Larkcall Lowlands ready to go, lead me into the light

Waiting for the end to come
Wishing I had strength to stand
This is not what I had planned
It's out of my control

Life, Wraith had come to find, was full of surprises. Two years ago, if anyone had asked him where he thought he'd be now, he never would have imagined this. He was leader of a pack. He had the most beautiful mate and a wickedly smart son to bear his name. The ghosts of his past had long since fallen quiet and they no longer dogged his steps. They were scarcely a blip in his memory anymore. When he'd made peace with himself, the ghosts seemed to make peace with him. When he did think of them, it was with fondness rather than guilt.  

But even two years ago, the split second decision he was making would have been the same, but for vastly different reasons. Wraith had thought if he did enough good in the world, the ghosts' anger would be appeased. He would have rushed to defend the helpless in the hopes of a far-off, some-day salvation. Now, the reason was more pure.

That was his son.

He'd be damned if he let him come to harm.

Flying at the speed of light
Thoughts were spinning in my head
So many things were left unsaid
It's hard to let you go

He would never know what drove the stag from the small stand of trees. Perhaps it simply saw a wolf pup unawares and thought to save its own heirs from the threat. Perhaps it was mad with illness. Whatever the cause, Wraith refused to let it happen.

His shout of warning went unheard. Whatever had captured Cyril's focus was too powerful a draw and he remained ignorant of the charging stag. Wraith broke from the pack, legs moving faster than ever in his life while his lungs burned at the force of his exertion. He had no breath left for shouting any more warnings. He had to get there.

I know what it takes to move on
I know how it feels to lie
All I wanna do is trade this life for something new
Holding on to what I haven't got

Their eyes met for a brief moment. He registered the confusion intermixed with alarm on the boy's face. Wraith watched as Cyril made to back pedal, but was far too late to avoid the crash of his father's body against his own that tossed him off his paws.

Off his paws and out of harm's reach.

Nothing could have prepared him for the pain of those antlers piercing his left side. Chest, abdomen, haunch. They buried deep as he, too, was lifted off his paws. The stag lifted Wraith high and shook its head violently to dislodge him from its rack. Whitestone's alpha was thrown to the tundra in a heap.

He did not rise again.

This is not the end
This is not the beginning
Just a voice like a riot
Rocking every revision
But you listen to the tone
And the violent rhythm
Though the words sound steady
Something's empty within them

I'm holding on to what I haven't got

(This post was last modified: Nov 29, 2017, 03:53 AM by Wraith.)

Everything happened so fast.

First the stag, charging from the tree-line, it’s hooves digging into the snow-dusted tundra. Charging. Transfixed by the moving beast, Cyril remained rooted to the spot, the world around him going numb. His ears filled with a soft buzzing noise; the voices around him muted. Fear consumed him, bubbling white hot within his chest, but he couldn’t move. There was a noise from behind—something familiar—but he couldn’t register it. All he could hear, and see, was the sound of hooves running straight toward him. His yellow pools were wide, pupils dilated, and his ears pinned forward. Perhaps he could trip the beast, or dive out of the way last minute… anything to fell the creature. Winter was on the horizon and the pack needed food. Maybe this was his chance…

Next came another noise from behind him, growing louder with each step. He blinked, his head turning to meet the wild gaze of his father, his eyes blazing with determination. Suddenly Cyril realized that there was no tripping the stag or shuffling out of the way. Despite his gangly appearance the boy was still small and inexperienced. And the stag was gaining momentum.

His father barrelled into him as he attempted to back pedal, his limbs shuffling awkward. He was flung to the side, a loud oof! escaping him as his father’s swarthy body connected with his. As he collided with the ground the breath was knocked out of him and everything went black, for a moment, before his yellow eyes fell onto his father and his jaws fell open—but no sound came out—

For a split second the man he had known his entire life—the man he had looked up to most in the world—was suspended. He did not understand, not until he saw the stag behind his father’s body. The stag with the antlers impaled into his father’s side.

No. He had to be dreaming. His father had flung him out of the way so hard that he had slipped into unconsciousness. The boy blinked—once, twice—before biting on the inside of his cheek.

