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Post by 𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗒𝖻𝖺𝖽𝗀𝖾𝗋 on Sept 26, 2016 16:14:34 GMT -5
{ pick randomly and see what happens }
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Post by mags on Sept 26, 2016 16:17:02 GMT -5
( DUDE. robin omg. that's insaneeee. I'm in the process of making two more and already I'm like "wow maybe i should just stop and breathe for a sec" )
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Post by koi on Sept 26, 2016 16:19:37 GMT -5
[ honestly 3 is almost Too Much for me but i kinda knew that coming into this so i'm going to avoid using more than 2 of them at once. y'know. ]
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Post by mags on Sept 26, 2016 16:23:35 GMT -5
( yeah well that's smart. i couldnt use 3 at a time either! 2 is more than enough to rp at one time )
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Post by mags on Sept 26, 2016 16:51:49 GMT -5
Leonardo de Luca { eighteen // male // normal } - Lanky in stature, Leonardo moves at an almost awkward gait. He stands at about 6'3", and is quite slender. He's not scrawny by any means, but his muscles are lean and they don't stand out as much as some others' do. His hair is dark and his eyes are almost darker, and his skin almost appears bronze in color. He's quite the strategist, and will do anything to protect his pack. To those outside his circle of trust, he can come across as cruel and manipulative. But to everyone else, he is loyal to a fault. - { machiavellian , dependable, selfless, resolute }
Ingrid Wiesel { eighteen // female // normal } - With a porcelain-white complexion, cerulean-blue eyes, and hair dark as charcoal, Ingrid certainly has a bit of an exotic appearance. She stands at about 5'10", making her taller than most other women her age. Ingrid is quite strong, both in build and personality. Once her mind is made up, it can be quite difficult to sway her opinions. Often enough, this makes her fairly impulsive. She's passionate, rash, and uninhibited. Certainly not one to rationally think things through before acting upon her instincts. Is that a good quality? Perhaps not. But is it something that's likely to ever change? No. Ingrid's spontaneous nature makes for a fun time, normally. But with one wrong decision potentially comes disaster. And that's just something that she has yet to figure out for herself. - { impetuous, facetious, unrestrained, charming }
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Post by 𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗒𝖻𝖺𝖽𝗀𝖾𝗋 on Sept 26, 2016 17:01:57 GMT -5
{ they look good magni! i'll add them soon~ }
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Post by 𝓑𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐫 ♥ on Sept 26, 2016 17:23:52 GMT -5
clíodhna ó coileáin
And they said breathe, because you’ve been running for years girl. Been running away for so long that you don’t even know what you’re running from anymore. You say it’s yourself because that’s the obvious answer; everyone is afraid of themselves. In some small way each individual is afflicted with a variant self –loathing, an accumulated desire for destruction, whether through obvious means (like the time she punched a mirror because her face never looked right, and make-up was never any help, just a cover-up, like compliments laced with milk and honey sincerity, sweet but without any underlying sustenance) or those more subliminal (and Rain once took her to watch the sunset, one hand holding hers, the other a bottle of Jäger.) Cliodhna o Coileain is self-aware enough to know the extents of her self-hatred; knows that she has been running away from herself for as long as she can remember, and that, for all rational intents and purposes, she is accomplishing nothing. But when they told her to (stop) and (breathe), said that she would be okay, that coming to accept oneself was the first step towards acheiving happiness, that only through patience and love could she quell her demons, honestly, what could she do but laugh? Bring peace to this hell? What a f*cking joke that was.
You see, Cliodhna is a monster, and people ran the f*ck away from monsters. To stop would be to willfully surrender herself to the jaws of the beast. (And mama didn’t raise no saint, but she didn’t raise no quitter, either.)
She has been running for days, though. Literally, this time; winter was coming fast and Cliodhna had f*cked up again, not that this was anything unusual; she tended to butcher any situation she was put in to, the metaphorical bull in a china shop, abashedly frightened and overwhelmed, back back backing up into a wall of ornaments, cutting herself on all the delicate parts of conversation, always leaving behind a bloodied, broken mess. (You would think that a diplomats daughter would be more refined but instead she is awkward and nervous but her hands don’t shake when she curls them into fists.) This being said, it should not come as a surprise that Cliodhna is not a gentle kind of person. This, unfortunately, or fortunately depending on how you look at it, does not carry over into her appearance; Clio looks young. Actually, to be more accurate, Clio is young. She is sixteen, as much as she likes to pretend that she is older (argues that age should not be based so much on time past but on how much one has lived, and hell, has she been through a lot, but), she is still merely a child, and is, in turn, often treated like little more than so. For example: people tended to underestimate her; she was a quiet girl, tall and lanky and too-skinny, not in a jutting bones count-your-ribs kind of way, but like a songbird. She looked petite, sweet, and her generally demure attitude around strangers gave the impression of her being little more than a lost girl. Someone’s sister, someone’s daughter, helpless and alone, a baby bird fallen out of the nest, vulnerable and in need of protection, or, on the other hand, and she has encountered this one a fair share of times, perhaps more often than the kind-hearted stranger, an easy meal, Red Riding Hood lost in the woods, easy to take advantage of.
Of course, Cliodhna was not so much the girl in this case as the wolf. Literally. (She does not like to think about that part, much, even though it is forced in her face every day, a neon billboard practically screaming, “you’re a monster, girl, get over it”, and she closes her eyes because if she cannot see it than is it really there? If she pretends to not be self-aware enough of her own depravity, a lusus naturae, does it still exist? The answer is yes, of course yes, a quiet echoing around the back of her skull constantly, a ticking metronome and sometimes she wants to tear herself apart limb by limb, piece herself together so she at least looks the part, yes. She is broken. An Error Code: 404, the girl is gone, replaced with some vile shadow of the human who used to stand in its place.)
(Sometimes she thinks that she is lucky to be alive because there was another option. Every werewolf bite has a 50% mortality rate. Her memories of the afterwards are hazy, flashes of light and smoke and scream like the bowels of hell had opened up around her and all the sorrows of the undead had condensed into one cry and for a moment she was guilty, and she didn’t know why then but remembers now, because the before is as vivid as it happened. Werewolf bites have a 50% mortality rate and maybe death is the easier option.)
(Of course, it is not like she is alive anymore, anyways. She is as dead to them as she is to herself, though, granted, she is also not sure how much of ‘herself’ she still is. They asked her name and she did not know how to answer: to call herself “Clio” felt wrong because,
a. Clio died on that table with her sister fifteen months ago, and
b. she did not want to be found. Another reason that she likes to avoid people: there is a lower chance that anyone will be able to trace her. Being invisible is a gift that many take for granted.)
So she runs. Rarely stays in one place for any extended amount of time, spends as little time around others as she can, clothes herself in dark colors, hoodies, jeans, as much of her body that she can conceal the better; it is easier to leave no trace of oneself behind when less of oneself comes in contact with the land. She breaks sticks as she moves, breaks branches like she breaks everything, but steps lightly over anything that might reveal her as anything but a passing deer. Her tracks are more often four than two; it is easier to avoid being caught when one seems to belong in the forest. When one seems to belong as they are. (Because Clio is no longer a human, so she might as well be a wolf, and living as one forever has never seemed too bad of an option, letting herself dive into the animal side of her like slipping into a warm bath, forgetting herself in a wave of pure instinct, comfortable as the womb, a case of blood and sinew that will never be hers but are still more her, now, than her own body is.)
As a wolf, however, the world becomes more inherently intriguing than it does in her own body. It is almost comforting how jarring the difference is. This extends to her curiosity as well. Like a dog spotting a squirrel, Cliodhna’s interested is suddenly peaked when she smells blood.
(This instigates a conflicting rush of emotions that are rather characteristic of her. She has always had organization problems and – what was it that Daithi said – a difficulty characterizing what is important and what she does not need to worry about. It’s not like she worries too much though, probably worries not enough, is too enveloped in her own apathy to care, the kind of girl who would walk into traffic confident the cars would stop for her but not caring if they didn’t instead of taking two extra seconds to “look both ways, Clio”. Anyhow, digressions aside, she smells blood and it is only logical she do something about it. She just isn’t sure what – to – do.)
(And she thinks that indecisiveness is a b*tch because her mind is screaming at her to run run run the f*ck away from here because people are dangerous, she is literally coming from a situation that has nailed that idea into her brain like a shut coffin, but she is also curious. This is fore mostly a sign that she has spent too long in her wolf form, because honestly she’s not stupid, right, isn’t the type to go running into danger, would rather haul *ss in the other direction, but -) - well, the saying goes that curiosity killed the cat, and she was a wolf, but maybe it would be her lucky day.
(Clio covers the ground quickly, dropping into an easy sprint, and it seems as if she is running perpetually, so this is nothing. new.)
(she cannot say the same about the scene she is confronted with)
It is not that blood has ever overwhelmed her; she has seen enough of it to where she is almost numbed to the sight, nothing more than spilled paint, a deeper shade of red. Violence does not phase her. This, on the other hand, is (to put it ineloquently, but Clio has never been particularly eloquent) f*cking crazy. Like, honestly, what the hell happened? Her initial observation is twofold: the first is that there is a man, she would place him maybe somewhere in his late twenties, though she has never been the best at reading people (is quite inept at anything to do with people), and he is hurt. Hurt bad. There is blood everywhere, and while Cliodhna has never been put off by blood (doesn’t really understand why people are, it’s a natural thing, like water or air), the sheer volume of it is overwhelming. She thinks for a moment that there must be more outside of him than in, and this is disconcerting. Her second reaction is that she better get the f*ck out of her, because hell if she wants to be caught anywhere near whatever crime scene this is. Punk got murdered by something, and hell if she wants to get dragged into whatever dirt he must have gotten himself into to cause this. She says a quick prayer (to whom she is not certain; she stopped believing in a god the day she died) before back away slowly, ears pricked for any sign of whatever did this to him coming back and
that is when she notices that he is still alive and the realization comes as such a shock that she shifts. Like a literal manifestation of dissonance; what was dead is now alive, what was animal is now woman.
