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Post by 𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗒𝖻𝖺𝖽𝗀𝖾𝗋 on Sept 22, 2016 20:58:57 GMT -5
The Funeral of the Tutor ▲ woods outside arderra | mika revel | late afternoon It is an odd day for a funeral pyre. Too bright. There’s a bite to the autumn air, but not enough to lend any sense of mood to the grim event. The sky is clear, cerulean blue without a wisp of white in sight. The sun is a distant disc of yellow overhead, offering no warmth to the black-clad mourners gathered in the forest just outside Arderra, a solemn spot of rot in the orange-hued trees
The grove is dressed in its fiery best, brandishing leaves of rust red and dusty orange, paying tribute to the fire blazing beneath their boughs. The congregation surrounding the pyre is silent and stone-faced, not a tear shed for the dead tutor. He’d been a distant fellow, with neither family nor friends to speak of and so all who were rounded up from the ceremony varied on the spectrum between acquaintance and stranger. None cry. Not even his own pupil: Crown Prince Mika Revel.
There is no surprise there, the prince is well-known from his apathetic nature, a good many speculated that they wouldn’t get a tear out of him even if it were his own beloved mother charring in the flames before them. The young man stands at the front of the crowd, positioned on the Queen’s left-hand side with his sisters on her right, dressed extravagantly in shades of ebony. His icy gaze stares into the hissing and crackling fires. The smell repulses him. Searing flesh and hair. He wants nothing more than to leave the matter entirely and return to the castle.
But there is business to attend to, business that won’t sort itself out unless he can stand in tearless silence and inhale lungful after lungful of putrid air. At last, Queen Avis-Berlin turns away from the column of roiling smoke and gnawing flames. The young prince watches her from the corner of his eyes, robed in a slick gown of layered black silk as fluid water but as heavy as stone.
The Queen wears the attire like a second skin.
Mika follows her lead, turning to face the onlookers as well. He can hardly call them mourners. The crowd consists almost entirely of Red Huntsmen, though it’s hard to tell as all had abandoned their trademark red cloaks in favor of the traditional black. A few nobles were scattered throughout, attempting not to look startled by the presence of the Huntsmen. There should have been no need for their attendance, funerals of nobility were often reserved for the upper class, save for rare occasions. But the Queen had called the Huntsmen together specifically for today.
“My subjects,” she begins and all eyes are on her, “Today, the beasts have taken a specially important person from us. As you all may know, Prince Mika’s tutor was found dead in the woods a few nights ago. Bloody and mauled beyond recognition, it goes without saying who the culprits of this horrendous crime were.”
She pauses, a gaze rivalling her sons icy stare slides over the paled faces of the nobles, finding the huntsmen in the crowd. Despite their similar dress, the huntsmen are almost too-easy to pick out, standing apart from the nobles even when they stand together.
“These past months have found numerous innocents murdered by the wolves that haunt our country like the beasts they are. The death of the Prince’s tutor is a tragedy and a call to action. This is the last straw and it will not go unpunished.” An uproar of applause goes up from the nobles as the last word leaves Queen Avis-Berlin’s lips. The huntsmen remain silent, steady pillars in the wild black sea that is the overjoyed noblemen and women. They’d seen the werewolves in action, they know all the stories were true. The wolves are bigger than normal ones, twice as fast, twice as strong, some even said twice as clever, too. Whatever the case, their supposed annihilation wouldn’t come easily.
The Queen raises a hand and the crowd falls silent once more. “It is for this reason that I am appointing Prince Mika as new Captain of the Red Huntsmen.” Silence falls, heavy as a foot of snow and just as cold. All eyes are on Mika now, a mixed bag of curiosity, shock, and even fear. Mika says nothing, his eyes are swimming through the crowd, finding the faces of the huntsmen and judging them from a distance. Some were young and fresh, likely new recruits eager to a fell wolf. Others were older, wiser by experience but steady in their resolve to rid Fenra of the wolf menace.
The Queen didn’t so much as glance in the direction of her firstborn son, instead she lifted her hand again and concluded an end to the funeral. The nobles dispersed quickly, a little too eager to be done with the morbid business of funerals and dead tutors and huntsmen. The royal family remained though, as did the huntsmen.
Mika remains where he stands, assessing the group of huntsmen before breaking his long-held silence at least, "Well? Any questions?"
