Wheeling Gull Isle but i just can't believe him

@Bartholomew @Heda

He was not the first wolf to wash up on the shores of Wheeling Gull Isle, and surely not the last. But he did not know that. In fact, he did not know much of anything. He had no memory of having left a pack called Firebirds two years ago, and no memory of what had happened since then. All he knew now was the smell of salt, the taste of it, the grit of sand in his mouth, his eyes, his fur, between his toes. His electric blue eyes cracked open, but could not focus easily. And as he lay there, a sharp pain like fire lanced through his body from an old wound, following the branching lightning scars along his body. He grit his teeth, baring his fangs in pain, and groaned.

something came upon the shores.

gulls drew his eyes toward it from his perched place along the greenhills. at first, he wondered if heda had left something from a hunt.

even mo, perhaps.

closer inspection revealed it to be none other than another wolf.

this one scarred in intricate ways, waterlogged.

can you speak? he was prepared for disorientation, or silence. anything that seemed to come along with those who washed ashore.

He did not know how much time passed before a shadow came and blocked the sun. By this time, his eyes were focusing better, but other senses were still catching up. The shadow said something, though it sounded muffled, and he had a hard time understanding...

He blinked his eyes and turned his head--another trail of fire shot through him. He gasped, blue eyes widening in pain. And as he inadvertently stared into the face of the shadow, a dark creature that looked something like a wolf and something not, he remembered a night on a mountain, lashing rain, the brightest flash of light he'd ever seen, and unimaginable pain.

"Where?" he rasped, his body tightening in pain. What he meant was lost even to himself.

the man was a coil of pain.

bartholomew remained warm, prepared to help as much as he could. he only hoped he would not do more harm than good.

the practices of medicine were beyond him.

sweetharbor, he answered softly. golden eyes twinkled with concern.

i can help you to somewhere better for rest, if you are able to stand.

The pain was passing, or lessening enough to be bearable.

Sweetharbor, the shadow said.

And he laughed bitterly, though it came out as a groan. "So I have made it to Heaven, have I?" The laughing groan stuck in his throat, and he blinked several times, for he did not know why he had said that. Memories swirled in his mind, but always just out of reach.

The shadow spoke again, but the words came to him garbled and all he heard was, 'able to stand.'

It seemed an impossible task.

He grit his teeth again, his jaws painful from doing so, and slowly, ever so slowly, got his paws beneath him. With a breath, unsure, he attempted to stand, but he felt hollow on the inside, his limbs weak and light as a feather, and he quickly, heavily, sat down, breathing hard, head bowed.

heaven.

was this a man of the cloth who had washed ashore? was bartholomew so blessed to have been sent a priest from the sea itself?

not yet, was all he offered back. fatherly. quiet. for his true first task was to nurse the man back to some semblance of health.

the man could not stand with much success. perhaps he should have guessed it, from the scars that rippled the man and the discomfort that bled into the physical and vocal. they were two willowy men and yet bartholomew questioned his ability to be able to carry the man.

especially by himself.

i can bring a meal, he offered with kind warmth. prepared to nourish the man here until he could move inland.

but without an answer, he was already calling upon their newest — @Miseria — to bring forth something cached and a small collection of lavender. things that could easily be found on the way here.

the lavender may do nothing for the man's physical state, but bartholomew thought it might do for the spiritual.

So he was not dead yet. He did not know how to feel about this news. Was he doomed to suffer forever? Flashes of his life came back to him now, and he grimaced at the memories that he no longer wanted. His life was pain and nothing more.

"A meal," he said, his voice low, barely above a whisper. "Yes." And then he collapsed into the sand again, too tired to remain sitting. He closed his eyes, intent on waiting right here until food arrived, not caring about whoever it was that the shadow had called. Too bone-weary to care.

miseria was caught unawares when father batholomew called on her, but she scrambled to her feet and dashed to the fields to put together a small bundle, and a hare from a cache on the way towards the shore.
the waves licked the edges of the beach, miseria always found them greedy and wanting. it seemed they had spit something out for all its gluttony.
"hi," she whispered softly as she trotted beside the priest and set down the gifts. she answered at his kind, hooded gaze, then to the mariner.

miseria was quick.

he found himself grateful for her and her kind acts here. perhaps this was her first step towards his own ways. acts were just as good as words, he had come to learn.

miseria, he addressed her with warmth. the sea has brought us a guest.

perhaps it would have been humorful if not for the poor state. even mo had arrived to them better than this and he was but a boy.

but he had not been so tattered, so scarred. kissed by whatever awful pain kept this man down.

i ask you to stay, until you are fully recovered. then you may decide if you wish to stay beyond that or not.

he moved to place the hare that had been brought before the man. then carefully settled the lavender closer. wondering if the scent might ward off the pain the sea had brought.

wishful thinking, he knew.

but surely God watched over them now, knowing the things that might come next — and bartholomew could only handle them as they did.

Sounds and smells came to him, muffled and confusing, and he kept his eyes shut until the scent of the hare overwhelmed him and he snapped it up into his jaws and tore into it greedily, ignoring the two wolves hovering nearby.