(and it takes her a second to get her bearings, accidental shifts are not uncommon for her, but every time it happens it is still unpleasant.)
“Hey – um?” and she can’t say ‘are you okay’ because obviously he isn’t, “Can you hear me?”
Clio takes a step forward, one hand running through her hair (a nervous habit carried with her from childhood, a ‘thanks, mom’ she wears like a backpack, thrown in alongside all of her other issues, and really it’s a marvel that she isn’t ripped from lugging them all around) and the other held up in front of her chest, a defensive posture, and it’s not like this guy was going to jump up and ambush her but “better safe than sorry, Clio”.
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Bisexual
robin
Enfj--Gryffindor--Pukwudgie--Dog Obsessed--History Lover--Total Work in Progress
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Post by robin on Sept 26, 2016 17:34:09 GMT -5
Jasper Harrison
{ 21 // male // hunter } - Face claim: Daniel Sharman- { gregarious, steady, adventurous, sincere }
Camilla Hale
{ 20 // female // beta } - Face claim: Rose Leslie- {clever, fearless, intense, self-preserving }
Andrew Dawson
{ 20 // male // medic } - Face claim: Kevin Mchale- { intelligent, diligent, principled, reserved }
Alys Revel
{ 18 // female // princess } - Face claim: Melissa Benoist- { empathetic, loyal, thoughtful, idealistic }
Reagan Rafferty
{ 19 // female // scout } - Face claim: Camilla Luddington- { independent, stubborn, passionate, spirited }
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Post by 𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗒𝖻𝖺𝖽𝗀𝖾𝗋 on Sept 26, 2016 19:11:02 GMT -5
woods near the wolfden | No name | late afternoon The world is spinning. Tilting and swaying. Sliding beneath him one way, steadying, then sliding the other way. If he had been able to think through the throbbing fog battering his skull, he would have compared the sensation to being caught in a boat tossed about by a storm-swept sea. Whispers of doubt crept up through the fog.
Give up. Give up.
Just let go.
Let it all go.
Each breath dragged in his throat, ragged and faltering. Everything was on fire. His lungs. His skin. His teeth. Pain singed his muscles, burning down through the blood, searing his bones. His fingers dug into the dirt, pine needles stabbing his skin with the hope it would be enough to take his mind off the pain. It wasn't. But something else was.
The voice was feminine.
He saw her through long, limp strands of black hair, greased by dirt and days old sweat. She was a young thing, with too-long limbs she hadn't had the chance to grow into yet suggesting she was in her teens. She was tall and skinny, not thinned to the bone. There was something older about her.
The way she looked at him brought a bright flash of memory, a bolt of molten-white lightning crackling through his wounded mind.
A gaunt-faced boy with dirt-streaked cheeks and scabbed cuts criss-crossing his arms. X's marking the spot. Only a wide-eyed, darting gaze and bony limbs for protection. A boy who spoke only in nods and shrugs because speaking aloud wasn't worth its price of bruises and bleeding noses.
She stood tense, ready to bolt at the first sign of trouble. Wary. Inquisitive. Not curious, there wasn't enough childlike innocence in the way she watched him to call it curiosity.
"Bleedin'. N'deafff." Drunk on pain and dizzy with breathlessness, the words left him slurred and piled against each other. Had he been in a better state of mind he would've winced. Better yet, were he in the girl's shoes he would have turned heel and left himself for the wolves to pick apart.
He tried to lift his head, lips thinning into a hard line as the drums in his skull quickened their beat. Louder and louder. The world was spinning again. Growing dimmer with every fire-laced breath his lungs dared to manage. He wanted to lie down, let the blood drain and take his worries with him.
He kept his eyes open, curling his fingers deeper into the loose dirt till his knuckles were white. His other hand was at his chest again, grasping at the bloody gash that drooled down his shirt and dampened his skin. He focused on the girl through the swaying. This had been a stupid idea. Stupid and dangerous. And he couldn't wait to laugh when he made it out alive.
"Ain't gon bite. Jus' bit tired."
He hadn't thought the wound was that bad. How deep was it again? His stomach twisted and wrenched. Oh good, nausea was making an appearance, he'd been wondering when that one would show up. "D'me a favor..."
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Post by 𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗒𝖻𝖺𝖽𝗀𝖾𝗋 on Sept 26, 2016 20:47:17 GMT -5
woods outside arderra | Sibael | late afternoon This tym wil b diffurnt i can feel it. I fond a book to day the leters r forn foern foren. I cant reed the wors. Is all gunk an junk in my eye. But is got picktors and thas all i need. Kween says shell get me moar books if i help the haunt hont wolf kilers. I aint stupd. She wouldnt giv me a drop of watr if i was dyin of thurst. She thinks im stupd cus i aint city but thas got nothin to do wit--
Sibael’s head snapped up as the telltale rustle of leaves whispered close-by. She closed the journal in her lap, slapping it shut and stuffing the stick of charcoal into the crudely-sewn pocket of her skirt. She was too close to the city for the sound to belong to a were, but better safe than sorry.
Heaving herself off the moss-blanketed bank that had become her seat, she brushed herself off and eyed the opposite bank warily. When nothing eyed her back, she sniffed, satisfied. Time I got going anyway.
The stream had dropped a good bit in the past days, lowering till the water was dragging its belly over the pebbly bottom. Her feet splashed through the water, a cold shock to the bare soles of Sibael’s feet. They’d been in need of a good cleaning anyway. She wore the dirt on her feet like a second skin, even the black gunk that caked the underneath of her toenails. But she’d be happy for the pair of boots promised to her by the Huntsmen with winter fast on autumn’s heels.
Already the branches were looking naked as their fiery-hued leaves browned and fell. The sun sinks lower in the sky, soaking the forest in a sap-orange glow. It wouldn’t be long now before it disappeared beyond the horizon, leaving the moon in its stead. As beautiful as the night could be, Sibael had no intentions of staying the night beneath the boughs and among the thickets. Especially not when there was sure to be a hot meal waiting for her back at the Red Tower.
She had stared at herself in the mirror once, shortly after joining the Red Huntsmen. She’d sat staring for an achingly short time, studying her reflection as best she could. What had stared back was a scrawny-limbed runt of a thing. Brown skin mottled in peach-pink splotches. Ink dark eyes aided by ugly round glasses. Scruffy hair tip-toeing the fine line between blonde and white cut by a knife and her own two hands. But that wasn’t what made her stare.
Fat had begun to settled on her bones, softening the harsh, jutting angles of her joints with meaty padding. The gaunt shadows of her face had begun to fade since she first arrived, only the bags beneath her eyes remained. A silent tribute to the sleepless nights she’d spent huddled in the dark.
Not anymore. Never again.
Sibael would sell out every last one of her supposed kin if it meant a scrap of bread and a warm place to sleep. That alone was enough incentive. There were others too, though. A whole world of reasons to to turn traitor on the wolves.
Silently, she made her way through the trees, avoiding brambles and moss-covered logs with practiced ease. She’d been with the Huntsmen for only a few weeks or so now and Sibael was already growing steadily accustomed to the stretch forest bordering Arderra. These woods were less wild somehow. They felt tamer than the ones closer to the mountains. It made them easier to navigate.
But they were quieter too. Lonely.
❦
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Post by mags on Sept 26, 2016 22:02:27 GMT -5
ingrid wiesel -- Soft steps tread lightly upon damp undergrowth. Every now and again a twig snaps beneath the young woman’s clumsy footing, but for the most part, she somehow managed to avoid causing a ruckus that would undoubtedly echo for hundreds of meters. It was merely curiosity that drove her to venture out into the forest alone, though most would likely consider it to be an act of recklessness. After all, to simply “go exploring” in territory known quite well by Arderra’s notorious band of Huntsmen is, well, stupid. They would easily have the ability to overpower her if multiple men appeared now, and with this in mind, the dark-haired female paused for a moment. Her lips only slightly parted as she drank in a taste of crisp, autumn air. Not a single sound, other than that of a light breeze rustling leaves overhead, was audible. No, she was safe.
At least, for the time being.
Throughout her pack, Ingrid was known for her impulsivity, and normally, other weres found this particular attribute to be..almost endearing. It was almost as if she fed on adrenaline, on the rush that only came when one did not allow fear to deter them. Yes, for this reason, Ingrid had quite the reputation. But did she ever allow that to dissuade her? No. She most certainly did not. She was quite the carefree individual, and, for the most part, she did not rely greatly upon the opinions of others. However, she did appreciate the camaraderie that came from being involved with a pack, and that was why she chose to stay.
Winter was rapidly approaching; that was for certain. As Ingrid trekked through the woods, she noticed how autumn air felt different than that of spring or summer. As she inhaled sharply and deeply, the brisk air almost stung her lungs, and that was an indication of winter’s impending arrival. As her cerulean gaze flicked upward, a gentle wind caused the now-auburn leaves of aspen trees to shimmer and glisten, almost as if they were made of glass. A single leaf broke away from its branch, and as it fluttered ever-so-gracefully downward, Ingrid outstretched a hand and managed to grasp it between her fingers. A hint of a smile tugged upward at the corners of her lips, and with a slight shake of her head, she ventured onward.
Only when she noticed slight movement between the many, thin-trunked pine trees did Ingrid grow still. Slowly, her eyes narrowed, and she allowed herself to crouch down into the golden grasses of the woods. These provided little camouflage, but still, they were better than nothing at all. The figure silently slinking through the forest did not seem familiar to Ingrid, but really, that did not mean much at all. She had a tendency to forget those with whom she did not interact frequently, so perhaps she had met this person before. Her lips slightly pursed in thought as she considered her options. She could either observe from afar or make herself known. And with her luck, if she chose the former, she would do something that would alert the other person of her presence, anyway.
So. Why not be bold?
Steadily, her heart rate began to increase as she stood and stepped out from behind the protection of the tree. Now she found herself completely exposed. Completely unguarded. If this figure decided to launch an attack, she would need to ready herself. Her limbs tensed as her reflexes heightened; her full attention was on the situation at hand.