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Post by Deleted on Sept 22, 2016 21:41:58 GMT -5
I'm tempted to join, but if I have to post something that long I don't think I can XD. If it helps, I usually write two paragraphs depending on what I'm being given)
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Post by 𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗒𝖻𝖺𝖽𝗀𝖾𝗋 on Sept 22, 2016 21:48:49 GMT -5
{ two paragraphs should be fine. my starter's only that long because it's well... a starter! }
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Post by ʀᴀᴠᴇɴωᴏʟғ ♥ on Sept 22, 2016 21:52:01 GMT -5
oh my goodness, this looks so awesome wolves and fantasy, two of my favorite things<3 I will have forms up soon<3
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Post by Deleted on Sept 22, 2016 21:52:45 GMT -5
Okay, Kewl. I think I'll join tomorrow if I'm not piled with homework)
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Post by 𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗒𝖻𝖺𝖽𝗀𝖾𝗋 on Sept 22, 2016 21:56:01 GMT -5
{ alright! sounds good you guys~ }
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Post by servalstrike on Sept 22, 2016 22:24:50 GMT -5
Oh come on Honey! Why do you have to show up everyone with that fancy header!)
Olwyn Mac Eoghain:
Autumn seems full of secrets. Flame colored leaves cast the forest in a different light than the clear light that touches the fields. Mist hangs over the trees where the hidden brook wends its way through the valley. It’s a time for bonfires and gathering the last things in— stacking wood, pulling carrots from the garden hung with clumps of dirt. When Olwyn was younger she would be told stories about a family of ground hogs gathering winter supplies. “Winter is coming,” the parents would tell the children in the story, “can you smell it?” Olwyn can smell it— it smells like frost and fallen leaves and mushrooms. It smells like the mold under the woodpile, and the damp cellar where the wood is stacked. It smelled like secrets.
Olwyn sat perched atop a rock that stood still amidst the gentle current of the stream as she pulled out a woven net she had set the day before, the water made her fingers numb, the trap was empty. Most of them were. It seemed that even the small fish that called the river home were preparing for the long winter. All the frogs buried themselves deep in the mud and began their hibernation, and the fish avoided her traps with a vengeance. With a sigh Olwyn set the hand made net back into the water, hoping to return later to see if she would have a fish dinner that night.
As she finally stood up her legs ached with the exhaustion of being in a crouched position for so long. Stretching her arms out of her head she closed her eyes and let the golden autumn sunlight warm her face. She couldn’t help the smile that made it’s way onto her face as she took in her surroundings. The forest seemed so calm. With babbling of the stream and wind were like song to her. With a hop she jumped from her place on the rock and onto the shore by the stream.
Her soft leather boots hit the ground with a thud, she tilted her ear towards the woods and listened closely. As much as she loved the sound of the running water Olwyn needed to listen for something else. Prey. Yet, the land seemed as empty as the stream. As bare as the trees. It made her lonely. Olwyn knew the term well, loneliness was the mantle she bore with a silent dignity. She couldn’t fight it, she didn’t want to. She missed having someone to talk to, to hunt with, she could even share in a comfortable silence so long as she could feel the presence of someone beside her.
It was for the best though.
Loneliness was only a state of mind after all. That’s what she told herself as often as she would believe it. It didn’t feel like a state of mind. It felt like a ghost. A ghost that followed her through woods and rivers, past streams and caves, even in villages where loneliness should have been driven away by the mere presence of people. The ghost would follow her forever remaining out of sight and out of reach, just about to grasp her when she would turn and see nothing there. A ghost that would loom over her when she found herself in a bustling market, not daunted by all the people, because it knew she wouldn’t risk getting to know anyone. Maybe a short interaction, but nothing more.
It was a ghost she learned to live with, embrace even.
Olwyn trekked through the woods, her brown eyes always alert and watching. Her ears pricked for the snap of a twig or huff of breath. The deep brown hair she kept tucked in a braid bounced behind her, swinging at her back down almost reaching her hips.
Shifting the weight of the bow on her shoulder a thought intruded her mind without her permission. This would be easier and faster if you turned. She stopped in her tracks, shaking that idea from her thoughts. Turning. That’s what she called it when she shifted into her wolf form.
No. No she couldn’t do that.