He was definitely awake.

As the stag tossed his father to the ground an unearthly scream escaped him, filling the tundra, burning his throat. He scrambled to his paws, despite one of them feeling tender due to the fall, but collapsed. The stag turned, meeting his gaze, his antlers dripping with crimson—his father’s blood—before taking off, realizing that the rest of the pack was closing in. He struggled to his feet once more, this time regaining composure, and limped toward the heap of chocolate fur. Drops of crimson stained the snow, and a lump formed in the back of Cyril’s throat, his eyes burning. No—his father had the wind knocked out of him, just like he had… he was just wounded… easily fixed… Odin could fix it, with all his smelly herbs… it had to be fixed! He was just sleeping!

He crumpled at his father’s side, his chest heaving. Wake up, he wanted to scream, but the words caught in his throat. His eyes continued to burn, an ache forming behind his eyes. Wake up!

It couldn't be real. It was an awful, awful dream. The form of her husband crumpled on the earth with no life and their look-alike son on the snowy ground sobbing next to him. It was a nightmare that she would wake up from tucked comfortably between them.

But the world around her kept moving and his name fell from her lips so softly. "Wraith.." So faint and fading before she crawled towards the scene. The smell of him and the iron crimson flooding her sense. Muddy brown eyes welling with tears as she halted at their son's side. What was she to do? She pushed herself into his lifeless form. A once ivory coat ruined, soaked, tainted with the blood of a loved one.

The sobs followed as she pushed herself under his form the best she could. "No, no, no." She cried woefully into the thick fur of his neck. This wasn't supposed to happen. They were supposed to live happily on top of the Monadnock until old age took them. Not go by the antlers of a bastard stag.

No one could pry her away from his body and her sobs couldn't be stopped. Never again would she hear his sweet good mornings or good nights, no more kisses, no more whispers of Acushla into her ear. The whole tundra would be witness to her lost through solemn songs of loss.

# C W T

Her mind was spinning after what she'd just witnessed, everything had happened so fast that Cheedo was frozen to the place she'd stopped. She'd seen the flash of black as it seemed to float across the tundra and she'd seen Cyril unable to move. The thing that stuck in her mind was the charging stag and how it had impaled her alpha and swing him around. She'd heard the gasp that had passed across her lips and but the time it was done Wraith's lifeless body lay on the snowy ground. It had been all so surreal, like a dream but the worst possible kind.

Until the world came crashing back and the reality of it hit her nearly knocking her to the ground. A whine sounded from the small agouti woman as she finally picked up one paw and then another moving toward her fallen alpha.

He was the one who had taught her about scouting and his encouragement had helped her to become more than what she was when she'd come to Whitestone. Her gaze rested on the figures of Cyril and Piety as they mourned husband and father. Without her realizing it her paws had brought her to stand at the fallen alphas dark head.

She knew the truth, she knew that he would no longer be with them, lead hunts and scouting trips. She would not wake in the morning to find him cuddled with his family or see him teaching Cyril some important skill he would need later. Still the small agouti searched for signs of life still not wanting to believe that he was gone forever.

Please see Kajika's OOC profile for OOC preferences, thank you

Everytime Leane thought she was getting better it seemed as though the world went out of its way to slap her back down. The horrific death of her uncle was still fresh in her mind, it lingered like an old wound that refused to heal. But time was doing its part, the pain had lost its sharp edge, only a dull throbbing remained.

It was managble. With patience she would persevere, or at least that's what she liked to think. She hoped, at least.

Lenae has been slacking as of late, hadn't been minding her ward, teaching Cyril as she had promised all those weeks ago. Wracked with guilt she figured the least she could do was try and pick up her slack. And so, she followed his scent, tracking him to the tundra, where his scent began to overlap with his Father's, the stones resident Dark Knight. The very reason she called the Wolves of Whitestone her family.

The scent of blood lingered strong in the air, but it was not that of a beast. Rather, it belonged to a wolf. A frown tugged at her pretty features as she broke into a trot, something was wrong, she could feel it. But what? Had Cyril gotten hurt? Tripped and hurt his paw? How naive of her, to not see the heartbreak coming. She should have known better by now, truly.

