Drooping Willows Blindfolded

<blockquote>It was a clear day, an almost warm day, and Marsh had seen fit to utilise it to Is fullest. But the chill never left him. H had thought it to be a season's omen, the cold of one too many winters endured, but spring was right around the corner and his gut had not begun to thaw yet. Perhaps it was his instincts failing him, for the first time in his life.

Perhaps it was his instincts being as reliable as ever.

He snuffled through the slush, the last of a night's light snows rapidly melting as the day grew older. He wanted so badly to find something to distract himself from the feeling of acute dullness, of something incoming and unavoidable but just out of sight. He did not like being in the dark. He did not like being at the whim of something which did not bear the name Tainn.

Softly, a growl rippled through his chest, a warning to whatever was looming over him. He would not go so easily.

The willows hung, graceful but lifeless, and the copper beast stalked through them, graceless but restless. He must keep busy. The pack needed him to keep busy. It was his duty, and no matter what, he would not let them down. He had failed Corinna once, and such a mistake would not be made again.

They would need to kill him first.</blockquote>

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Perhaps it was a strange thing for him to be doing, but he was a strange man. The ginger Hollow saint stood at the foot of a rather broken looking willow tree. That was all that remained of his house of snow, a sad collection of drooping boughs and melted snow to mark what he thought of as a grave. That was where his old life had died. Not the old <i>Kiche</i>, because parts of the "old" priest were still very much alive — and he didn't know what to think about that. But his old life, the humans and the civilization and the sights and sounds of suburbia, the neighborhood children and the black box — that was all dead and gone and he was <i>never</i> going back. Never. There was no way he'd find the path home if he hadn't found it by now. He would be stuck here, in this place he had believed to be Hell that he stumbled upon nigh on a year ago —if he had been able to keep track of time, he would have realized the anniversary was but a week away. So much had changed. So much had stayed the same.

So there he stood, observing in a reverent silence the acute sense of loss that ached in his beating heart. The somber, ruddy brown wolf was the only mourner in attendance at this strange funeral, though he couldn't have expected anyone else would attend. <i>This is the house that God built. This was the house where I repented. This was the house in which I forgave.</i> Much of his time in the snow-hut had been spent with Vlarindara, who he had nursed clumsily back to health. Vaguely, he wondered where she was, and if she would care that their house had caved in and melted. <i>This means I can't go back. This means that I'm done.</i> Done with a lot of things —trying to find home, trying to find Aisling, trying to find <i>God.</i> His faith seemed different to him now.

The sight of an older wolf wandering through the willows roused the mourner from his listless daze. Looking up, he felt a kick in his gut, a prod in the back of his mind. He knew this one. "<b>Where have you been, old friend?</b>" This was the first encounter Kiche had made. This face, while perhaps not friendly, was familiar in a comforting way, and Kiche craved the familiar. Numb with strange grief and confused by old memories, the saint would welcome the brute as he would a long lost relative. Was there still devil magic in his eyes, devil magic on his tongue? "<b>It's been too long.</b>"
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<blockquote>He was aware of another's presence before the words rang out. Up until that point, he had been fairly relaxed. The jumble of words tumbled through his ears, and even as his brain sighed and tried to decipher them, he recognised that voice.

An angry shiver ran down his spine, and as he spun to see his new distraction, his lip momentarily curled.

His brain decoded one word in particular; <i>friend.</i> What crock. The wolf before him now may have held himself in mild, controlled ways, nothing like the wild insanity that Marsh remembered, but that changed little. Marsh had made efforts with the wolf, and then had even hunted for it, though now he did not know why. And that was enough to be called a friend?

Still, the overt aggression dropped from his stance, for at least their last encounter had not been as terrible. If anything, Marsh thought of the wolf as mentally damaged. There was no point in harbouring ill-will towards such an unfortunate creature. He did marvel at the notion that the large creature was still managing to cling on to life, though.

Narrowing his eyes, Marsh snorted, open rejection of the word 'friend'. And... <i>too long</i>? Ridiculous. Warily he stood, watching the other, waiting for some angry, illogical outburst.</blockquote>

<blockquote><ul><span style='font-size:7pt;line-height:100%'>pulling Kiche out and ending it here and such.</span></li></ul>He should have known it was stupid.

The beast spun around with an ugly curl in his lips, and Kiche bawked. Was... was he perhaps wrong? Fear rolled off of his body in noxious waves as he crouched low to the ground, submissive and defensive all at once. Seeing him again face to face, suddenly, Kiche felt the old fears renewed, and he began to regret the use of that one word, "<i>friend</i>" This... this snarling <i>monster</i>, who had always <i>been</i> a monster, could not be a friend —could <i>never</i> be a friend. Realizing that he had mistaken the familiar for the friendly, Kiche squirmed backwards. The twin flames in his eyes danced and quivered left and right as they sought an escape from this known evil.

"<b>I'm... I'm sorry,</b>" he coughed out, retreating several paces without taking his eyes off of the fearsome heathen. "<b>I'll. I'll leave you — I'll... g-go now.</b>" In a whirl, he pivoted on his hind-legs and was off. As he raced through the trees, the limp branches seemed to come alive. Hungrily, they reached out to ensnare him, grabbing legs and whipping his face. A keening noise rose out of his throat. He was <i>stupid</i> and he was <i>lost</i>. Now that he had burried his past, there was a newness about Relic Lore that he didn't know if he cared for. This was not the place where he had found Pangur... not even the place he had <i>lost</i> Pangur. It was something entirely new and strange.

And Kiche didn't know if he could ever love it.
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