[private] The beginning of The End [DIORAE]

[Longclaw]

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.

Sometimes, the art of winning looks like defeat.

Longclaw