"But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura
Don't be afraid when the night wolves cry, feast on their bones, suck the marrow dry.
It is the season of the hunt.
Autumn dons her cloak of fiery red and crown of gold with the authority of centuries past and yet to come, while her subjects change their summer dance to a slow, unhurried waltz. Between the bend of trunk and limb Longclaw is weaving, nose quivering at the fore of his face while at the aft, his ears pick up the semblance of a quarreling squirrel’s tet-a-tet; food is growing scarce and those who gather must resort to base means for survival: stealing, hiding, perhaps even a challenge for den rights here and there. But Longclaw is situated near the top of this food chain, above even his own kind for they, unlike him, do not all possess the ability to trade their skin for a more suitable one.
And my, how his skin does suit him. It is silver in coloration, glimmering along his shoulders, belly, and spine like gossamer threads that glint whenever the spotted sunlight chances to glance down upon him. About his legs and belly it bleeds to a mute grey, lending him shadow while his eyes and snout are kept white-washed. A wolf, he is, lean and leonine, focused wholly on a singular goal that gives his muscular body purpose in every step, every twitch of muscle or hide. Like nature herself, centuries have shaped him to be an agile, perfect predator with the ever-present law of kill or be killed humming in his breast.
It’s this law that drives him now out of the heart of his cover and into the sparsely adorned stretch of grassland, treading quietly, quickly, over the earth with muted paws to the riverbank where his prey will be gathering to drink. Still too early yet to be called dawn, the wetness of last night’s dewcover now soak his legs and belly through but it serves as no distraction from the endgame. He switches direction; a breeze scuttles by and keeps him now downwind of what he’s hunting and when he can safely go no further without detection, he stops.
Inching, barrel set low to the ground, he shoulders past the slim curtain of drying grass and peers out with wide, vibrant green eyes upriver to settle on a kill.
Alone, haloed by the rising eastern sun, is a lovely mare.
By now it was obvious that her return to Beqanna hadn’t brought her that what she had been looking for. Or what she had hoped to find. Life sucked her into a hellhole of a nightmare, only to spit her back out. And for what? Four scorched legs and inflamed lungs. Not to forget to mention the chills it caused her. Or how she feared the night. Wherever she went, it felt like eyes were following each and every one of her movements.
And all she had ever wanted was a place to stay, a place to belong.
Diorae is back in Beqanna. The real Beqanna, and not it’s evil and dark twin. The ground had swallowed her, spit her back out and left her with nothing but agony. Never before had the golden mare – though in her current state she was nothing more than a girl – felt this miserable. She hadn’t been able to rest ever since… ever since… that thing that happened to her.
As she waddles towards the river she’s one tense bundle. She dread the open space, the tree line a little too far away for her liking, but the water had been calling her. Just as her goal had been in the other Beqanna, she now needed the water to sooth the endless burning of her scorched legs. Everybody about her screamed how tense she was. From the way she held herself, the nervous twisting and turning of her ears to her flicking tail. Diorae’s head was dipped towards the ground.
Submissive, lonely, lost, afraid. And in dire need of guidance and belonging.
The moment the water touches her legs, she hisses. Eyes are clouded by tears and her breath is shaky. Even after this time it still hurt. Of course, her legs got better, just like her lungs did no longer hurt with each breath she took. But that didn’t make the first touch of the cold water any better. Only because Rae knew that it would numb her legs if she could stay in the water long enough. Cold, numb, frozen on touch, but so much better than the everlasting burn.
This time her soft sigh is one of relief. Head dipped towards the water, tip of her tail drifting away in the current. Eyes half closed, but only half, and her ears never drop their constant turning.
Don't be afraid when the night wolves cry, feast on their bones, suck the marrow dry.
Dreamlike, almost; the way she dips first one hoof and then the other into the roiling waters. The echo of her hiss causes both ears to involuntarily flick backwards - had someone else heard her? Was she supposed to be here, alone like this?
A few more minutes of motionless observance proves his questions to be easily answered: Yes, she was alone, (couldn’t he see it in the quivering of that tender, lower lip?) and no, her exclamation of pain had not drawn other curious eyes. It was simply them, then. Longclaw cannot believe his odds, it seem too incredulous to consider. To come looking for an early chase and instead find this? Hungrily, impatiently, his viridian eyes drink in the sloping lines of her rounded neck, travel tastelessly over pleasantly sprung ribs and achingly plump hips.