“Uh,” she began, clearing her throat once as she mustered the courage to speak.
Don’t think. Just act. It’s worked in your favor before, so why wouldn’t it work now?
“Hello! I don’t think I’ve met you before.” She paused, swallowing hard. What was making this so..difficult? “Who are you, exactly?”
Now why had she done this again? Stupid, Ingrid. You should have turned around and gone back the way you came. Now you’re probably going to get yourself killed. A low grumbling sounded, and the young female rested a hand upon her stomach. Wonderful. Now you’re going to die hungry.
( ah I'm sorry I'm tired so this is pretty bad!! if you need something more to work with, i will gladly edit! )
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Post by maple on Sept 26, 2016 23:04:37 GMT -5
indie falkov //
Indie liked to think it was her human intuition, or even just regular senses, that told her winter was coming. She wanted to believe that the overwhelmingly strong scents of crushed leaves and pine trees smelled this thick before, or that she could hear everything at once - like the birds singing a chorus above her head or the sound of a mouse scavenging for food somewhere in the brush to her right. Maybe believing lies would be easier than accepting the truth.
Perhaps it would give her some sanity?
Indie needed that very much; sanity. She felt so far from it, like someone should lock her somewhere dark and empty with heavy chains and little to no daylight, because she was too unstable to be out in the open air after all. She was something so horrible, she couldn't bare to live inside her own skin at times, because of what she was. Simply because of what she had so quickly and painfully become, the thing people feared most.
A monster. A hideous creature she was. The type that mothers warned their small children about by the fire at night, in hushed tones that spoke of death and bloodlust, things that branded innocents with the memories like scars. She was the nightmare (a thing, not even worthy of being considered human at all).
Being a prisoner to her own body and self was the worst torture of all, at least in Indie Falkov's newly created world. And she couldn't control it.
It, was now her other self. It's genetics were now coursing through her veins, mixing with her once normal blood. Tainting her, corrupting her. And she couldn't tame it, why even try? How could she stayed determined when the monster inside didn't listen to reason?
It was an animal, and Indie was terrified of being hunted down and slaughtered like one.
Being alone like this was quite maddening a times, unable to find help coping with the new weight thrust upon her thin shoulders. She had survived, shaking and petrified, bloodied and abandoned. But that was the catch, her survival, it forced her to keep pushing forward towards - what exactly? Whatever the future held, Indie was not interested. All that seemed to matter now was staying alive, and resisting the anger that burned like fire in her chest. All her worst traits were now ruling over the good ones, leaving her upside down and blinded by it all.
The wolf wanted what it wanted, and she had to obey. It was her fury, it was her pain, it was Indie - but it was inferior and foreign. And the worst thing? Being human now wasn't as satisfying, it wasn't like being wild and free running at normally unreachable speeds, trampling through the forest strong and sure. She felt connected to everything; one with every element that she had so easy disregarded before. It was addicting almost, the feeling of everything at once. But, the most addicting - by far - was the blood. It was as if every sense notified her of it, screaming and shouting so loudly, she couldn't drown out the noise even when she shouted back. She needed it, and wanted it, and there was no way known to her that could stop the craving. It was a curse, a burden, one that she'd just have to evolve around.
It was no easy feat.
Indie had gotten use to the war inside her, the ongoing battle between who she was before and who she was starting to become. At times, when she was able to silence everything, even her fear, she started to learn that there was a way to live with the beast inside. And maybe, with a lot of practice and time, she could learn to coexist with her affliction.
Indie thought about all this excessively, considering that she was alone majority of the time; and when you spend so much of your living hours by yourself, you do in fact think about quite a lot of things. She didn't want to be lonely, but she didn't want to be seen like this; exposed and vulnerable. Who knows what could happen? If she hurt another person (she was fairly certain that she'd done some horrible things in her wolf form, but there were so many blank spaces in her memory. it left her afraid of herself, mortified about her own capabilities.)
She wandered like a lost soul, wide awake most days and nights. Just like now. Indie could hear herself breathe (and it sounded almost ragged, as if the air refused to enter her lungs), her brown eyes were always searching. There was no time for rest, especially when you had no protection. No home. She wandered now, seemingly absent to anyone watching, but Indie was alert. Always.
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Post by koi on Sept 27, 2016 0:43:59 GMT -5
the adventures of the gay forest nymph (eden part 2?)
--
Back at home, Etain’s mother let her learn one instrument of choice, and, after consulting with multiple different musicians talking highly of themselves and their talents, her decision was made entirely based upon the teacher; a short, homely looking thing, with a smile prettier than a shimmering, spilt bag of coins, shining all golden in the light. Her name was Afon, and she offered to teach Etain how to play the crwth, and Etain was immediately and swiftly taken by the odd instrument (but oftentimes, she’d ran around the house using the bow as if it were a hunters bow and arrow, knocking over furniture, getting yelled at in a whisper by her mother and a candle held up to her face, a “why are you awake this late?” on her lips, not wishing to wake up Etain’s father, furious with her messy haired, excitable little girl, a crwth bow in one hand, a fidgety movement residing in the other.)
Right now, as Etain puffs up her cheeks and then lets the air go, watching it floating like a jellyfish in the atmosphere, she misses playing the crwth; she misses being a loud distraction in her household of respectful quiet and, most of all, she misses Afon.
Etain is--for a lack of a better word--an anomaly, an outlier, in her comfort with being alone. She looks back at the memories of herself with other people fondly; she looks back on them with a smile on an otherwise dull-to-some face. Sometimes, she misses specific things; like Afon, for example, or the weight of her bow underneath her hand, the crwth loosely held in the other, but other times--
she is free.
There is something beautiful about air cold on one’s neck when you have lived your entire life with hair so thick and long that it thudded and whipped against your back when you ran. Still, though, she sits, legs crossed, by a stream; the water runs clear at this section, runs clear and freezing cold (she’d already stuck her hand into it, now sopping wet, to see what the temperature was like). Etain’s knife runs as smoothly as the stream does over her hair, close to her skin along her scalp, the base of her skull. It’s been getting too long, anyways; Etain likes to keep her neck free of hair (but winter is coming, she supposes, and this may be the last mop chop she gets to perform before it’s a bad idea to keep her head completely bare, susceptible to the cool air). She hums a song she’d once learnt on her crwth, one that Afon had taught her (and Etain hadn’t listened at the time, but then felt bad for ignoring her the entire lesson, so she practiced real, real hard, to try and impress Afon the next time she saw her). An anomaly, for sure; her happiness is almost disgusting in its sureness, taking every stride with the look of someone who is never phased, ever, (but once her mother had ripped out a section of her hair trying to brush it. and she'd cried like a baby. Even though she was young, barely more than ten or so, maybe older, Etain had made it clear to herself, in her thoughts, in her mind, that whenever she had the chance to, she’d chop all her hair off, offer it to the birds. There was nothing better than the idea of another animal finding warmth in own shortcomings--and her hair, back then, was nothing but short.)
Just because Etain is happy does not mean that she is not jumpy.
The noise that exits Etain’s mouth is noise between a swear and a squeak of pain, and a panicked sound of fear, because it is hard to be silent in the forest when there are so many sticks and leaves willingly crunching underneath the foot of someone behind her.
Also, she nicks the curve of her skull with her knife when she had heard the whatever that had surfaced someplace behind her. So now she was bleeding. So now she was in the middle of a haircut and she is bleeding! and she turns around and--
it could be worse. It could be worse but it could be better because, unfortunately, very, very unfortunately, the person that inadvertently snuck up behind Etain is a pretty girl. The first and perhaps only thing Etain first notices about her is that her eyes are the most interesting shade of brown, light and fresh and autumn-crisp, not the dark nothingness that Etain’s own eyes are categorized as; something between black and brown, muddy water.
“Yikes,” says Etain, “Did anyone ever tell you not to sneak up behind a chick who’s using a hunting knife to cut her hair?” But she is laughing, nervously, pulls her knife away, stares blankly at the blood on the edge of the blade, balking awkwardly, glancing between the knife and then the girl; “oh Lord. Ahaa. No hard feelings. I’m just going to. I’m just going to--”
And she drops her knife in the stream. Winces, winces and tries to cover it up, touches the thin line of red on the back of her head, among freshly buzz-cut hair, nervous laughter contrasting the soft babble of bubbles in the stream, running over smooth rocks, and now the added edition of the knife in the stream. “That was not what I was going to do. I’m going to just. Pick that back up. Um. Don’t mind me. God, there is hair all down my collar.”
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Post by 𝓑𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐫 ♥ on Sept 27, 2016 0:54:54 GMT -5
eanna kielinski. (it is 2am my friends and i binge wrote this whole thing in about an hour. it is a mess. have fun playing find the grammar mistake.)
Eanna started smoking firstly because of the pain, secondly because of the anxiety, and though sometimes he mixes up the order, that doesn’t seem to matter much when he can’t get out of bed without help.
It isn’t an addiction. He could stop at any time, if he wanted. It’s not like he needs it to live, or anything. It would be easy to quit. It’s just that he does not want to. (He tried to stop cold turkey, once, just to see if he could, and it isn’t that he can physically cannot, or at least this is what he tells himself, but); Eanna does not want to classify himself as a wimp, though he has been called pathetic enough times that his self-esteem would probably just roll over and accept it, but he does not believe he could continue to survive without something to numb the pain. (He says survive instead of live because there is a distinct difference; this, waking up each morning afraid that the lightning-thunder-clap pain in his hips will come back whenever he stands, running too-skinny fingers over his thighs, where the scars decorate his skin in hard lines, not art but simple symbolism: you will never be whole, boy, this is not living.) The drugs make the pain bearable, make it so that he is able to smile, to drag himself out of bed every morning without his hands shaking like the earth is falling apart beneath him, look at his reflection in the kitchen sink and think: “one day at a time”. Because that is how he survives. One day at a time.
