you're the beacon / any sylvans

[wound]

S tay down.” It’s a strong thought and it keeps her grounded to the lake’s shore. The water seems to tighten around her heels and, though she does struggle for a moment, Wound finds herself ultimately in the same position she had awoken in. They are both nearby, this snapping wolf and water-wielder, and the silver bay tosses her head in Maugrim’s direction. Her teeth snatch toward him — though they land on empty air — while her ears lace back into the mass of her mane. The water begins to jump and spit, causing fragments of panic to dance in her coffee-brown eyes. He could easily burn her and she knows how that feels; she’s spent enough time in Tephra to occasionally singe a heel on an unseen lava-stream. Wound’s stomach grips together in cramps of apprehension, which flows into a tight clench in her jaw, and she finds her legs moving themselves in an attempt to rid her ankles of the restraints. But Wound stills — as frozen as a deer sensing danger — as the wolf slides closer. His sharp canine teeth flash with every word that he speaks and the silver bay wonders for a delirious moment if there’s anything more unintentionally threatening. His words penetrate a piece of her she’s kept hidden for too many years, something she’s only ever confessed to Warrick. Even then it had only been a small puzzle piece of the big picture. Her brothers had provided her with protection in her childhood and the words ‘I love you’ were always on their mouths. But to be discarded like a broken plaything by your own mother does have some impact on how you view yourself in the world. Wound has been wrestling with this idea of herself (“You’re not special, girl”) since the moment her mother abandoned her the very same night she tasted grass for the first time. A sob slips from her mouth, aching at her sore throat in the process, and Wound’s eyelids slide shut in a moment of heartache. If she had kept her eyes open, she might’ve spotted the flash of his teeth before they pierced her shoulder. Searing pain rips across her shoulder and for a single second she is unable to scream from the sheer agony of it. Then it rides on her mouth like an unhinged demon-screech, a high, rough sound with that same tune that hundreds of the tormented have suffered through before. A delicious sound to evil’s listening ears. “Oh, God.” She’s moaning, feeling the burn as nerves end where they should not and thus simmer in intense pain. There is blood already splattered against her side and more of it is beginning to gush down her chest and over her withers and along her barrel. “Dammit, you took my good shoulder!” Wound’s pissed, an emotion that fits well with the fire of pain engulfing her shoulder, but she’s also growing weaker with every moment. Darkness creeps into the edges of her vision, threatening to drag the fatigued woman down into its cool depths. She nearly obliges, but instinct tells her that they could do so, so much more if she slept. “Oh, please do tell them.” Her voice is thin, despite her aim to seem strong. “At least then they’ll know exactly where to find me.” Fuck, this really hurts. “And then they’ll wipe your sorry, twisted behinds so far off Beqanna you’ll die before you make it back.” She’s fading, bruised and battered and bleeding, but she manages to finish her threat before she’s too weak to say much else.

credit to nat of adoxography.

@[Crevan] / @[Maugrim] / just to clarify, she's still conscious at the end of this post, just super drained haha