He could kill her. Right now. It takes only a second for the thought to enter, present itself, and settle at the center of his mind; the task would be so simple, so easy. But - bah - what a waste. True, consummation of this idea to reality would satiate the present hunger in his gut, could even quiet the black curse, roaring for a blood sacrifice, inside of him. Yet, for all the hunger in the world Longclaw wouldn’t waste the opportunity to flex the muscle of his coy, convincing demeanor. Pride in his abilities overwhelms the need for a kill so, quickly, quietly, he lays belly-to-earth and shifts as noiselessly as he can manage back into the glimmering stallion of lore.
His head rises above the swaying forage now, looking (for all innocent bystanders) like a lazy fellow who’s just awoken from a riverside nap. But his eyes, those terrible, beautiful eyes, find her swiftly once more and then he is rising, flowing, into a standing position. “Hello there.” He calls from afar - every trick of light over his skin turning it first to green, then to gold as he pushes towards her. “Your noise woke me, I’m afraid.” Claw explains with a unassuming smile. On the bank near to her he stops, every aesthetic line of his alluring face twisting into compassion, worry - all for her.
Tense muscles relax the longer she stands in the cold water. It’s not like the cold doesn’t get to her, but the pain from subcooled legs is much less he burning pain caused by her scorch wounds. It numbs the initial pain, relieving her of it for a short while. This time she sighs softly, then licking her own lips before snorting. Diorae couldn’t fully relax. She never could. Not as long as the eyes haunted her.
She can feel them watching her even now. It makes her shudder uncomfortably. Thankfully the rising sun chases the darkness away that had kept her up all night. She’s exhausted, has been ever since whatever it was that had happened to her. Made her pretty skittish too. Nervous in general. And the voice calling out to her definitely surprises her.
Diorae stumbles back, gasping for breath in surprise. She ends up half on the river bank – both hind legs – and half still in the water, eyes widened and ears pinned back against her head in a rather insecure way. For a moment she shuts down. Then, she snorts, as it’s the only way she can express herself and release some of the sudden tension at the same time.
Her ears flick as he speaks, but she backs away as he draws closer. Her head is lowered, hazel brown eyes taking him in with caution. That’s all she does, not being able to verbally reply. And she’s torn between relief – thankful that she is no longer alone – and fear of this unknown creature. The early day sunbeams make his coat dazzle, so different than it does to hers. Not something Rae has come across before. It’s the way he moves. He’s confident and he looks worried. For her. Diorae shudders again, eyes closing for a moment and she snorts in an attempt to get rid of her tension before cautiously looking at him again.
His lure scares her. Just as the natural way she finds herself responding. Muscles are already less tense than before. And she’s not alone anymore either. The stranger’s presence also lifts a weight of her shoulders, she no longer needs to keep attention on all around her to survive.
Don't be afraid when the night wolves cry, feast on their bones, suck the marrow dry.
He hasn’t figured it out yet - that she’s mute. Longclaw is scratching the surface though; when she backs at first and continues to tepidly remain distant (those honey-bright eyes widened in apparent fear but all the while her trembling is ceasing and, well, she hasn’t run yet) he’s reminded of a cornered animal. Instinctively, the shifter is aware that this is the final moment before death. He takes it in now, aware at all times that even though death will not come for her, it could’ve:
A frail, immobile bird. In her widened stare he can sense the need for flight, it sharpens what normally would be soft about her. Could one cut a finger on the tension between them? Where, oh where, are her wings though? Who has clipped them from her spine and left her here to bleed freely? She is injured, the uncovered portions of her hindlegs are spotted with semi-healed boils that draw his attention for a brief moment though he doesn’t linger; that would be rude. “Hey now, easy - easy…” Longclaw hums, his own voice reaching a tenderness he hasn’t been able to emulate in years.
That glimmering body sparkles no more. He’s still, perfectly so in the way all true, top-tier predators must learn before success comes to them in the hunt. If he wishes to keep her here (and believe me, he does) he’ll need patience, of which he has plenty, and a little bit of his old self. That ghost still lingers somewhere within, he’s sure of it - the curse can’t have spread so quickly, so fully just yet. Could it? In mild irritation he sighs, that once prevalent smile dwindling to a sad grin. “I won’t come any closer, I promise.”
For a moment more he simply watches her. Then, his forehooves are crossing over one another and he’s making as if to turn aside, to turn away, from the startled mare. “In fact, I’ll just go.” The stallion relates, despairing green eyes growing heavy with defeat. “Plenty of other places to nap, I know. I just …” He dwindles, lips pressing firmly together as if he’s struggling to admit this to her, “I just couldn’t help myself. You’re so … beautiful, and you seem hurt, so I thought perhaps I could help.”