As much as a part of her screamed to feel the crunchy leaves against her paws as she sprinted over roots and stones. That part of her was wild, that part of her could hurt people, that part of her was the reason she secluded herself in the woods with only the wind and ghosts for company.
Gulping down the lump in her throat she cleared her mind and made her way down a deer path hoping to find something soon, before she grew too hungry and the idea of food drove her turning.
A chill ran up her spine, not brought on by the cold of the early morning air at least not through her heavy coat and the fur shrug she wore wrapped around her shoulder, but by the thought of killing. She would never admit to herself how good it felt. How the chase thrilled her and the taste of blood was one she had grown to enjoy. The thought of it sickened her. She sickened herself, or perhaps it wasn't truly her but the wolf in her.
Monroe Ó Fithcheallaigh:
Monroe stood on the edge of the forest, just outside the cave mouth, and breathed in the crisp autumn scent. There was a chill in the air. It came from the north and threatened him with biting cold wind and deep snow. His hazel eyes glanced over the bare trees and caught movement out of the corner of his eye. A chipmunk scurried over the leaves and into a den hidden beneath a rock, preparing for winter. Just like what Monroe was doing. He wanted to organize a hunt, perhaps for that morning or later that night. Either one would be dangerous.
He had just returned from the village at the bottom of the mountain they called home, gathering information. The villagers were more alert than usual. They were afraid. Afraid of wolves. Rumors had seeped into every crack and crevice of the village, about wolves that attacked and killed anything in their path. The villagers suspected werewolves to be the culprit. The farmers were extra wary, on edge and fearing for the safety of their livestock. They weren’t entirely wrong. From what Monroe had gathered he could tell that the creatures the people were speaking of were, in fact, werewolves. Newly bitten ones as it sounded. Aggressive and savage creatures who couldn’t yet control their wolf halves.
These nightmare tales had been growing over the past few months. Talk of attacks from the beasts that had once been man but were now as cruel and unfeeling as any animal, but stronger and far more fierce.
Of course, maybe it was just a bunch of superstitious farmers who needed a reason to be mad or what-have-you. But there were too many stories with too many similarities to all be made up.
So Monroe was worried. Of course he was always worried, as the Alpha of the pack he had to look out for more lives than just his own and sometimes that responsibility weighed on him. But with winter creeping at the edges of his forest he had to make sure the pack was fed. But with new rumors of wolves plaguing the imaginations of the villagers hunting would be a difficult task. At the moment they needed to draw as little attention to themselves as possible, but they needed to eat as well. If the people let their fear get the better of them, if they grew to reckless and brave, his pack would be their first target it. They’d storm the woods with torches and pitchforks crying wolf and seeking blood and fur.
Lost in thought Monroe’s fingers drifted to his shaggy disheveled hair and combed it back from his forehead. He looked as tired as he felt, with bags under his eyes and ruffled. Sleep had eluded him, after spending a few hours at the bottom of the hill hearing fairy tales woven from nightmares he’d spent the rest of his night patrolling the woods. Making sure no brave or drunk farmer decided to try and hunt down some of those rumored wolves.
Turning his back to the forest he entered the cave. Going down a tunnel a few feet before entering a large cavern the pack used as their main room. A few pack members were already awake and bustling around the table and fire place, readying breakfast. Taking off his coat Monroe began to help with the early morning shuffle. He didn't want to cause distress and worry just yet, he wanted them to have another moment's peace before the funeral bells would sound at their door and threaten them.
Holland Holgersen: WIP~
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Post by 𝓑𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐫 ♥ on Sept 22, 2016 23:17:20 GMT -5
--- WOLVES ---
éanna kielinski. { 19 // male // normal } helping other people is inherently easier than helping oneself. essentially eanna is a chronic depressive with jia who just wants to help people because he is sick of people helping him; he is selfish in his selflessness. a perpetual optimist he's basically Bob Ross painting happy little trees in the middle of his lavender garden and lowkey lighting up because amendment 64. he also writes slam poetry and can and will braid literally anything. eanna is 5'10 with the physique of a birch tree and legs for days, hazel "puppy dog" eyes, the kind of soft look that gets him carded everywhere he goes, and perpetually fluffy light brown hair.{ trait, trait, trait, trait }
ainsley kielinski. { age // gender // rank (alpha, normal, omega, loner) } - description- { trait, trait, trait, trait }
clíodhna ó coileáin. { age // gender // rank (alpha, normal, omega, loner) } - description- { trait, trait, trait, trait --- HUMANS ---
laisrén ó coileáin. { age // gender // occupation (huntsmen rank, royalty rank, nobility) } - description- { trait, trait, trait, trait }
seirian ó dorchaidhe. { age // gender // occupation (huntsmen rank, royalty rank, nobility) } - description- { trait, trait, trait, trait }.