(And trying to look too far ahead into the future does not so much scare him, but rather he sees it as a somewhat ludicrous presumption, because it is literally impossible to know what to expect. He is not a pessimist, the opposite, really, covers his bedroom in pastel colored sticky notes with inspirational quotes on them, carves the word ‘hope’ into his wrist with dye to cover up the scars, and Eanna has known good times and bad, and if he knows anything it is that the world is constantly changing, and if he didn’t let himself change with it, he would not have made it this far.)
Admittedly, he also has a tendency to monologue. To wax poetic in his head about the minutiae, the details that most would look over, label as arbitrary or not work taking a second glimpse at: this is a habit that is not in any way diminished by his other favorite pastime. (Ainsley once told him that she was planning on baking that afternoon and Eanna, struck by some devilish whim of teenage rebellion, replied “same” and the expression on that woman’s face could not be more accurately summed up than: looks into camera like they’re on the Office.)
With that in mind, smoking in the forest was rather ordinary for Eanna, especially considering he and his mother live there; that sort of thing tends to come along with the Social Outcasts card. There was nowhere else for him to go. His days were often spent in the company of the woods, occupied by long walks, another hobby of his, considering that movement was the one other thing that helped his pain to subside. (A slight correction: there was another, more valuable, way to calm the ache (and Eanna thinks about the pain so much that one would be tempted to just tell him to ‘chill’, because we all have our difficulties, but to separate his existence from the (disease) is virtually impossible because he was born with the ache.) Though, in all fairness, it is not so much an ache as a constant, transversal sensation that is hard to describe other than being ‘sharp’, not like a knife wound or a pin-prick but rather if the sound of screeching tires was transformed into something physical. But digression aside, there was one other source of calm. One that he enjoyed much more than simply getting high, that left him with a swelling feeling in his chest, like an expanding balloon rising all the way from his heart into his face, because it is so, so lonely in the woods and even though he is not a lonely person it is hard to at least not feel isolated).
(and, with him, he doesn’t feel isolated anymore. but that is beside the point. what eanna feels has never been what matters.)
The voice sounds from behind him and it is unexpected. The anxiety that had been building in Eanna’s chest, over buying flour, of all things, expands like a star going supernova, encompasses him entirely for one second, because to hear a voice in the woods is not always a sign of immediate danger, but god knows it usually is, before collapsing in onto itself. A sudden burst of adrenaline before a crashing sense of calm; (the immediate response of fight-flight-freeze, and Eanna always defaults to freeze, goes quiet whenever something goes wrong, not because he has nothing to say but because he does not know how to say it. Not in a way that most people would understand, anyways. He has too many things to say but they always come out in half-finished syllables, excerpts from poems he has not yet written, and it is rare that a person turns to him after he refers to them as “a rose with several petals torn off” or “like looking up at the sun from underwater” without thinking that he’s at least a little bit crazy. And maybe he is. Chronic depression is a mental illness, after all.)
And really, he must be crazy to turn to a man whose job is to kill him, and smile.
(wide, and Eanna has always been a little self-conscious of his smile, his lips are too large, too effeminate, and it always looks like he’s wearing lipstick, but none of that really matters in the long run; he repeats this to himself like saying it will make it true, a graceless self-delusion.)
It is strange that the prey would ever look up to the hunter and grin, wave, palm open and fingers splayed out, as completely at ease as one would be with a friend. A brother. Someone whom one had been raised to be able to trust, not the kind of man that he was trained to run away from. Eanna had been raised on the idea that to see a man was an immediate death sentence. Running away was never an option for him; in wolf form his joint problems because exacerbated, the surgery he had on his hips did not translate, and someone once called him the “right kind of monster” and maybe they weren’t totally wrong, because as a monster he was pretty much useless. Maybe that is why Sioni did not shoot him on sight, that first day. Perhaps he had some sort of premonition that this boy, all of 5’9 and all too thin in appearance (as if he were barely a step away from becoming a tree, knobby knees and sharp joints that looked like they might cut through his skin like paper if he moved too fast) was no threat.
Of course, even if Eanna was able to be a monster, in the laymens use of the word, he does not think he could have ever brought himself to hurt Sioni. (Boy could pull the trigger on him now and Eanna would take it lying down, hands in the pocket of his hoodie, probably still smiling because it is fate, and at least he would be dying at the hands of someone who meant something. Not thanks to an OD, or a doctor who barely knew his name, or his own. But that’s too dark and he’s not – ok, Eanna is not a dark person. He is happy, or at least he is trying his hardest to be. He is all smiles, spends his time gardening and painting and writing poetry and trying his hardest to hold out hope that someday life will be better. But it is so ineffably hard sometimes. Anyways.)
Eanna turned around in the woods and saw this conundrum of a boy, pale like moonlight against the night sky, alabaster contrasting against red red robes and, instead of running away, his first thought is, “F*ck, you had me scared for a second there, bro.”
(and he takes several steps towards Sioni, laidback, lets the hand that is not holding the cigarette slide into the pocket of his hoodie, and looks him over. tries to take note of any new markings, new scars, red patches or blood dried under the fingernails. you see, eanna plays therapist for a lot of people. that is the role he is often assigned in friendships; people turn to him when they need to talk about their problems; they exchange their company for someone to vent to. eanna does not complain about this; it is easier to ignore one’s own problems when confronted with other peoples. at the same time, this has trained him in the art of detail; he notices the little things, nervous tics, body language, has become accustomed to scanning for new lines or marks or anything that could act as a physical signal to a persons mental state. sioni was another one of these cases; at least, insofar that he was a complete mess, even eanna would admit this, though not out loud, but it was a well understood fact. sioni was a mess and eanna worried about him. smiled, in the same way that a doctor counts respiration's while pretending to take a pulse, as he took note of new constellations.)
Eanna runs a hand along the back of his neck before taking his cigarette between two fingers, lowering it like a casual gesture, and one lip pulls up at the corner, smile evolving into a casual smirk. “If I listened to everything my mother told me I wouldn’t be hanging around with a man like you now, would I?”
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Post by koi on Sept 27, 2016 3:03:01 GMT -5
sioni ó mathúna (i didn't actually write this i had a seizure on my keyboard and cried)
-- Sioni does not study people--well, tries not to, tries not to because Sioni always puts himself in a place he does not want to be when he does. There are many places Sioni does not want to be, physically--his parents house, the room Rhys wasted away in, the crooked, untidy shoreline where Sioni watched all charred remnants of his brother intermix equally with the salt in the water, that f*cking bakery that his sister knows the story of but still visits and rubs in Sioni’s face when she does --but mentally, mentally, Sioni can’t be in certain places of his mind, certain phases of the way he will look at someone and pick ‘em apart like a scab on his knee. He tries very hard not to pick Eanna apart. Because he does not deserve being put on the spot like that. Because the last time he so thoroughly, animatedly, described someone right to their face, he was higher than a kite (higher than what is probably safe. Sioni, most likely, has brain damage. Sweet.) and he prodded the kid’s freckles (and Sioni was a kid himself, at the time, is only reminded of that when Eanna says something about “a man like you,” and it’s a subtle, shiny reminder just in the forefront of Sioni’s mind that he isn’t a child any longer, has no reason to abuse substance anymore, no teenage rebellion to parry with, has no reason to become dependant on anything anymore. nothing. Sioni feels like an overgrown child, all-a-sudden, and it hits him in the face as fact.)
He looks at Eanna for a long, long moment, can barely be described as a moment but more a piece of time that is awkward in its length. That wry, strange smile on his lips, like he’s buying time, trying to figure out what to say to him. Eanna always strikes Sioni as a casual sort of sad, a monotonous underlayer of always-sad buried beneath heavy cigarette smoke and that wide smile of his and sometimes-happy and the almost comical, imperceptibly humourous way he calls Sioni bro that reminds him so strongly of--anyways, Eanna is incredibly soft. Which is the world’s most duh, we probably would’ve noticed that anyways observation, but, he is; not the sort of soft that makes Sioni want to reach out and touch, because Sioni keeps to himself often, even as a child, did not have much of an I need to touch everything phase, quite possibly because he gets fidgety and feels like a trapped songbird in a brass cage when he cannot hold one of his hands in the other, not exactly picking (not always), but the comfort is there anyways. It doesn’t hurt when he does it. It never does. It doesn’t hurt even when he rips off a scab, or runs his nails over his skin like a rake through fallen autumn-browned leaves. Not at the time, anyways. Eanna is soft and, in turn, a quiet sort of subtle, the way he looks over Sioni’s features like he’s checking small boxes on a tiny list of what is usual and what is different in his head.
Sioni glances down at his hand--not the one that is not-very-scarred and tattooed (badly)--but the other one. the one that looks like a darkly lit galaxy instead of a singular constellation in a pale sky. The marks are still pigmented, but none of them have had any time to fade, nor are there any new, blood-red marks on his hand (like chicken pox. he’s been accused of having a disease many-a-times. this one time--funny story, really--he grabbed gilliosa’s little friend’s hand to yank her out of the way of an oncoming, horse-led cart, and she had been out of breath and scared, but still had time to glance down at the hand sioni had used to pull her out of harms way and said, “what’s wrong with your skin?”)
(a funny story. really.)
“I made you scared?” asks Sioni in a measured deadpan, save for the emphasis on the you; the world’s most unconcerning accusation, one that barely means anything, Sioni barely means anything when he says it and then instantly wants to take it back, always, because most of all of the words that come out of Sioni’s mouth come out too-harsh-edged, a wave that knocks you down not in a swift descent but one that leaves you fully conscious, adrenaline pumped, and clambering for purchase against the sea. And then, when he is being attacked, he has no words to defend himself--really, it’s a shame, and an ironic, inconvenient one, at that. “You’re the one who came walking through here smoking. Jeez, Eanna, what a bad habit you’ve gotten yourself into. You could start forest fires, you know.”