The words tumble past his lips in one exhalation, his blue-speckled face shaking side-to-side with boyish sweetness. “Dumb, I know. I’ll just go.” The stallion cements, completing the turn so that he might begin to actually put action to his words. Each step seems pained, prolonged; he even manages to twist his head around one final time just to glance back at her. The agony of that one look could render mountains to dust but he doesn’t stop, just keeps moving ahead with his ears tilted mournfully back in the hopes that she might be moved enough to follow.
She is cornered. Yes, physically she could’ve run and probably gotten away with it too, but she can’t. Too long she had been alone, too long the darkness had held her in its claws, too long her each and every move had been watched. Diorae is exhausted, mentally and physically. It’s obvious she needs something, someone. And thus she cannot run.
”Hey now, easy, easy..”
Her head dips towards the ground, just barely above the water, the river still in between them. Both frontlegs are still numbed by the cold water, where the pain of cramped muscles slowly fades on her hindlegs. The burning pain returning for every bit the muscle cramps fade. The golden mare is shivering, dancing a little in her place as she waves a bit from the left to the right. His voice, his smile, it eases her a little, bringing her to a stop. Muscles still tense, but no longer moving.
”I won’t come any closer, I promise.”
She keeps watching him, ears flicking back and forth and nostrils a bit wide as she’s snorting. His promise helps her relax some further, somehow believing him. A little voice in her head tells her she probably shouldn’t, but a living being, another horse, couldn’t be a worse option than the darkness and the watching eyes?
”I’ll just go.”
NO! He couldn’t go. Her head jerks up and before she knows it, Diorae has taken a few steps into the river. Her hazel eyes are wide and nostrils flare as she shorts. Her golden ears flick back and forth and the tension holds her in its grasp again. Her eyes tear up and her head lowers again, submissive, pleading him to not leave.
”I just couldn’t help myself. You’re so.. beautiful.”
She shudders. Nobody had ever told her that. And he seemed genuine, nothing forced for easily spoken. He had even hesitated. Though very sweet, the words have her frozen in the middle of the river. She can only watch him, ears flicking and nervousness rising, as if the idea of being left alone was the most horrific thing in the world. Well, to Diorae it was.
”Dumb, I know. I’ll just go.”
He continues to turn around and walks away from her. Each pained step, the haunch of his shoulders and the glance he sends her, it all added to the pain that rose within her with each step the handsome stranger took. If she only could call out to him, ask him to come back. She cannot. She watches him walk away, a few hesitant steps taking her towards the other riverbank where he had been standing.
Don’t go.
Further and further he walks away again. Each step he takes, the more restless she becomes. Not only dealing with the fact that she was alone again, didn’t want to be alone and actually had to admit that she felt safer in his presence. The feeling of being watched creeps upon her too. She snorts, nervous, glancing across her shoulder and then dances to the riverbank, sharply turning around to look in the direction of where her back had been turned to just moments ago. Nothing. Like always there is nothing.
Except for the retreating hoof steps behind her.
Her ears swirl around, and another loud snort is pulled from her as she hears something in front of her again. Just, this time, Diorae doesn’t wait to see what she had heard. Throwing her weight on both her hindlegs – ignoring the pain she feels from that simply motion – she turns herself around, dashing after the blue roan stallion.
Wait for me!
The feeling of being watched gets less the closer she nears him. But her panic doesn’t cease, nostrils still flaring and eyes wide as her ears are pinned back against her skull. Only when she’s a few meters away she slides to a halt, then falling in step with him. She doesn’t calm down, not much, making sure to not near him too much, head dipped as she follows his lead. Silently begging he won’t chase her off.
Don't be afraid when the night wolves cry, feast on their bones, suck the marrow dry.
This one knows fear like a lover. The way she responds is mouthwatering - every tentative step as she races towards him from behind only solidifying those numerous assumptions he’s already built about her. It had been a risk to turn away, (foolish, headstrong pride tells him otherwise) she might have chosen the opportunity to flee and find herself safe once more in the cover of the wood - but she hadn’t.
Instead, she falls neatly (meekly) into line with the very motion of his step. Longclaw glances back, feigns mild surprise; just look at the way that tender head dropped! How heavy her lids become with determination! The will to please and therefore be accepted has never been so strong in any creature he’s encountered before. The cursed stallion drinks in the attention, savors it with quiet appraisal and the flicker of a smirk, and then tilts his mouth towards her ear as if to share a secret.