[/font][/div][/div]
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Post by koi on Sept 22, 2016 23:31:37 GMT -5
a very unchill worm, an elongated deer and/or disney princess, and a low-grade drug addict walk into a bar
wolfies:naomhan ó fithcheallaigh { 19 // male // normal } - naomhan seemingly follows the saying, “the road to hell is paved with good intentions,” insofar that it’s hard to see exactly where his own intentions lie. neither harsh nor soft-edged, neither here nor there, he is not exactly small (he is 5’9”, rather slight in figure, but not lanky or awkward in his form) but he does not tend to draw or attract attention to himself. he has dark hair (matching dark, dark eyes) usually pushed back, light golden-brown skin, and features which have the potential to look imposing, if it weren’t for the mildly confused, softened expression that constantly adorns his face. - { shallow, quiet, eager, desirous }
étaín mac fianait { 18 // female // loner } { sincere, competitive, impulsive, genuine } non-wolfies:sioni ó mathúna { 20 // male // medic } sioni is all angles and contrast and the most deadpan expression you will ever see (but it is not so much a willing expression just as it is the way his face sets when he relaxes). sioni has dark hair and dark eyes and pale, pale skin, as well as a lanky form hidden under layers and layers and a stature of six feet and two inches of imposing height. sioni could be called an anxious person; just a glimpse of the skin of his arms could tell you as much. he is the physical and emotional embodiment of the feeling of dread that sets into your stomach when you can’t think of the right word. { offbeat, contemplative, diffident, lukewarm }
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Post by 𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗒𝖻𝖺𝖽𝗀𝖾𝗋 on Sept 23, 2016 16:39:56 GMT -5
{ hello friends! }
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Post by koi on Sept 23, 2016 17:14:30 GMT -5
[ hey hon. my dad bought me an irish penny whistle and my whole family has shunned me because i've been jamming on it for almost an hour ]
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Post by 𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗒𝖻𝖺𝖽𝗀𝖾𝗋 on Sept 23, 2016 17:20:01 GMT -5
{ to be honest? i'd shun you too. that sounds like torture }
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Post by koi on Sept 23, 2016 17:27:43 GMT -5
[ i feel like i should be playing this in the woods with my friend who can play the lap harp or something. but for now i'm going to lock myself in a room somewhere and practice ]
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Post by servalstrike on Sept 23, 2016 21:59:31 GMT -5
(I don't actually have a specific explanation besides; the alpha is the leader and is in charge of the pack and keeping everyone safe, and the beta is of course the alpha's second-in-command so when the alpha is unavailable to lead (for whatever reason) the can step in and take charge. I think we're aiming for a celtic sort of era if that makes sense)
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Post by chipster321 on Sept 23, 2016 22:24:46 GMT -5
Vivian "Vivi" Masterman { 21 // Female //Normal } -Vivi is a rather skinny girl who is 5'6 in height. She has long and wavy chocolate brown hair and blue eyes. She has a slight olive skin tone and is well built. She has a burn scar on her right shoulder and long scar on her left thigh. She loves all animals, not just wolves, and she likes to write in her free time. She likes to sing softly when she thinks she's alone, as she can be a bit shy. She is very kind and doesn't like to turn away anyone in need. She is terrified of fire, as her parents were killed by Red Huntsmans when she was little, and she received her scars on that night, barely escaping with her life. She gets annoyed when she has to repeat herself. She likes soft things and pretty things. She has a long old golden locket that her parents had given her when she was a little girl. She keeps a small ruby in it. She is straight.- { Kind, empathetic, quick thinker, creative }
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Post by 𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗒𝖻𝖺𝖽𝗀𝖾𝗋 on Sept 23, 2016 23:33:59 GMT -5
{ pretty much what serv said, falcon. the setting is a kind of irish/scottish mix set in medieval times if that helps. but it's fantasy so characters from all geographic areas are welcome~ }
{ hello and welcome chipster! i'll add vivi when i get the chance~ }
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Post by servalstrike on Sept 23, 2016 23:36:40 GMT -5
(Welcome and hello chipster! You can start rping as soon as you like! I have some characters open if you'd like to rp with them or i'm still working on two posts if you'd like to wait)
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Post by chipster321 on Sept 24, 2016 0:09:59 GMT -5
(I'll role play with Monroe if that's okay, it's seems you've got him all set up anyway lol. I'm on my phone at the moment but I'll shall try to make my post long enough.)