Anything formal on his tone completely drops after that; steadily melts off of him like the coat of a lynx slipping off of thin shoulders. Though there is much talk of hunter versus hunted, strong versus weak, roadkill versus the most gentle f*cking deer in the forest, Sioni does not feel as if he is anything more than Eanna. Sioni looks at Eanna and feels as if, though he’s never flipped open a bible in his life, he is dabbling in all seven deadly sins at once; (superbia, avaritia, luxuria, invidia, gula, ira,) mostly acedia shot through Sioni’s thin veins like a superfluous injection of pain medication, because Sioni feels lazy and temperate, a metaphorical drill command, at ease in Eanna’s presence; doesn’t keep his hand on the hilt of the knife that rests by his belt like an ironic reminder that Sioni could and should have Eanna’s blood on his hands (but he only has his own, under his fingernails cut as short as they can be). Sioni is only a medic, was never really told that he needs to kill every werewolf he sees, but Eanna has all but rolled onto his back and bared the expanse of his soft underbelly at Sioni, and Sioni, meanwhile--
(When Sioni sees deer in the forest, they always pause, and watch him with something knowing and unbeknownst all at once in their deep, deep eyes; and Eanna does the same.)
--he smiles at the ground. The knife by his hip is colder than the ocean water in the middle of winter.
“Pass it over,” Sioni says, that sloth-like, unceremonious, casual tone on his voice like the angel and devil on his shoulder are done arguing and one has won (he is not sure which). The seriousness on his voice earlier--reprimanding Eanna, sarcastic, for smoking in a forest--is all gone, bone dry, instead replaced by comfort. Jesus Christ (again, Sioni uses the name in vain because he has never concerned himself with religion. God knows that his mother never had a place for God in her life, either). He does not know what this has turned into. But, easy, he takes the cigarette straight from between Eanna’s fingers, smiling, easy, “Thanks,” easy.
Another easy part of this all is that Sioni takes a drag of it, practiced, no longer the child who used to splutter and cough when his brother blew smoke into his face. Sioni refrains from doing so now because someone had called him rude for doing so; just passes it back to Eanna, exhales away from his face. easy.
a moment of silence lapses between the two; then, Sioni speaks again, mouth still tasting of smoke.
“There was a funeral,” he says as if that explains why he is in a forest, looking defeated and tired and tired emotionally, down-to-bone-marrow. “And black obviously isn’t my colour—” he sends him that same deadpan, small smirk, black is the only thing Sioni wears save for that signature red cloak because it’s weighty and comforting (but in front of Eanna, may as well be a gun pointed to his temple), “—so I left before I could embarrass myself any further. What about you, man? Any grand plans for your day?”
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Post by 𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗒𝖻𝖺𝖽𝗀𝖾𝗋 on Sept 27, 2016 12:00:20 GMT -5
woods outside arderra | Sibael & Ingrid | late afternoon Sibael whipped around— half-startled half-defensive. The voice that reached her ears didn’t sound hostile, but they hardly ever did. It was honey-glazed words and dripping sugary tones that came out of the dark. Monsters don’t always sound like monsters, you know. They sound normal. They sound like friends. They even look like friends.
Now, as then, tis simple truth— Sweetest tongue hides sharpest tooth.
The little thing was bristling, her insides simmering with prickly fear. Initial instincts told her to bolt, to make a run for it while she still had legs to do so. Second thoughts came tumbling quickly after though, berating her as a coward, no better than a frightened animal. Frightened animals lived the longest though. She clutched her journal closer to her chest, wanting desperately to hide it.
But the scent that met Sibael had her frozen in place. At last, she forced herself to look up, her dark eyes coming to rest on the owner of the voice. A tall girl— though that’s not saying much, at five feet exactly everyone was taller than Sibael —with pale skin and dark hair that reminded her too starkly of the tiny Crown Prince. Even her eyes were close to the color his sported. But whether she looked like a girl or not wasn’t important.
As you’re pretty, so be wise; Wolves may lurk in every guise.
Without thinking, Sibael’s lip curled back, her nose wrinkling as she eyed the newcomer warily. “Stay where y’are, I’ll be askin’ the questions ‘ere!” She snapped, flipping her journal open to a blank page, she plucked the charcoal stick from her pocket and jotted something down. “Where y’from? An name! I need y’name too! I can smell yer a werewolf so don’t try an lie!” What was a wolf doing so close to Arderra? Then again, the same could be asked about Sibael herself. The answer was obvious: this girl a loner, a bitten wolf with no pack and nowhere to go. She’d receive no praise for turning this one over to the Huntsmen, all they cared about lately were born wolves. Born, pack wolves, specifically.
A low growling reached her ears, snapping back into the defensive. But the girl hadn’t moved an inch. It took Sibael one long moment to recognize the sound, it was one she knew too well. The girl was hungry. Hungry and alone and far from home. Nights huddled under low-hanging pine boughs, waiting for the rain to pass. Wading through shallow streams searching for anything that would fill the hollow ache in her gut.
Things were different now. All she had to do was hunt down other wolves and hand them over to the hunters. It was that easy. And that hard. Better her than me. Better them than us. That's what they always said, right? It wasn't about how many died, it was about who died. A hundred strangers versus a single friend. In Sibael's case, it was a hundred strangers versus herself. There was no one left to cry over and no one left to die for except her.
“An speak slow!” She added, staring at what she had written already: wolf. alon.
❦
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Post by mags on Sept 27, 2016 14:50:50 GMT -5
ingrid wiesel -- Dark eyes slightly narrowed as Ingrid’s newly-found opponent began to speak. Her voice was rough, harsh, even, though distinctly feminine. The young woman allowed herself only a brief moment to take in her surroundings in an attempt to quickly familiarize herself with them. If this was some sort of trap and the other female’s intention was to simply distract her, well, that would not work.
Ingrid, normally, was not one to pass immediate judgement. No, usually, she preferred to at least begin to get to know a person before forming a viable opinion. However, it was no secret that the female had quite an astonishing lack of discernment, and sometimes, she placed her trust in the wrong people. She needed to become more observant, and much more vigilant in terms of sensing danger. But as she noticed the other female’s somewhat timid and defensive demeanor, her confidence began to slowly return. Perhaps she would be able to escape with not only her life..but also with some information. But what was it that she wanted to know? Curiosity drove her to wonder about this stranger. Just why did she look so..so mangy? Sure, a good pair of shoes was not always necessary when one often trod upon the soft, almost marshy undergrowth of these woods. But still — the stranger’s grimy appearance was somewhat unsettling. Did she live alone? She must. After all, Ingrid could not pick up any other fresh scent, even with the soft breeze wafting in her direction. No humans, no werewolves.
But wait.
If the female was able to tell Ingrid’s breed just by her scent, did that make her a wolf as well? It must. A loner? Perhaps. Of course, Ingrid couldn’t be sure of the accuracy of her observation, but for now, it was a thought. Her bright eyes fell upon the leather journal in the stranger’s hands, and again, Ingrid’s thick eyebrows slightly puckered. Her expression morphed into one of intrigue as a hint of a smirk began to tug upward upon the corners of her lips.
She needed to steal the journal.
But how? Ingrid was neither a master of speed nor stealth. But she found herself rather agog to read what had been written. Since she could only assume that part of it involved her. Her heart began to pump harder and faster as adrenaline began to flow freely through her veins. It was always these types of rash decisions that got Ingrid into trouble, but she could not even fathom living without some sort of rush. It was almost as if she were an adrenaline junkie — always living on the edge. But she would not have it any other way.
Golden grasses crinkled and crunched beneath her feet as Ingrid took a tentative step forward. A small creek separated her from the other, and only the sound of the water softly trickling downstream was audible over the groaning of pine trees swaying in the wind. The stranger demanded information. But for what purpose? That, once again, piqued Ingrid’s interest. Yet another reason for wanting — no, needing — the journal for herself. She needed to understand what, or rather whom, she was up against.
“Why do I owe you those answers?” she countered, quirking an eyebrow as she did so. I don’t owe you anything.
Another step forward. Then a brief pause.
“I should be asking you the same! Who are you?”
For once, her breed, her monster-like identity, provided her with a feeling of security. A feeling of power. She could defend herself; that she knew for certain. So why should she be afraid? She was Ingrid Wiesel. A force of nature. She was indestructible. No one could ever even come close to touching her. Confidence. It could be the key to her demise. But for now, it made her feel formidable.
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Post by maple on Sept 27, 2016 16:30:22 GMT -5
indie falkov // my unstable flower-child
Four years prior, Indie's sister had drowned in the river along side their house. They had been wading not far from the bank whilst playing an intense game of tag, ducking under the low hanging willows and squealing as tiny fish tickled their toes. It had been bright and sunny (but indie's sister had described it much more poetically as a day in which summer was kissing fall, because there were copper colored leaves rustling down from the trees and coming to rest on the river's surface, but the sunlight was warm on their skin like it was still the beginning of august.), it was as if everything was just right, like the world was aligned perfectly and nothing could darken those candy blue skies. Maybe it was Indie's naivety, or her presumptuous attitude, or something else entirely that caused the turn of events. But neither of them saw it coming. They were young, and possibly reckless, figuring that they were too untouchable to be struck by bad-luck (because that was saved for the unfortunate, and they refused to believe that anyone - anyone - could miraculously become as such; they were teenagers, and teenagers are cocky and arrogant and like to think that they know what loss is.). Perhaps that was why it happened. But it could have just been an accident, which it ultimately was; they were wading too far, the current no longer just tugged at their knees. It could have been a misstep, for the rocks were slick against their bare-feet, or maybe the water was to blame - tugging and pulling violently at their clothes.
Indie wanted so desperately to blame something other than herself.
The blonde curls were submerged before one could blink their eyes, a splash and a cry, and then nothing. The river no longer felt cool against the skin, it felt sharp and cold. And Indie had seen it all, she had witnessed her thirteen year old sister swept down stream like the fallen leaves, shouting her name as a desperate plea that couldn't be answered. Indie couldn't save her, even when she ran along the bank faster and faster until her lungs burned from screaming for help.
Indie will never forget what it felt like to be powerless, to watch as the person you loved most was ripped away so abruptly, and then be forced to lived with it. Like it was nothing.
