further. He draws nearer. What is my fate? he asks quietly, his voice pitching lower, more intimate—like someone speaking in a crowded, smoke-filled room. 

Donatien lifts his muzzle to trace the air, trace the lines of her face. Not touching, just tracing. But he is too close for comfort, and he knows it. He cannot help it. The scars are breathtaking in their savagery.

Mon Dieu. Who did zis to you? 

And can you do it to me?
October 16, 2020, 03:53 PM
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The pallid witch stepped back as he approached, but in not wanting to prescribe them too much confidence, she avoided moving too quickly, allowing the male to draw near though she resented the proximity. She had survived the curious stare of many- so often, that she'd forgotten to interpret the bold gaze as being potentially dangerous. Her gaze flicked down to the rabbit she'd dropped, willing him to take notice of it instead, but he seemed far too intrigued with her markings. 

Still, she chortled, a clucking, raspy laughter, at his question. "Seers do not tell all," She said. And with response to his question about her markings, she merely scoffed, exhaling a cool breath against his cheek and withdrew so that she might find some peace in having a bit more personal space. "You are too old to be asking personal questions to a stranger," She said. Such liberties were afforded for children, and children only.
October 16, 2020, 04:01 PM
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A seer. Intriguing, still, but his respect for her drops tenfold. Seers and witches, mages, con-artists....all peddling their contrived bullshit. It always comes with a price. And why would he pay for a vision of the future when he alone has the power to determine it?

He scoffs at her second remark, the fur along his spine lifting slightly at the feel of her breath against his cheek. Non. I am ageless, Donatien replies, ever cheeky. He does a small shuffle away, a tiny dance, and gives her a sidelong glance. I do not zink it's such a personal question.

The corners of his mouth lift, stretch, teeth gleaming in a feral smile. You flaunt zese scars. Otherwise you would have sought healing. 

The real magicians were the medics, repairing broken bones and battered flesh. They could have helped her. But this seer, like all the others, took dreams and visions and spun them into something of use, but only to her. Only to her.

He is the master of his fate, and this pale bitch knows nothing of it.
October 16, 2020, 05:13 PM
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Agelessness, immortality, were things she felt became nothing more than rumour and legend to the common-folk who knew nothing of what it took to obtain those things. And she would allow him his fancies, barely tolerating his vanity, though she was privately amused by the little shuffle he did. Perhaps, she thought, he had a sense of humour- and pride tempered by humour was at least tolerable. If one couldn't be clairvoyant, they must at least be clever. 

"You flaunt," She chuckled, with a gesture toward him, refering to the little dance he'd done. "I...Bear." She sighed softly, content to resign somewhat from his childlike demeanour. He seemed uninterested in her prophecies, though this did not rattle her or provoke her ire; she'd left fools to their fate before, and had no passion for those who were left crying for themselves when they realized too late she'd been right all along. Her eyes fell to the rabbit on the ground; how close to it he was, now, and she felt improper simply snapping it up. She gestured. 

"I will take my kill with me and be gone." She said simply.
October 17, 2020, 03:16 PM
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Mature Content Warning

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

His eyes crease to slits. Of course he flaunts. He rarely does anything but. That doesn't absolve her from her own flaunting, but—alas. There is no reasoning with those who think they know all, including the future of others. And speaking of that...!

So soon? Donatien quips, tilting his head. Not that he cares, but: Do I not even get a hint of my fate? His tongue swipes along dark jowls, over pointed rows of ivory. Is zat not what seers do .... give others zeir fortunes? 

Oh, do tell. Do not go and take your kill with you. (Although he is not one to take food from les voyantes, only love — they are not to be trusted.)

His hunger blinds him to his usual manner of avoiding such charlatans.

And besides, she is pretty, scars and all.

Will you mark me? the du Pont queries, nostrils flaring. He imagines the feeling of her teeth on his skin and his cock hardens.
October 17, 2020, 03:35 PM
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Could you please add in a "mature" tag for the post icon, and edit in the mature code so that this thread is marked appropriately? Thanks :)
[*mature]REASON GOES HERE[/*mature]

He seemed pithy, mercurial, and drawn toward dramatics. Sibyl was quite accustomed to being the feature of attention, though this male possessed what she believed to be an unholy curiosity, one which made him all the more useless to her. His lust shone in his eyes as he pleaded with her and for a moment she remained still, watching him with her stormy gaze until she found herself looking past him, off into the distance. When she could see that nothing that made her lose her grip with reality, her gaze refocused on him again. No calling had come to her. She found no reason to humour him, not even with the mark of a curse. 

He called upon her to prove herself- but for one who had already received her prophecy but had done nothing but question it, he'd proven himself unworthy of her time. Aside from the lust in his gaze, which she found repulsive, he'd not even done anything to earn a curse from the witch, and she certainly wasn't going to give him what she wanted. But such was the way of witches- such capriciousness was to be expected. "Keep the rabbit," Came her simple, cryptic answer. "It will help you find your fate," She said.
October 17, 2020, 05:00 PM
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Certainly! My apologies for forgetting.

The game is, in fact, not afoot. His expression sours at her response; it is like squeezing blood from a stone, and he has better things to do. (He doesn't, but that's not relevant.) Ears folding backward, he lets out a quiet snort, a wordless answer to her request.

Merci beaucoup, la voyante, Donatien says sardonically, rolling his eyes. He seizes the rabbit between his teeth and drags it away, slowly, the corpse sliding along the dirt. He keeps his gaze upon her, stepping backwards. More, more, more—

And his ankles hit the water, and he stops. He gives her a smile from afar and lifts his leg, sending a stream of urine spattering upon her kill. 

The vultures could have it. He cares not.

Donatien du Pont moves on, keeping one purple orb trained on her receding form. She may not be a woman of true magic, but he'd learned not to trust seers. Hell, he barely trusted himself.

October 17, 2020, 05:13 PM
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All good :)

In bitterness he retreated, stepping only close enough to her poisoned rabbit to bathe it in his own urine; and it took every ounce of Sibyl's self-restraint to keep her gaze and lips from betraying her sentiments, and contrary to what he might've thought- in leaving behind the offering she'd given him, he'd actually given her something she could work with. Something she could use. 

A trace of himself. 

She watched as he loomed into the distance and still, for several moments after he disappeared, she did not stray from her position. It was only when the return of birdsong proclaimed that she was alone that she tiptoed back toward the kill she'd made, and poisoned, which now bore his scent. Her eyes closed, and she placed both forefeet upon the wretched corpse, and whispered an inhaled hiss. With a movement deft and well practiced, she flexed her left ankle, breaking the rabbit's stiffened neck with an audible crack. 

Carefully, she stepped off the small, bedraggled corpse and left it there to poison any who should touch it. And while that much remained unknown, one thing felt certain in her mind. 

A curse had been placed- and she would urge it to hound him like a nightmare.