Vivi sat at the main table in the cave, slightly hunched over the the table above a journal with her pencil. She was still half asleep, but she tended to get some of her best ideas for her stories in that state for some reason. But it was amusing to others how she would act and respond since she wasn't exactly fully awake. Sometimes complete gibberish would leave her mouth, or some times very blunt honest answers, and those could be funny too.
Her wavy brown hair was a bit frizzy, as she hadn't bothered to do anything with it yet, and she was still wearing what she had worn before she went to sleep. She was scribbling away in her journal, putting down ideas. Though, a good part of those "ideas" what utter randomness.
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Post by koi on Sept 24, 2016 0:44:41 GMT -5
[ i'm going to try and get started on a starter tonight. ]
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Post by koi on Sept 24, 2016 2:30:43 GMT -5
naomhan o' fithcheallaigh
--
The leaves underneath every step of ground Naomhan’s treads upon are dampened by the morning dew; he belatedly realizes that autumn is here and winter would be soon approaching when the browned leaves feel soft and mulched underneath his feet. His every breath comes out as a cloud of white that quickly disperses, the cold air a silent observer, a prickling sensation down Naomhan’s back that runs more than bone deep; even through the thick coats he wears as if it’ll hide parts of himself that he does not want to run rampant, he feels soaked through, weighed down by the dew-dampened forest.
A funny thing: Naomhan has lived in the forest his whole life and should be, by all means, nimble, but paired with the sleepiness that tugs on his shoulders (he pretends he does not need a regular sleep schedule; he is wrong), hanging over his head like a low-flying bird, and the little fact that forests change (as nature has the inclination to do so), Naomhan traverses over the uneven ground with his arms crossed, shielding himself from the cold, and his knees knocking, looking like a baby bird confined to land. He glances up, nose pointed skybound every so often, watching as the thin wisps of clouds disappear from the sky completely, a splash of startling blue through the skeletal tree branches overhead. Naomhan had watched the sunrise with half-lidded eyes. He’d outgrown the days in which he’d ask his brother to sit with him, tell him stories, a feeble attempt at something called distraction; instead, he sat by himself, arms wrapped around his knees, containing himself in tightly, watching as the gloom of night turned to dawn, scattered with stars sparkling like light upon the water’s surface. Naomhan could tell the rest of the day would be one filled with the signature distant, cold sun of an incoming winter.
(Though there is much emphasis of the coming winter in Naomhan’s thoughts, there is a secondary infliction of it’s not as if it matters that coats the other side of his musings. The way things are going, no matter what season it was, circumstance would not change. Naomhan listened more than he talked; he picked up the words around him, the concern of recent events that made his brother look years older and as tired as a creaking willow tree. With no certainty could Monroe, his brother, the alpha, predict the future, predict what they must do to save themselves, and with even less certainty could Naomhan do the same.)
The forest feels alive with the dawning sun, the frost melting back into dew, dripping off of the leaves that cling left in colours of fire, by the time Naomhan makes his way back to the mouth of the cave, tawny cheeks tainted rosy, kissed by cold. Winter was never kind to Naomhan, made him feel like frozen hollyhock, a cold person not by inherent nature but of literal body temperature. Caught up in the confines of too little sleep and the cold that made his limbs feel jointless, stiff and fumbling, the descend down into the tunnel and then towards the main room is an ineloquent one, lacking grace, and all but falls into the bustling business of the new morning, his fellow packmates gathering breakfast, his brother among the mess, Naomhan with his hands together and fingers laced, trying to warm himself up (a futile action; why didn’t he think to wear gloves?) as he gravitates towards the fireplace (trying not to be obvious which, seeing as this is Naomhan, is obvious in itself).