The sound of a startled - and pained - squeal made Indie almost flinch, but she was not the squeamish type so the reflex was stopped before it even had a chance. Her eyes were fixed on the girl almost immediately, and if you looked very closely, you could almost detect the fear. Her body language was defensive as she observed the stranger, as if she expected the girl to lunge at any second. She felt skittish, like an animal, her heart starting to accelerate at a quickening speed. Indie didn't want to shift, she didn't want to be aggressive and she most certainly didn't want to hurt anyone. She wanted to stay as human as possible, because once she lost her humanity - who knows what would happen.
"Sorry." Indie's voice was somewhat on the low side, as she found her gaze instinctively landing on the blood glistening on the knife's blade. She found herself marveling at how easy it was to break through ones skin. More often than not, she found herself making rather obvious observations, "You're bleeding." She said it like a discovery, as if the other girl wasn't already aware. Then, finding how strange and perhaps even creepy she seemed, Indie took a step forward. "Um... didn't mean to startle you, do you need help or...?"
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Post by koi on Sept 27, 2016 17:03:10 GMT -5
etain mac fianait
-- Etain has, in more than a few ways, always been alone.
She worried, as a child, the way she imprinted on people; the way that she’d latch on, tying a metaphorical red ribbon from their fingers to hers. Etain was overwhelming, sometimes, never incredibly loud but never a quiet being, never the one to float through life in a silent haze. She had few friends as a child when she went to school. She had few friends, always girls because she could be, at times, abrasive and too-much and did not hesitate to hit back when her ponytails were pulled by a boy. She had few friends and she had not seen any of them in a long, long time.
(Her mother all but kept her locked up; for her safety, assumes Etain, and tries not to become bitter about it. Instead, she looks at it from another perspective. Etain was not a heavenly, easy child; she screamed herself hoarse when she was young, had fits in which her parents thought she was possessed. It was lonely in her house. Her father was busy and worked and financed Etain’s music lessons and Etain’s mother was busy and did not work and did not finance her music lessons but she did try and braid her hair into a pretty, symmetrical style for school, once. It just made it easier for the boys to tug. Etain hissed like a deranged alley cat at them, and they never tried to tease her again.)
So living by herself, in a forest, was not the loneliest Etain has ever been, contrary to popular belief. There was a worse sort of loneliness, worse than truly being alone—it was the sort where you are surrounded by people and you may as well not exist. an invisible factor in no one's life. Etain’s just glad she isn’t in school anymore.
Luckily, Etain also does not assume that Indie is some creepy girl who walks in forests by herself—forests can be very calming! The weather’s nice, too, the air clean, tasting vaguely of earth in its steady state of decomposing leaves and earthworms rummaging through the grounded foliage. It’s perfect “walking in a forest by yourself” weather, in her opinion. So she doesn’t jump to conclusions, doesn’t assume things she should not be assuming; she also tells herself that her cheeks are warm because of the cold air lashing at them.
(not that this girl is the prettiest thing etain has seen since she left home and was always surrounded by polished silver cutlery. anyways,)
Etain swiftly picked up the knife from the river, the blood now off of it, and she dries it off on her pant leg swiftly, glancing between the blade and the girl every once in a while; a soft, nervous expression on her otherwise-neutral face, brown skin tainted redredred at the cheeks, and she is blaming the cold. “It’s okay, seriously, probably would’ve cut myself even if no one had, um, scared me,” a nervous laugh comes next, one that she all but hides behind, half-done haircut and all. “Not saying I was scared or anything, but—! I'm a clumsy person. Sorta.”
She sheepishly glances up at her, breath caught in her throat. “Whassyour name? I’m Etain,” she says. Forward. She was always called as much when she was younger; maybe a little obnoxious too, but shhh.
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Post by servalstrike on Sept 27, 2016 17:32:55 GMT -5
Olwyn Mac Eoghain:
After all morning and a good part of the afternoon spent hunting to no avail and with her small breakfast gone from her stomach, Olwyn thoroughly abandoned the practice in pursuit of a calmer and by far simpler task. With her bow and quiver neatly stowed away in the hollow of an old tree Olwyn now crouched by the forest floor picking mushrooms and placing them in the satchel at her waist. Mushrooms sprouted from a rotting log, worn down by years of rain, snow and wind it now harbored life anew. Olwyn liked that about the forest, everything had place and purpose. A tree that had died was not a burden but an investment, it would give back to its forest home years after its passing. She couldn’t say the same for herself, all she ever did was take. As much as the woods had to offer her she had so little to offer it in return.
Her fingers plucked a mushroom from the soft rot of the dead tree after she examined it to make sure it wasn’t poisonous. A trick which had been taught to her by her Gran. Granny had been a woman of many talents, talents that Olwyn had been lucky enough to be the one she pass them onto. It had been Granny who had told her stories and taught her about the woods, taught her how to survive. She’d been a kind old woman who made Olwyn feel at home no matter where she was. Tears pin pricked her eyes at the thought of Gran. Blinking away the burning her vision cleared and she realized that she had taken all the mushrooms.
Always taking never giving.
Brushing dirt off her long coat as she stood up she hopped over the log and continued her search through the woods for food. The Year was waning; leaves wither and go dancing off into the land of moldering and glimmering bone colours. Leaves of yellow and red and gold were shook from their loose holds by the wind and floated down to the ground, as though all participating in a beautiful dance they had practiced for months. Autumn was beautiful and quiet and slow. Fall was the warm glow of a campfire compared to the bright burning candle of summer. Summer always felt like it burned hot and bright and died too fast. But autumn, autumn took it’s time to let the leaves do their dance on the wind.
Olwyn had been mesmerized by the chilled beauty around her to watch her step. It wasn’t until she felt an almost satisfying snap and something soft underfoot that she looked down. Her jaw dropped at what she saw. She’d crushed a toadstool, red-topped with white splotches decorating its surface, not just any toadstool however, this one was apart of a circle of similar looking mushrooms. A fairy ring. “Oh, oh dear, oh no.” Quickly crouching down her hands scooped up the poor injured fungus as though it were a small dying animal. “Oh my, I am so very sorry ,Good Neighbors,” she spoke to the ring as though it were alive. Well not alive per say but a home. The home of fairies in particular.
Olwyn was a very superstitious person. She believed in fairies and ghosts and spirits and was very respectful when it came to dealing with such things. Bad things happened to those who upset fairies after all. Besides what reason did she have to not believe in such childish things? She was a girl who could turn into a wolf, what sounded more like a fairy tale than that?
Only a few feet from the fairy ring she scanned the leaf covered ground for a gift to reconcile her mistake. Above her she could hear the rustle of leave and the clack clack as an acorn grew too heavy for it’s perch and went tumbling to the ground. A finger went to her chin as she extracted one of those acorns from it’s hiding spot among the leaves. It was too small, she tossed it back. Some were too green, or too light brown, or covered in too many white streaks. Until, Olwyn saw it. The perfect acorn. Huddled among the leaves like a bird's egg in a nest. It was the perfect shape, size, and color. As she carefully removed it from it’s nest of leaves and examined it closer in the light a smile touched her lips. This was the one.
Hurrying back over to the fairy ring she had broken she replaced the crushed toadstool with the perfect acorn specimen she had gathered. “Very sorry for the intrusion, Good Neighbors, I hope this makes up for the damage my big clumsy feet caused you.” Giving the acorn a quick pat she left quickly, choosing not to stick around in case they found her gift distasteful and wanted to exact revenge then and there.
Even a werewolf could find themselves in trouble if they angered the fairies or spirits.
Her trek through the woods was slowly growing dimmer. The shadows lengthened across the ground as the sun rays cast low over the horizon. Olwyn resolved it was time to head back anyway. Her stomach growled in objection. The thought of going home hungry wasn’t a pleasant one, but it was a thought she was faced with more often than not.
Just as she was about to turn back the snap of a twig caught her ear. Olwyn looked up to face a herd of five deer. A buck with a beautiful rack of antlers huffed at her then turned and bounded away, followed by three doe and one young deer who must have been born in the spring as she could still make out where it’s spots had been on it’s pelt. She could feel the wolf in her. Struggling to break free and race after those deer. It’d be easy to chase down the young one. She clutched the fur shrug as her shoulders, her eyes wide and her breath coming in gasps. Her palm flitted to the wooden clasp that held her shrug together, her thumb anxiously ran over the mark carved into the wood. A ward to keep away evil and protect her. Or that’s what she thought. She made it herself after she saw it someplace, she forgot where, she thought it was pretty and thought it could keep her safe. She could feel the wolf climbing out of her, clawing at the walls and howling. The scent of the deer filled her nostrils and her stomach growled louder, she could still hear the leaves rustling the the direction they fled. Even if people couldn’t tell what she was, the animals could. They could sense things humans couldn’t.
Deep breaths. Eyes closed. She felt the mark on her clasp and held the symbol in her mind, surrounded by brambles it glowed in the darkness.
With a deep breath Olwyn let her hand drop. She did it, she controlled herself and didn’t shift. A smile of pride light her face as she started moving again. The caw of a crow resounded above her demanding her attention. The smell of the deer was gone, but it was replaced by a new one. Smoke. She turned her head in the direction it was coming from. It smelled like the residue of wood smoke, a lot of it, mixed with something else. Something unpleasant. Had that been what the deer were running from?
Despite her better judgement Olwyn turned and started to follow the foul scent. It wasn’t quite old but it was faded as though it had traveled a distance. She didn’t like the feeling it gave her as she continued to follow the trail.
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Post by 𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗒𝖻𝖺𝖽𝗀𝖾𝗋 on Sept 27, 2016 18:12:28 GMT -5
woods outside arderra | Sibael & Ingrid | late afternoon Sibael winced, flinching away as the strange girl took an assured step forward. The shallow creek, the only thing separating the two of them, provided Sibael with little of security. She was out here, alone and facing down an opponent bigger and possibly stronger than herself. Armed with little more than a worn, leather journal and a stick of charcoal.