Almost immediately, he felt a bit of strength flow into him, but this one hare would not be enough, he knew. He tore and swallowed meat almost without chewing. If he choked, his misery would end, so he did not care. And by the time he was done, the hare a bloody mess between his front paws, he felt... well, better was not the right word, but something close to it.

He took a deep, steadying breath, the scent of jasmine completely lost to the coppery tang of blood, but he did finally notice the flower, and cocked his head at it curiously. "What is this?" His voice was a bit stronger now, but still deep and raspy. Perhaps that was simply his voice.

miseria did not think of it so much as acts of god but moreso not wanting to displease the priest. it was also uncommon for her to be registered in anyone's mind as helpful or even ... there.
"lavender and a hare," she answered plainly, confuse as to what was so puzzling. "father says he likes to give out them out because of their soothing properties." she carried on, hoping she remembered right.
she wondered if she would be gone like the flowers when winter came. she always seemed to ruin the nice things she had.

miseria answered in stride.

he wondered if God already began to guide her hand. regardless his eyes filled with warmth as he encouraged her to carry on.

father.

it was not the wrong term, yet only she called him such here.

regardless, he stashed it and returned focus to the man. deciding upon himself — for no answer had been given to his offer — that the man would stay. if he took off in the night, then so be it.

otherwise sweetharbor would be his sanctuary.

for now, he remained silent. unwilling to overwhelm the man.

Lavender. He knew that... didn't he?

'Father says he likes to give them out because of their soothing properties,' the young woman said.

"Soothing," he repeated, and bent his head and sniffed at the flower, snorting after a moment. "I don't find it very soothing," he said, and then glanced at the man he had been calling the shadow in his head. "But... thank you for your..." He paused. Hospitality? For saving his life? "... Thank you," he amended, simply.

A word came back to him, then--father--and he glanced between the man and the woman. "Are you related?"

miseria's lips parted slightly but she caught herself. "no, not like like that, i call him father like father bartholomew? he's a priest," she explained blinking towards father again and back to her feet.
it hadn't registered to her that calling bartholomew father was inappropriate, she heard a priest being called that once so she thought it made sense for him too. she took a submissive stance.
"i d-don't," her stutter betrayed her, her throat quivered as her eyes were pricked with hot needles. "m-my dad ... i don't know where h-he is."

she had been strong.

brought down by something that was not unusual. this would be something to work upon, to comfort and discuss. heal.

but not before other eyes, other strangers.

you may go rest, if you wish, miseria. he whispered, he would not keep her here before an audience when she may crumble. but his gaze carried concern and compassion in a twist.

her decision to stay or go would be respected either way.

there was still the matter of the man.

do you carry a name, seafarer?

A priest. He tried not to sneer in derision at the title. He had no need of priests to tell him who God was. He carried no love for whoever or whatever had created the universe.

He held his whiplash tongue, however, when he saw how upset the girl was. So the girl did know where her father was. "Well," he said. "I don't even know who my father is, so at least you have that." He blinked. "Actually, I don't know who any of my family is, or where they are, or if I have any at all." He turned away. All he remembered was the lightning strike, vague memories of meeting wolves in a pack long ago, and then... nothing. Yet, despite his lack of memories, he knew this... deep sorrow and anger.

Behind him, the priest asked for his name. Until that moment, he had not thought of it. He tried to think--YOU ARE PERDITION.

He shook his head, gritting his teeth as more pain shot through his body. Then he laughed, a short, angry sound. "I am Perdition, punished and hell-bound."

if miseria had the capacity to sneer, she would have.
good for him, a uncharacteristic, repressed thought.
she didn't want to make this meeting about her in the slightest, she was no thespian. before the rug beneath her could be dragged away by an ocean current, she took her leave, her backstabbing inhibition elected the center of her thoughts.

his heart ached. a long and low pain. all just to tuck it away for later.

perdition.

perhaps it had not been a priest sent from the sea, but some sort of mockery. only that was a cruel, unkind thought. one he should not push upon the man who was so clearly wounded — both of body and surely some soul.

he wondered if this man would be one for the lion's den. especially after his show before miseria.

pain should not be compared.

but not yet, though. he would keep the man in the light.

you should sleep at the base of our greenhills. i am bartholomew, a shepherd of sweetharbor. i expect to be called upon for the things you need.

as if he would not already be keeping a close eye upon the man!

'I expect to be called upon for the things you need.' Somehow, the way Bartholomew said those words made them sound like a command. Like Perdition would be forced to call upon this priest for things at all hours of the day. A ridiculous thought, but one that he could not shake. He knew that the man was only being kind.

"Yes," he said, quietly. "Thank you." He took a breath. "I should... go and rest now. I'm still... exhausted." He turned toward Bartholomew, finally tearing his electric gaze away from the sea, and gave him a questioning look, wondering if he was allowed to go now.

feel free to close here <3 welcome to sweetharbor!

of course,

he bowed his head. prepared to either help the man to the greenhills or safely see him off.

either way, word would be spread of the newcomer upon the island soon enough.