A few moments are spent well by the fire, the flames seemingly warming up the joints and hinges of his fingers and wrists, before he forces himself to part from the comfort of the warmth in order to help set the table, ready a breakfast Naomhan would probably not end up eating much of before crashing to sleep in the sleeping quarters, bundled up in coats. No longer shivering (but red faced, from the sudden heat of the main cavern), his hands work quicker than they would have if they’d stayed all-but-frozen, and he places a plate in front of a frizzy haired shape that he quickly identifies as Vivi (the whole ‘scribbling in a journal’ thing was a good enough hint; he’s not sure if he’s ever seen her doing anything but), says a quick, quiet, “Good morning, Vivi,” before standing up straight, sending a sideways glance over to Monroe. His demeanour only changes slightly; becomes more relaxed as his shoulders slump and his expression tires.
“Winter snuck up on me,” he says to him, the tone of his voice open, a tired smile almost playing on his lips--almost.
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Post by 𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗒𝖻𝖺𝖽𝗀𝖾𝗋 on Sept 24, 2016 10:35:03 GMT -5
{ good morning friends! how is everyone today~ }
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Post by chipster321 on Sept 24, 2016 10:41:37 GMT -5
(I'm good! I just got called by a place I applied to so I'm happy!)
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Post by 𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗒𝖻𝖺𝖽𝗀𝖾𝗋 on Sept 24, 2016 10:45:07 GMT -5
{ oh that's great chipster! are you going for an interview? }
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Post by servalstrike on Sept 24, 2016 11:05:43 GMT -5
Monroe Ó Fithcheallaigh:
Monroe bustled around the kitchen preparing breakfast for the pack. With a wooden ladle he began to fill a black pot her held in his hand with water from a wooden basin in the corner of the room. His hands were steady despite himself seeming to be lost in thought. Though the cave was warmed by the fireplace and body heat of his packmates, he was all too aware of the chill brought in by the draft.
His focus switches to Naomhan as he enters the cavern. The small fact that Naomhan had been outside without Monroe knowing only worries him more. Of all the people he’d want alone outside without him his little brother was the least. He was the one member of the pack that seemed to be foolish enough to do such a thing, against Monroe’s instruction. It was easy to tell that Naomhan had gotten barely any sleep as well. Monroe would have a talk with him sooner or later about leaving the den without permission. If something ever happened to him Monroe would never forgive himself.
The frown that played on his face is quickly replaced by the greeting of a smile, his expression still edged with concern. As Naomhan made himself busy with setting the table Monroe centered his attention on the fireplace. The stone had been carved out to make room for it, it was large but not particularly lovely in any way. No the thing Monroe loved about the fireplace were the carvings that had been etched above, in, and around it. The border of the fireplace was carved with briars. Depictions of wolves howling at the moon encircled by a celtic knot of brambles sat above it, around were wolves hunting in the forest. The inside was hard to tell, it had been covered by years of smoke and flame and Monroe had never had the courage to try and uncovered it for fear of ruining whatever beautiful picture was hidden. The carvings had been there for years, inscribed by the first pack of the wolf den, It was a beautiful piece of history and everyday he stared at it he always seemed to discover something new about it.
Hanging the pot over the fire he turned back to his little brother just as he spoke. “Winter seems to do that to you every year, Brother dearest. The forest and animals can remind you on a daily basis of it’s coming, the fleeing birds and dying leaves and frost lit mornings could scream in your face and you’d still be too dense to acknowledge their warnings,” his voice bordering on amusement as he spoke.
He wiped off his hands and tossed a sidelong glance to the girl with tousled hair who sat at his table. Absorbed in whatever wonders lie in that journal of hers. Clearing his throat he tried to get her attention. “Vivian,” he spoke “Would you kindly go fetch some more berries from those bushes outside?”
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Post by 𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗒𝖻𝖺𝖽𝗀𝖾𝗋 on Sept 24, 2016 12:00:36 GMT -5
woods near the wolfden | No name | late afternoon The forest was warmer by day, but only marginally. The sun was high in the sky, a spot of bright and yellow that hoarded what little warmth it could spare all to itself. The days had waned and thinned, whittled down to a few measly hours of cold sunlight. But it was hours he could not dare to waste.