Run. Just go! The self-preserving voice in her head was shouting now, growing more and more persuasive by the second. You've got the advantage. The water will slow her down for a moment, but that's all you need. Turn around and head straight for the Red Tower, she won't. No. She can't follow you there. Either way you win. You live. Live. Live. Live.
Gosh. You make an excellent point! I'm just gonna— "Wouldn't y'know it? I jus' remembered I'm late for dinner. I'll jus' be—" She didn't bother finishing the sentence. The girl had already whirled around, hugging her journal against her chest as she took off sprinting through the trees. Information be damned! What was more important? Her life? Or interrogating a stranger? The latter had made itself the clearly less desirable option, but there was very little left to convince Sibael it was a good idea to stick around and further her questioning.
She navigated the woods with knowing ease. Hurtling downed trees and swerving brambles. For a second, she considered shifting and doubling her speed and agility ten-fold. But the weight of the journal cradled against her chest demanded otherwise. Shifting would mean being forced to drop it and paper wasn't easy to come by, let alone in book form! There was no way the Captain would give her another one.
Sibael kept running. Listening above the harsh rasp of her own breathing as she bolted through the trees. Sibael wasn't as fast her small, lithe stature would have you believe. Her legs were too short to carry her very far in a short amount of time. And her lungs didn't help matters much as they ran of breath too quickly and felt the tiny thing gasping and hurting by the end of it.
It was for these reasons that Sibael had depended so heavily on her ability to hide rather than her ability to run or fight. You see, the only way your enemy can hurt you when you hide is if they can find you. Unfortunately, Sibael's current situation afforded her no such luxury as time to find a decent hiding place. All she had to hope for was getting to Arderra before the wolf girl had a chance to catch her.
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Post by mags on Sept 27, 2016 23:35:20 GMT -5
ingrid wiesel -- The journal. Go for the journal.
Ingrid's cerulean gaze remained glued to the leather-bound book, not bothering to look up as the stranger continued to speak. She sensed fear in the female's tone, and in that moment, it seemed to Ingrid as if the battle was all but won. All she needed to do was continue to creep forward and get closer and closer to retrieving her prize. It seemed simple enough. Not a problem. Easy peasy. All she desired was the journal, for she wanted to see just what this person had been writing. Perhaps it would provide some insight on the stranger's identity. After all, Ingrid was only curious. And because the female refused to simply answer her questions, Ingrid knew that her only option would be to simply take whatever information she wanted.
She would not fail. Her confidence told her so.
But then, then every little bit of planning that Ingrid had done over the past few moments was wiped away in the blink of an eye. For when her quarry began to sprint in the opposite direction, it threw a wrench in her seemingly-perfect scheme.
"Aw, come on," Ingrid muttered under her breath, though she wasted little time before she, too, began to run.
Whether or not she remained silent did not matter anymore. All she cared about was getting her hands on that book. And Ingrid was certainly fast-moving; to deny that would be pointless. Her long legs and heightened agility allowed her to move with effortless grace. And because of this, Ingrid rapidly caught up to the other female. And when she got within a few, short paces of her target, she pounced, tackling the unfamiliar figure to the ground. Swiftly, she managed to pin her opponent, and in the blink of an eye, she snatched the journal away. Flipping through the pages, she landed upon the two most recent (she could tell because the remainder of pages were still empty).
She began to read aloud:
"This time wil be different; I can feel it. I found a book today; the letters are foreign. I can't read the words. It's all gunk and junk in my eye. But it's got pictures and that's all I need. Queen says she'll get me..." And with that, Ingrid's voice trailed away. Her blue eyes rested upon one, simple word: Queen. What on earth did this nobody have to do with Fenra's queen?!
Oh..no. All of those questions..they only came after the stranger picked up on her werewolf scent. Ingrid began to piece the puzzle together in her head..and she did not like what the bigger picture was turning out to be.
"You're one of them!" Ingrid leapt up and brushed herself off, slowly backing away from the strange girl with the strange book. She tossed the journal back to its owner, as she now had all of the information she could ever need.
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Post by maple on Sept 28, 2016 1:59:32 GMT -5
indie falkov //
Once, only a few years ago, Indie had punched a girl in the face and evidently broke her nose. She had known it was broken by the way it cracked against her fist, knuckles against bone. It was satisfying, to see the blood and tears, to see her crumple to the ground trying to staunch the flow. Indie had felt empowered, strong, and it was a horrible thing - but it felt good. She hadn't just done it out of the blue - oh no - she'd done it as a reaction. The other girl had thought she'd get away with little passive-aggressive snidely muttered comments (multiple jabs along the lines of "indie's so dramatic" and "her sister died years ago" all said in tones that were neither hushed nor spoken plainly. they wondered why she cried. why she broke things. why she had such outburst. it all seemed random and sudden to complete strangers that didn't understand, that didn't understand how much the little things hurt, it was infuriating.). Indie couldn't do it, she couldn't control the temper. It set a wildfire inside her lungs, burning and scorching up her throat like it was a dry prairie.
She hadn't regretted a thing, finding herself proud of the rapidly darkening bruise on her fist - should she have been ashamed?
Indie is observing the other girl perhaps a little too closely, her brown eyes wide and ever so fascinated by the person in front of her. It wasn't everyday she stumbled upon a girl cutting her hair off by a river with a hunting knife (but really, she wasn't one to talk, considering the amount of things she'd witnessed in her lifetime). The girl was babbling nervously, her cheeks flushing a slight shade of red, and Indie was just watching. She was partially calm, her chest was rising and falling in rhythm; but she's cautiously still suspicious.
"My name is Indie Falkov," she offered out a smile, one that was a little hesitant at first, as if she couldn't quite decide if that was the move she wanted to make (she liked to think of life as a game of chess, you always had to plan out your approach- even though she seldom did). But, in all honesty, there was nothing about Etain that alarmed Indie, no ringing warnings in her ears no alerts from her brain screaming danger! danger! She found her curiosity winning over the sensibility, as it usually did. "Are you alone too?"
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Post by koi on Sept 28, 2016 12:43:59 GMT -5
etain mac fianait
-- The only part about Etain that is inherently a wild animal is the part of her that cannot be penned up; the part that goes more stir crazy than sin when she is cornered. The part of her that will always be (has always been) happier when she is running, on the loose, not a dangerous weapon but the feeling that she could be (if she so inclined towards it). Etain does not feel cornered right now, however; the girl doesn’t seem dangerous in any way. And Etain has, more than once, traversed through a river to escape.
The girl offers a smile, tentative, and Etain feels as if she is taking it from her grasp and wringing it dry. It’s a nice smile. She’s a nice looking girl. It’s a simple observation, just as the things she must be observing about Etain right now, judging by the way the girl silently watches her; something puzzling and indecipherable about her eyes; a neutral slate, one that looks like someone drawing a smiley face over a chalk board when Indie smiles at her. Indie Falkov. That’s her name? Etain supposes she should’ve told her Etain’s last name, too; she opens her mouth to do so, but fails to make a sound as she looks up at Indie; still, Etain is situated on the ground, knife loosely in hand, probably looks half-deranged, disappointingly sinewy and lanky, part girl, part scrawly, windy tree in the middle of winter, stripped dry of leaves.
Indie’s smile is not so much an ingenuine one; not, at least, to concerning levels. But it’s definitely forced, in some way—probably a push, more like, to get herself to smile like that. Obligation. Politeness. Maybe.
Etain hadn’t meant to leave out her last name, but now as she looks (up) at Indie, at that beautiful shiny thing of a girl standing in front of her, she is glad she didn’t, feels of it a good idea, because the Fianait name is one that is unfortunately well known.
“Me? Yeah, I’m alone,” Etain says, in the same casual way she’d say, yeah, I have brown eyes. A contemplative look crosses her face, nose scrunching: “I have been since...spring. Early spring. So, uhh, this’ll be my first winter! Yay. Exciting…?”
Not exciting. Not exciting. It was terrifying.
Etain twirls the knife over in one hand, before brushing the back of her head with the palm of her hand, fingers stretched, trying to feel how much must still be cut. “Uh, how about you? How long have you…been out here?”
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Post by 𝓑𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐫 ♥ on Sept 29, 2016 12:32:58 GMT -5
laisren ó coileáin **** phone formatting
Well, it wasn’t like she said no, which, if Laisren was counting the good things that happened today (he wasn’t: he has always found making lists overwhelming, stacking trivialities like Jenga blocks) did not count either for or against him. Granted, her response was distinctly not a ‘yes’ either, unless her social skills were poor (possible; she did, presumably, grow up in the woods, literally raised by wolves) and she did not know how to convey a subtle “yes, I’d totally love to turn traitor on my pack because I’m selfish and that’s only human” in any other way than trying to bite him (and that was one of the greatest dangers with this career, the idea that one slip up could lead not only death, and an excruciatingly slow and painful one that at (Sadhbh wasted away for days on that table, fingers twitching like the second hand on a clock), but the possibility of a fate worse than. )
Laisren has never classified werewolves as monsters, not exactly, at least. The definition of ‘monster’ is a tricky one in that it means different things to different people. He knew many a person more deserving of the term than this girl – Vivian (she had a name; he reminds himself of this constantly, makes another tick mark in that back corner of his mind. He remembers all of their names). This girl, neither hard nor soft but rather both, a conundrum of rabid animal and lost girl both wrapped up into one body. He tries to meet her eyes as she moves (slips out of his grasp like a salmon, and he’s not sure how, she is small but not small enough to escape his hold, he’s done this more times than he can count (a lie), but she still shouldn’t be able to wriggle her way free unless he made a mistake. And he did not make mistakes (an obvious one). Unless.)