But oh no, of course, it was far far worse. Beyond anything she could ever have imagined.

By the time Lenae appeared in the scene it was too late. Wails of dispair, horror, rang through the air as loud and as clear as bell. And once again Lenae sized up, muscles coiled so tight that it hurt. Till her lungs turned to stone in her chest and all she could do was wheeze as the air was ripped from her.

This was... She had seen this before, heard this before. It was all the same. A family being torn apart before her very eyes. It was all too much to bare, she couldn't deal with it, couldn't face the past again, not now. Not so soon after the fact. Her vision was blurred and unsteady and yet she could still see them. White stained with red, two blacks with one deathly still and the other anything but, and another tawny like her standing by, somehow managing to maintain her dignity.

If only Lenae had such strength... But she didn't , nor would she ever.

She took one step back, then another and another till she was tumbling over herself to escape, to run and never look back. An unearthly wail passed from her lips as she fled, tail tucked between her legs. Never again would she set foot here, for like her mountainous home, this land was cursed.

Lenae exit

A young deer has been separated from the rest of its herd. Hunt Opportunity

Adeltra had no clue what happened. One moment she was taking a nap the next she was jolted awake by a shriek that chilled her to her bones. The hairs at the back of her neck stood up and without even really processing her movements she was staggering to her feet and out of the cover of rocks she’d dubbed her den. She shot across the land as fast as her thin legs could carry her, stumbling a few times in her desperation. The voice had been Piety’s, she knew it, and she couldn’t picture anything other than something terrible causing the regal and sweet woman to make that sort of sound. They may not be her blood family but they had treated her with kindness and an Archer always paid their debts in full. Anytime Cyril or Piety needed her assistance she was there.

Yet...she wasn’t prepared for what she saw. Popping one of the few hills in the tundra she skittered to a halt, heart stuttering at the sight. A pungent, overwhelming scent clung to the air and it took her a moment to realize that it was blood. The forms of Piety,  a tawny woman and Cyril were gathered around the form of a dark man. For a moment she worried that something had happened to her friend, but she could see the trembling in his lanky form. No, it was the man in the middle that was unnaturally still.

Her breath caught.

It had to be Piety’s mate and Cyril’s father.

She had never met the man herself but her heart ached for the pair. This was not the first time that Adeltra had witnessed death, but it was the first time that she was witnessed the death of a wolf. It was different, so very different and her stomach churned. She wanted to go and press herself to Cyril, provide her strength in any way she could but she knew it wasn’t her place. Not at that moment, for that moment was reserved specially for he, his mother and those closest to them.

Movement caught the corner of her gaze and she turned to watch another tawny form dart away. The scent that clung to their pelt on the breeze proved them at Monadnock, but if they were running they surely were no worthy member of the pack. A scowl formed on her lips. Coward, her mind hissed but she let it go and turned her attention back to the scene. Her expression softened and suddenly she was feeling a wetness on her cheeks. The dark Archer was crying, her heart constricting with the weight of the sorrow that surrounded them. She sat and watched from a distance, like a quiet guardian over their last little moment.

She didn’t think she’d ever be able to get this out of her head.

Where have all the good guys gone?

Odin Archer

It all seemed to play out in slow motion and though adrenalin kicked into full swing, the bulky yearling couldn't push himself to go faster than he was. He shot past the dark child that wasn't Cyril, dodged around a fleeing Lenae, legs growing leaden as his one good eye fell on the sight before him. He felt like an intruder on their grief, only maybe a son, maybe a brother, and his steps stopped him short. No amount of plants could fix this, and he was useless to them all. Too young, too slow, in the wrong place at the wrong damn time because maybe if there had been three...

But maybe's wouldn't bring Wraith back.

He crept forward on elbows and knees, his stomach dragging through the red stained snow his low whine joining the chorus of sorrow that filled the air around them, on hand if he was needed, but not so close as to impose on the grief of those closest to what was left now, but he could feel the life of the place bleeding away into the blood soaked snow that surrounded the leader. They had been through a lot, but there was no recovering from this.