The man heaved himself up the hillside, huffing breath after painful breath as he did so. He clutched at his chest, streams of red seeping between his fingers and braiding down his knuckles. The man couldn't have been much older than his late twenties, yet a combination of dirt-stained skin, tattered clothes, and greased hair made him look too old for his age.
A crow cried in the branches above him, showering pine needles as it burst from the boughs, careening into the sky till it was nothing more than a speck of black against blue. He wheezed another hissing breath, digging his toes deeper into the soft earth and pushing onward into the forest. It was days ago now that he'd left behind the hues of orange and yellow and red in favor of the cool dark shade offered by cedars and spruces. That meant he was close, right? He couldn't be far. It couldn't be far, now. All those days spent wandering the wilderness couldn't be for nothing. Not yet.
One shaking step after another carried him through the pines. If nothing else, he was thankful for the lack of undergrowth. The forests he'd traversed through until now were thickets of twisted brambles, withering ferns, and downed trees. What might have been an otherwise easy task of skirting around tangled thorn bush became an obstacle course fit for the Red Huntsmen in his current state. Now all he had to worry about was how many pine needles he would pulling free from the soles of his feet.
The pain dulled with each step, not in the habituated way. Not in the way where he was beginning to grow used to each new pricking pain in his foot. In the dimming way. The young man could feel himself slipping, bit by horrible bit. His consciousness was becoming harder to keep a hold of. His vision was darkening, the world around him was slowly sliding away, no matter how hard he tried to keep a desperate hold of it. It was like holding sand in his fists. The harder he gripped, the more slipped between his fingers.
He stumbled forward, catching himself just before he could fall face-first into the ground. Blood spilled across the dirt, spattering of crimson against brown and green. He dragged a shuddering breath from his lungs and held perfectly still.
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Post by servalstrike on Sept 24, 2016 12:33:20 GMT -5
Holland Holgersen:
Holland never liked funerals. Not because people would be crying over the death of a loved or because of the gloom that seemed to encase them. A fog that would linger over everyone for the rest of the day, maybe even week, after gathering together and mourning a tragedy one by one saying things like “there’s was nothing that could have been done”, “he was a good man” (even if they had never known the man), “how I wish I could turn by time”. As if that would do anything. The man was dead, there was no point in feeling sorry for him. But no, what Holland didn’t like about funerals were the people. He had never been a people person, he considered himself a recluse. Despite his elder brother’s scoldings for being so seemingly rude to others when he only wanted to be alone.
Thankfully for him his brother brother wasn’t here to force him into idle conversation. And yet he had the distinct feeling he was being watched by someone who’d do just that. His eyes flicked from the burning pyre, the fire that turned the man to ashes matched the blazing world around him. Hues of red and gold dressed the trees, like their own sort of fire. Autumn was like that, it was a funeral pyre all it’s own. Burning away the once bright and alive world around it into ash, stripping the flesh from trees to replace them with snow and frost. Despite how grim and morbid it sounded Holland had always rather liked autumn, not for the pretty colors or the crisp scents of fall, but because it was the first sign of winter. And winter had always been his favorite season.
Past the burning hues of the trees Holland caught sight of a shift of white. Beautiful and bright against the fall colors, yet the sight of it did not bring Holland any sense of joy or peace. For the strike of white that perched in the trees was none other than Sinbad the falcon. He watched over the gathering with all-seeing eyes, like a silent sentry. His feathers ruffled as he met Holland’s gaze. It wasn’t the bird itself Holland disliked, but rather the presence he indicated.
He stifled a groan as a hand met his shoulder, even through his cloak he could feel the warmth emanating from her. He could just picture the honeypot eyes before he even turned to face her. Sadja al-Jarad. She was a beautiful woman with skin like cinnamon and hair like a cloud of black waves and curls with a nest of bangs that, when not swept to the side, cover her forehead. Sadja’s features are a complementary combination of sharp and smooth with an arched nose and upturned eyes that are a brown like freshly roasted chestnuts. She was everything Holland was not, warm and welcoming and kind and gentle. Holland was pale and sharp like ice frozen over a statue.“Beautiful funeral, isn’t it?” Holland spoke with a monotone voice. Sadja arched her brow at the odd remark then glanced over the pyre, “Death is never beautiful. It is cold and sad and lonely.” Her voice was almost a wisp as she spoke, keeping quiet out of respect for the other mourners. With a huff he crossed his arms “He doesn’t exactly look cold,” he mumbled. Sadja shot him a piercing look and he merely shrugged it off. “What? I’m kidding.” “Your jokes are as cruel and unfeeling as you,” she responded with a tired sigh.