Right. Big, scary wolf: as if something right out of a story book. Laisren remembers reading stories like those to Clio when she was younger (she was the only child patient enough to listen. Which , looking back on it, seems a cruel irony.) Laisren does not stay lost in thought long, though, only lets himself succumb to a quick blip of nostalgia, completely out of place in a situation such as this but something he was unable to help, regardless; they call it an involuntary memory for a reason. But no matter. The large wolf was snapping at the Crown Prince as his horse rears, and Mika got in a good swing there (not surprising – he was well trained, even if he had virtually no practical experience) but it was still a losing battle. He was getting double-teamed now, an unfair game of American doubles, by two wolves objectively stronger than him with, at least on the part of the larger dog, more experience. And Laisren was just sitting there, stunned for a moment by the fact that he had been evaded by Vivian, recollecting himself, fingers digging into the grass not so much in frustration but more so just confusion.
He was not sure what the f*ck was going on, but he’s realizing now that this whole excursion was a bad idea. Putting the Crown Prince in charge of the Red Huntsmen was a bad idea. What if he got hurt? Did anyone consider that? This was a ridiculously dangerous line of work; one was putting themselves straight into the jaws of the beast, seeking them out with the intention of doing so. The turnover rate was staggering; a person either saw one fight go bad and they were out of there, because being a deserter is better than being dead, or they got bit (and this was the fun part) and they would die, one way or another. (If one is bit by a werewolf and it is left to progress naturally, they either die or turn. Neither of these are considered particularly good for the Kingdom. And thus it is never allowed to progress naturally.)
It was depressing if you thought about it too long, which was something that Laisren did often. (Often sitting out and just looking into the ocean; Rain grew up by the sea, in a place where the water met the land in jagged cliffs; where waves crashed against rock throwing up a veil of salt and sand and standing at the edge of the bluffs was a game of Russian roulette where one was not only themselves but also the bullet.) It is not that he is a particularly depressing person, he just likes to be objective, because to truly understand the world one must look at all parts of it, lift the rug and study all the jagged, ugly parts that others have swept under.)
(And he has always wanted to pull them out of the shadows, lay them on display in front of the masses and yell that this was what they were doing, that it was wrong, so wrong that to think about it deeply for more than a few minutes left an acrid taste on the trip of his tongue and a kind of burning in his throat, as if he had swallowed lye. He washes it down with vodka. Laisren has to constantly remind himself that there is a good reason he is out here; says it enough times that, if he closes his eyes, he almost believes it. And if he closes his eyes that is Enough.)
There is a sound, then, that drags him out of whatever stupor he had fallen into (though he is only still for a handful of seconds, enough time that one might have marked him as almost-phased if not for the constant too-confident-near-apathetic-sort-of-cocky expression that he wore only naturally. It was not a shield or a mask or anything that one might pick it apart as; Laisren just has a skewed sort of resting doge face that, in occasions like this, suited him well.) The sound is more of a crackle, a wavering in the bushes that might have just been a lizard or something trivial like that, but Laisren still looks, anyways, and is pleasantly surprised to find it not trivial at all.
Because there is a man – no, boy – there. He cannot be much over twenty, if even that. Though that is an assumption based on a quick glimpse (but the look on his face, fear and worry and almost a vague sort of curiosity all wrapped up into a look that can only be described as implosive, a quiet sort of wonder that has no light to it, like there was never any light there in the first place) that nonetheless screams ‘youth’. And Laisren is not a violent person, but he is a strategical one. And that kid is a pack wolf. (No sane loner would hear a fight and head towards it; a pack wolf, on the other hand, has a tendency to seek out a source of commotion. Loyalty, or whatever. Anyway. The next step in the plan is simple.)
The knife on Laisrens belt is six inches long, thin and perfectly straight. He holds it to his side as he sprints, making sure it is held firmly but within distinct view of the man in the bushes. (Because Laisren is not pursuing him with the intent to kill, but to subdue.)
(Bribery is the best way to success, after all.)
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Post by maple on Sept 29, 2016 15:22:51 GMT -5
indie falkov //
The air is crisp but not quite biting yet, as the leaves still take their time shedding from the trees. It is not winter, that much is for sure, but autumn is feeling a lot colder each passing day. The other season was just around the corner, Indie could tell by the way frost crinkled under her feet in the early mornings, and how she could sometimes spot her breath when she exhaled. It was all little clues, all things usually left unnoticed.
Indie does not like the feeling of standing above Etain, looking down upon the girl while she sits looking up, mostly because it makes her feel almost impolite. She positions herself on the ground, legs crossed, examining a purple tinted bruise on her knee (which was fresh and shiny from earlier that morning when she had collided with a rock. don't even ask.). Indie can be a good listener, she had always been the type people confided in - maybe it was because she just seemed trust-worthy, or because they figured she'd understand on some level (she looked like the type of person that had been through a lot, perhaps by the way she carries herself, but somehow indie still manages to be quite naive).
Her hair, that is neither brown nor blonde, is falling across her face as she looks down. Her mind is in a somewhat tranquil place, at least for the time being, as she's able to target her attention onto someone else. That had always been the number one technique for avoiding her problems. So, when Etain mentions that she had been alone since spring, early spring, Indie looks up attentively. "That's a long time." Her voice isn't exactly sympathetic, because in all honesty the other girl seemed in good enough spirits, enough that she probably didn't want to have some stranger feeling bad for her.
Indie wondered what it would be like to be alone during winter. Everyone else would be warm in their homes with family or friends, while she'd be trying to keep from starving or freezing to death in the wilderness. It was nice to know she wasn't the only one.
"About four months or so," Indie answered, her response was rather quick considering that she had kept careful track of the days. Her eyes flickered over Etain almost thoughtfully, a new idea sprouting up inside her mind. "Hey, you know since we're both alone we could stick together, or something." She gave a light shrug, as if she didn't really care either way, her expression considerably neutral. But Indie was serious, she really was, who cares if she didn't know anything about Etain except her first name? She would take almost anyone as a companion at the moment (except a select few like; stalkers, serial killers, ect), because some kind of company was a whole lot better than none.
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Post by koi on Sept 30, 2016 2:15:18 GMT -5
etain mac fianait and this post is unorganized and disgusting
--
The first few months had been tricky; using tricky as a very light, understated describing word. Etain is a person made of optimism, which is perhaps just the way she was born (like she sprung out of her mother with a mimosa in one hand and a “don’t worry about it!” on her lips); it makes no sense that that was the way she was raised (any and all negativity in her mind, a whisper behind happy words, is learned, instilled by her mother who really thought she was doing no harm). But even she, optimism and all, could acknowledge that things were hard. The summer, in contrast, had been one moment of bright in a sea of swirling chaos; warmth being the most important thing, the rivers a tolerable temperature, no longer frigid and ice-cold (but nice to drink, if deemed healthy enough to do so). But now the weather was turning around again. The entirety of autumn had been okay-enough to get through; Etain kept layering what she’d been wearing in the early spring when she’d first been out on her own, kept herself warm with fires (though they were always risky, as the smoke could draw unwanted attention--not that it ever did, but although she sometimes seems as if she puts three and a half seconds into things, she did worry at times).
Etain tries not to let things bother her; and it’s been working well, for the past few months. But now--now, Etain is sorta kinda starting to freak out, and she’d only just noticed it when she’d picked up her knife from the river. It was cold. It was freezing. Etain is a girl who prefers warmth. Her father had a wolfhound that he’d had since it was a puppy and Etain remembers that she’d always cling to its neck and drink in all its warmth (and did not cringe when it licked her face. It was not very well behaved, and her father never brought it to work; it was his own little pet, and sometimes he’d joke that the wolfhounds he took on his hunts were jealous of the one he had at home, which was--Etain always laughed, didn’t really know what he meant when he said “go on hunts” because he did not bring back deer to eat, or a bird of any kind. But she laughed anyways. She liked it when her father sat her down on his lap and actually talked to her, not in her general direction before he headed off to his study, alone, and very, very quiet.)
Indie, then, lowers herself down to Etain’s level; literally, lowering herself onto the untidy, woodland grounds without ceremony. And Etain appreciates the effort in the most simplistic way. When she smiles at Indie, it is not an action that is forced in any way; in fact, she only realizes she’s smiling when her cheeks start twinging and she realizes that it is because the muscles in her face hurt.
Indie is also so casual about it, which perhaps hurt just as much as Etain’s cheeks do; she tries to tone down the excited excited ten year old with a puppy and a crwth and an unconventional singing voice and “shhh, etain,”--Etain, in turn, ends up covering her mouth with her hand and only lowers it when she is positive her smile has up and left and instead been replaced with something politer, something more regal and defined. Etain is neither of those words. She is not regal and the only thing defined about her is the way her nose juts out from the rest of her plain face, or her elbows and ribs buckling her brown skin.
(but she tries, and trying is the only thing etain really ever does. tries to be quiet. tries to not become ophelia part 2 and accidentally-but-somehow-deliberately drown herself in rivers. her expression softens; so follows the lines of her face, tries to mimic the casual way indie looks at her. it’s no big deal! being solitary is a quiet assassin, had stabbed etain through the heart between her shoulder blades, avoiding her spine, through her ribs. meanwhile, indie is over here, like, “yo wanna be nohomo together?” and etain is trying not to cry.)
Meanwhile, meanwhile; Etain snorts out a short piece of laughter at how incredulous this all is. At least take her on a date first, Indie, sheesh.
“Wow! That’d be real cool. Hey, do you know how to make a decent meal ‘cause I sure don’t which is kind of why I’ve been--”
a pause.
F*ck. Sh*t. Sh*t.
“Ummm, I’ve been--never mind. Haha.” Suddenly, Etain’s demeanour takes another turn; her shoulders curve in on themselves, inadvertently shielding herself from Indie; and then she takes a big goddamn whiff of the air. Etain has never been subtle. Probably, definitely, will never be.
“Hey. You’re. Are you a wolf too?”
and there it goes.
“Not that I’m assuming. Well, yes, I was assuming! But not like that. It’s just that you smell like wolf. Not saying you smell bad! Wolf isn’t a bad smell it’s just--wolf. I mean, I hope it’s not a bad smell ‘cause it’s what I smell like too but I didn’t want to just go and be all assuming in your werewolf-ness because that isn’t cute and yeah. And yeah.”
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