Kip hadn't been there for very long - just a handful of days, really. But it had been long enough that she knew this was the place she wanted to stay - that these were the wolves she wanted to stay with. Not that she had met too very many of them - it was simply that it felt right. Here, with Odin, and the sweet Piety and Wraith. Wolves who treated her like an actual person instead of some sort of item. She had been more than happy to bring home prey for them, and had been trying to formulate a "Please accept me as a full member of the pack," speech.

It appeared that it was not to be.

There had been many deaths upon the mountain - many wolves fell and broke their necks, or smashed their heads in. Mothers cried for lost children carried off by eagles and wolves grew old and faded away on the mountaintop. But they got over it quickly, and it was almost never like this. This, with an entire pack grieving the death of one. There just weren't enough emotional connections there to formulate feelings that one could attribute to loss of this magnitude.

Perhaps if Kip had been closer, she might have been able to help. She was fast, after all - faster than Odin. And in spite of her size, she was fairly strong. Perhaps she could have helped in some way, if time had allowed. But she was too far off, and she certainly wasn't the only wolf trying to get there.

Crimson stained the beautiful white of the snow, leaking out of the deceased leader's coal-black body. It painted a visceral, tragic scene, and Kip had never felt more out of place. Slowly, the tiny young wolf padded over as close as she dared, which was - as usual - beside Odin. She didn't touch him, or speak to him, but instead simply stood there as a sort of silent support. Because Kip wasn't an idiot - she knew what this meant for the pack. Hell, one of them had already run off screaming like a cougar was on her tail. There would be no rebuilding or coming back from this loss.

This was something that would split them all apart, and she wanted to convey that she was going to stick with Odin, regardless of where he chose to go.

And, if she were to be honest with herself, her own heart did feel heavy in her chest when she witnessed Wraith's grieving mate and son. That poor boy was only a child - he should have never been forced to go through this. And Piety was so kind when Kip had come to them. Wraith, too, had not turned her away. That, plus watching how they were with Odin... well, it would be impossible not to be a little heartbroken with them.

The world grew quiet around him once more, the sounds muted. His paws grew warm, wet, but he dared not pull away from his father’s body. Wake up! He screamed silently, his eyes still burning, tears ready to fall. But they couldn’t. They wouldn’t. His Dark Knight was merely sleeping. Wake up! Wake up! Wake up! He could feel his mother’s warm pelt at his side but he did not move. His limbs felt like jello, his head heavy. It was all some stupid dream. The smelly, crimson liquid. His father’s limp, battered body. A nightmare.

It couldn’t be possible. Nothing was supposed to happen to knights—they were impenetrable. Impervious to dangers. Fierce warriors. The prey was supposed to be the hunted, not the other way around. Cyril didn’t understand how food could be so deadly. He swallowed, his eyes blinking shut as he buried his snout into Wraith’s cooling fur as he ignored the snow cascading around him. Wake up! But, the longer he stayed at his father’s side, the more he began to realize that wasn’t going to happen. His mother, who had always been a strong figure in his life, had crumpled at his side. Weeping. Others collected around them, their disbelief and shock radiating from their bodies as they gathered. He could hear Everly in the distance, wailing as she took off. There was no words spoken—just a small collection of wolves, standing around a fallen knight.

His body shivered.

It was his fault.

If he hadn’t froze, like a silly little rabbit, his father never would have charged after the stag. Wouldn’t need to shove him out of the way. Wouldn’t have been there. Cyril should have leapt out of the way on his own accord. Moved quicker. Been smarter.

It was all his fault.

Now Everly was gone, too. He had sent her away, too. He swallowed, the tears forming in his eyes, his body shrinking into itself as he clung to Wraith’s body. And now, now there were strangers here. Wolves who barely knew his Dark Knight. Grieving. He wanted to yell at them, send them away, but he could not find his voice. Instead, he continued to blame himself (mentally) and remained where he was, his lanky body trembling.

All

your

fault.

(This post was last modified: Nov 29, 2017, 07:13 PM by Cyril.)