Holland nodded forward “Not as cruel and unfeeling as the Crown Prince, he’s not even shedding a tear at his own tutor’s funeral.” It was true Prince Mika was a man of few words and even fewer emotions. Holland had faced wolves and yet he still feared the Crown Prince more than the biting fangs of the wolves. Sadja let her gaze fall on the Prince, “We all mourn in our own way.” Holland did groan that time “Prince Mika doesn’t mourn at all, the guy feels no compassion or anything.” He knew it was futile to argue with her though, the woman couldn’t be reasoned with she saw the good in everyone even when there was nothing to see. With a huffed he lowered his voice a little more and mumbled “Shouldn’t you be off lecturing your husband instead of me?”
Sadja’s lips quirked a little at that “My husband at least listens to me you know. He also doesn’t kick old men off their horses then steal the horse to chase down a stray dog he mistook for a wolf.” Her tone became serious and her judging eyes, resembling that of the her falcon perched in the tree, roamed over him.
So that was why she interrupted his peaceful meditation to speak to him. She was scolding him about the events of the day before. Yes, Holland had in fact kicked an old farmer off his horse in the name of the Red Huntsmen in order to chase down what he had thought was a wolf but only turned out to be a stray dog. He didn’t need her to lecture him like she was his mother. He was about to respond, the defend himself from her judgement, when suddenly their conversation was interrupted by the piercing voice of the Queen. The woman could command attention with a flick of her wrist. She was striking and fierce, truly deserving of the title of Queen. Far more so than any woman Holland had knowledge of, even Sadja.
Her voice carried over the fire and struck even Holland from his stupor. He stood upright with his hands at his sides like a loyal solider as she spoke. Queen Avis-Berlin’s words carried through the air until she finally said the words Holland did not know he dreaded so until he heard them. Mika Revel as the new Captain of the Red Huntsmen. Holland truly hated funerals.
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Post by chipster321 on Sept 24, 2016 13:11:37 GMT -5
Vivi looked up at Naoman and nodded in acknowledgment, before turning her tired eyes back to her journal. People knew she wrote in her journal a lot, but no one had really ever read it. She would be fine with them reading it, but no one had ever asked so she didn't say anything. She didn't care either way. She was a really good writer though, and would probably be able to sell her stories, if she was normal that is.
Vivi then looked up again after hearing someone clear their throat, only to see it was Monroe trying to get her to look up. It took her a second to process what she had asked, but she nodded and stood up, leaving her open journal and started to make her way to the cave entrance, yawning a bit on the way.
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Post by servalstrike on Sept 24, 2016 13:53:15 GMT -5
Monroe Ó Fithcheallaigh:
As Monroe watched Vivi leave he gave a short sigh. The girl was a strange one to him, she spoke so little in the morning. Not that he was one to mind. People of few words could still make good company after all, and a comfortable silence was always welcome. His eyes met the table and found her journal lying open on it. "Vivian!" He called after her in hopes of getting her attention, "You left your journal!" It was no use though. Pursing his lips together he strode over and gently closed it. While Monroe often found himself curious about it’s content he would never invade someone’s privacy. His fingers lingered on the cover though, tracing its borders before finally pulling away. That journal meant so much to her, too much that he would simply flip through it without so much as her knowledge that he was doing so. That wouldn’t be fair to her.
Monroe would not let his curiosity get the better of him. He wasn’t that kind of man. Privacy was precious, especially when you lived in a cave with a bunch of other people who could and would go through your things if they so pleased.
Shaking the thoughts loose from his mind he drifted from the main cave to the storage room. After a moment or two he came back with a wooden bowl of some rather less-than-appetizing looking apples. They were small and sour but food was food no matter where it came from, even if the apples were possibly fermented enough to get drunk off of he’d offer them to anyone who was hungry nonetheless. Besides, you’d have to eat a lot of them to actually get drunk. No the real killer was some wine he had hidden away in his secret store, which he kept only for emergencies or celebration, but he suspected Naomhan knew where it was and had been taking sips at it.
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