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White Blood

16 Posts
3 Threads
[T2 - Intermediate]
We are haunted by wolves we once ran alongside.

Flynn continues to cry, but Calyndar must ignore him; the wolves laugh viciously, and Calyndar can't ignore them.

His body feels too small, and it aches with every loping step he takes.  His legs quiver and his chest constricts, but still, he keeps going.  He is trying to hold Flynn as gently as he can from where he holds him by the scruff of his neck between his lips, but even then, the fox continues to cry, cry, cry.

(A deep-seated anger simmers inside his chest.  The wolves are examining it closely because oh, this will be fun.)

Calyndar angles his head to slowly look behind him (he's been running but death is always following).  He sees nothing but barren land, Flynn whimpers.  Calyndar hasn't even seen how hurt his fox is.

A foreleg gives and it sends him crashing down, his neck instinctively curling closer to his chest to spare Flynn from most of the impact.  The crest of Calyndar's neck is the first part to hit the ground, and it sends a shooting pain through him.  A soundless gasp has him releasing Flynn, leaving the fox lying by himself on the ground as Calyndar tumbles a few feet further.  The dark stallion pulls in ragged breaths, staring sightlessly from where he lays on the ground.

His chest and forelegs ache.  He never should have wandered off.  The wolves laugh as they scold him, such a foolish decision.  (Bile rises in his throat.)

Flynn whimpers.

Calyndar rises, teeth clenched to keep in the groans that want to escape.  Whatever the patchworked beast had done has left the front of his body horribly tender, every touch sending shooting pains through him.  Flynn's body lays motionless as Calyndar gets up on wobbly feet.  The only reason Calyndar knows Flynn is alive is by the sounds the fox is making.

A bright red coat is matted with blood, blood, blood.  More bile threatens to escape but Calyndar swallows it down as he moves back to Flynn.  The fox's coat is ripped and the sight actually makes a distressed sound rumble in Calyndar's throat.  Once close enough Calyndar sets himself down before Flynn, ignoring the pain from his body (he deserves every bit of it).  As gently as he can he nuzzles Flynn's forehead, and a sob threatens to rip from his throat just like Flynn's own fur has been ripped from his body.

(Calyndar does not realize that his body is shaking; tremors racking his entire body as he lays before his companion, head protectively covering the hurt fox as the wolves inside play.)

Calyndar does not know what to do.  He has never been a healer - does not know a thing about it - and so has no idea on how to go about helping his companion.  It is a terrifying thought because Calyndar cannot lose Flynn.  He has already lost the crows and losing Flynn will only make things worse.

Flynn cries, Calyndar gently brushes his forehead.  He cannot do anything else.

@ Edda

the skald

9 Posts
3 Threads
[T1 - Beginner]
She blinks, her glassy, dead eyes shifting in their sockets ‒ but she sees. She sees the endless tracts of snow between green-black stands and belts of pine and larch. She sees them from above, a nauseating and disunited sensation. 
(Come back.)
But he is his own soul, his own being. He is god-made and self-possessed, just as she is. That he comes back is a testament only to his devotion, and not to her mastery over him. She would have it no other way. He swoops, and she staggers, catching herself against an outcrop of rock, moaning at the aching lurch of her gut. She can see the insides of his wings as he flaps, the grasping talons of his black feet, and the pale crown of her own head. She feels his tight grip on her poll, his shift of weight as he centres himself comfortably on the stiff ridge of mane between her ears 

And then, they are one again.

Edda lets out a soft sigh, the cold turning her breath to thin, wispy wreaths around her face ‒ but it is receding. Normalcy is clawing itself back from the heavy hands of divine-hewn bleakness. The rifts are closing, sewing themselves shut; containing their throbbing, wanton denizens behind the Pale Shroud, never meant to be broken but by the adroit hands of time-delvers, like herself. A shiver wracks her body ‒ that stout, northern figure, grown bony and gaunt by the wasting months ‒ trembles down to her legs. Cold.

Yes, so cold.
But more.

She turns her head, Grim wavers and then centres. Her nostrils flare, pink and big, as she scents the air, snaking and testing. Searching. Searching, for the thin nerves of her mind’s map have been pierced; marked with the ink of hoof and a presence growing big, like a dark stain, bleeding on parchment. Her jaw worries back and forth in thought, but she moves forward, pulled now by strings of fate no longer puppeteered by her gods or the cultured history of her people, but by wayward and errant histories. By the singular web of her own fellowship with Him. And though she does not know for certain that it is Calyndar who has wandered so close, again (as, perhaps, he and she are destined to do), the very idea of it draws her forward. Faster and faster until her slender legs and atrophied shoulders burn.

Though the smell of blood makes her wary.
And the sound of shrill, aching cries makes her queasy.

Red, orange, black, against the eternality of white. She sucks in a hard, startled breath, exhales it, ‘Calyndar…’ closes the gap between them at a run, snow swelling up alongside her. “Calyndar…” The immensity of being reunited with him is overwhelming. It takes a moment for it to pass, like the fuzz of just-awakening, and for her mind to focus on what lays before her. Blood, spattered like strange art on the banks of snow. Pelt, ripped and exposing the glisten of pink beneath. Calyndar, too, is hurt, though he seems less worse for wear than Flynn. Outwardly, at least. “Oh,” she chokes ‒ Grim caws softly ‒ and without thinking, she steps forward, head dropping to touch the fox. Overcome with the urge to clean him, to help in ways she cannot ‒ but the moment her muzzle grazes his sore skin, impossible dark, bright, angry, cold, surgical images flood her mind. Her milky eyes flutter shut ‒ patchwork silence. Stitched skin. Ripping. Maiming. Bloodletting.

She stumbled backwards, breath hitching in her chest. “W-what h-happened?” she murmurs, turning her eyes back to Calyndar, soft and scared.

@ Calyndar

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