“I’m glad you came, mute beauty.” He tells her, every word heavy with some unspoken pleasure. Spread like a golden feast before him the shadow his lips passes over her soft cheek and he’s tempted, so tempted to taste that broken flesh of hers. “I’ll see to it that no one ever hurts you again.” He promises her instead, and the moment passes even though his heart thuds sickly.
The entrancing pressure of his emerald gaze, the swirl of his hot breath as it billowed over her cheek; both seem to dissolve the world until only the two remain to peruse side-by-side, blue-by-gold. “I thought you might’ve been kissed by the sun, sweet Merigold.” The stallion laughs under his breath, blinking gently before turning to gaze ahead where the path home begins to unfold. “Merigold, hmm.” Longclaw mulls, and the name seems to roll nicely among his thoughts. The palomino has yet to utter a word and now, the reality of her being devoid of speech has begun to set in.
My, what a curious sort of prey after all. “Should you come with me, then?” He asks quite suddenly, drawing up to a stop where the shoreline touches the water. He’d been so wrapped up in … them that he hadn’t even noticed how much land they’d put between themselves and the River. Tephra looms just there in the distance but he turns once more to glance at her with tortured eyes. “Do you want to come with me?”
She falls in step behind him, a little to his right side to not walk directly in his trail. There is no way she even thinks about walking besides him, they aren’t equals and she wasn’t going to ruin things. Not when she was finally not alone anymore. So when he stops to turn to her, Diorae automatically halts too.
Hazel eyes follow his movements and she lightly lifts her head, but it’s his hot breath and the words that are whispered in her ear that sends shivers down her back. If it had been possible for a horse to flush, she probably would’ve been as red as a tomato. Neither can she use words to tell him to stop tell lies. Diorae dips her head flustered, shaking her head and flapping her ears slightly. But instead she shyly brushes her lips over neck – the cheek was far too intimate at this point.
As he travels further her eyes close and a soft breath escapes past her pale lips. Before she knows it she’s slightly leaning in Longclaw’s direction, her muscles finally relaxing which allows her tail to sway gently. His promise, in order to accomplish that, he would always be near her, she wouldn’t be alone anymore. She pulls back slightly, her neck bending to look at him with her left eye, putting her trust in him and trying to show it by smiling at him.
When they continue she’s walking besides him, her head aligned with his shoulder. As they walk, sweet words are carried to her ear. But that is not what makes her sharply look up, as being stung by something. Diorae tilts her head at the name he had given her, blinking her eyes a few times. Marigold? That wasn’t her name, and just when she’s about to shake her head to tell him no, she doesn’t. There was no way she could tell him what her name was, and it wasn’t that there was someone around how knew her real name.
And secretly Diorae liked it. He named her, he cared enough to name her. A smile tugs on the corners of her lips ans she turns to look at him, a slight tilt of her head, snorting softly as she leans in to push the velvet of her nose against his neck. It’s all she can do, her voice failing her, but hopefully it would be enough. It makes his question strange to her. Her gaze is not on the water, though the sight must be good, and instead she looks at Longclaw, confused.
Wasn’t it clear enough that she would go with him? She had followed him when he had walked away. He had promised to keep her from harm and even decided to name, or nickname, her. She takes a small step forward, reaching out to brush her muzzle across his shoulder before dropping her head and nodding.
She would follow him anywhere, even if it turned out that Hell’s gate was their destination.
Don't be afraid when the night wolves cry, feast on their bones, suck the marrow dry.
He’s found something in Diorae that beckons the darkest parts of himself to the surface. Though her golden skin reminds him of his favorite ghost-girl, when it trails across his shoulder in the shape of her lips he strikes gently - an empty nip right above the bridge of her nose. There seemed to be nothing, and yet everything in the shape of that warning; Diorae herself might feel no pain from it but the message had been clear enough: You’re to be touched, not the other way around.
But she’s new to this, so he forgives her.
The nip is followed by the brush of his shimmering tail as it flicks sideways to glide over her hind legs, and then he’s moving forward into the expanse of churning water. Longclaw himself won’t look back for her, though the creatures of the air peer down with enough interest. Land creatures, taking to the sea … how odd! Soon, though, their cries and joyful wheeling are gone and all that remains is the looming shape of Tephra’s volcano in the distance. The two tread carefully enough, that singular, smoking goal in mind.
They’ll never reach it, or rather, Diorae will never reach it, but that certain end seems not to bother them - even as Longclaw halts and turns bare, white eyes to her trailing form.
Carnage will take and shape her, and Longclaw will be all the happier for it.
![[Image: sScEgld.png]](http://i.imgur.com/sScEgld.png)
