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Post by devispooky777 on Nov 2, 2007 12:13:50 GMT -5
After explaining herself and her people to him, and finding herself talking far too much then she had wish, Findabhair found his silence calming, yet slightly awkward, as if her sudden talkativeness had put him off. As she bit her lower lip, yet again, she cursed herself under her breath. Since she had never been so open with a stranger before, she didn't know how to deal with the situation all that well. It was usually at times like these that Finda would allow things to flow, but seemed to be far more in her head then she more commonly would be. It was all rather strange to her.
Finally looking back up to him, Finda was slightly shocked to see something different in his face, something much more gentle and soft then could possibly be in a Werewolf, no matter how kind hearted he may be. His face seemed to have an unnatural glow, his cheeks and nose curving perfectly, and his eyes moving with their own grace all together. Grinning to herself, as she demanded herself inwardly to let things flow, just as they would, she jokingly pondered if he could possibly be part Fae, with his looks.
She had been looking at him for awhile, all most in a daze when she realized he had addressed her. Blushing slightly as she had to jog a bit to get her pace back, she gave an awkward giggle, "How long have I been away from home?" she asked, making sure she understood the question, "Perhaps a year... It's hard to keep track. Most likely over a year, honestly." Rolling her eyes upward, she truly had to chew on it a bit, "Well, I at least know it's been awhile for me. At home, they don't quite encourage traveling outside of our boundaries, so every minute that I spent in the world had just seem to..." and, with a hand motion, she impersonated a leaf being picked up by the wind, "Just blow away." Remembering what had brought up his question, she shook her head as she rolled her eyes once more, "And within that year or so, mind you, I have made it in one piece, so I assure you that I could make it a little while with wet clothing."
As the apparently finally made it to his own destination, Findabhair found herself actually surprised by his words. Blinking a bit, completely taken aback, she was breathless as she mustered up a reply, "The Fae people do indeed teach it, which is how I know of it. The story was more of a fable to us, one with a moral. I had never thought of the moral being one of warning against trusting those outside of our people... It had always been one of warning against disobeying the words of the elder." Looking to him, a faint blush still remaining on her pale cheeks, she tilted her head, "If it had been about not trusting those who were different, then I would be going against the moral by trusting you right now..."
Her words trailed off just as they stepped into the semi-clearing. The quaint cabin and homey feel of it put Finda more a ease. Looking around a bit, standing just at the edge as he went off on his own, she took in all that surrounded her. The area looked as though it had been at rest for awhile, but had willingly become inn owner again, with the newcomer. It was clear that the sweet wolf hadn't been here for long, making her question if he too were a traveler. Bringing her eyes back to him, she giggled softly as he grumbled, discovering an open window, the worry of an little intruder seeming to bug him. For some of reason, this entertained her. Tilting her head once more, she watched him then begin build a fire.
It was suddenly grew very still. Findabhair didn't do too well near fire. She had always had a constant uneasiness when it came to being around flame. Crossing her arms as she watched him invite her over, rubbing her shoulders, she fought hard to keep the anxiety from her eyes as she began slowly walking over to him, her wings beating hard to push her forward as her mind begged to turn around. The warmth that was suddenly spreading through the site did no better to ease her nerves. Forcing her eyes closed, she forced herself on, until she stood right behind him, stopping herself. She refused to look to the fire, despite feeling the waves of heat it provided lapping at her face, as if trying to seduce her into looking to the flames, caressing her with false, though warming care.
Randomly, as she was trying to calm herself in the presence of the flame, a though stuck Finda hard. Within his passionate words of the song, she had been so focused on his words about her people to actually analyze how he had spoken of his own past, "Has... an angel sang that song to you?" she asked suddenly, opening her eyes, though keeping them focused off to the side, as if lost in thought.
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Post by Fenrir on Nov 2, 2007 12:16:43 GMT -5
Again she was weirdly staring at him with those gem-like orbs and again she seemed a bit nervous as she matched his bad habit of biting her lip awkwardly. Which were all good and bad feelings altogether for her to be experiencing, in his eyes. Yes, she should be plenty nervous around someone she had just met like Fen, someone she didn’t know too well. It showed she had a bit of common sense, the sense he had been searching for in her lately. Although, she could have been nervous for another reason and he was just mistaken, which was very common in his case. But he hoped that her odd staring did not mean something different.
He was used to such alien stares on his body, like trails of ice slithering down his lithe frame. He was used to people, literally, pausing to gawk at him with a mixture of fear and sometimes awe. Whole families stopping in their line of work to immediately regard the newcomer, and most of the time that meeting was met with hostility not on his part. One as frightfully beautiful as himself seemed to attract a lot of attention, especially when combined with his nosey, as well as very open, personality. The Werewolf grinned to himself at the thought, remembering times he had used those looks to his advantage. But most of the time those stares had turned hateful; people feared what they did not understand. Which was one lesson he had grown up to learn all too soon in his own pack, as it were. Yes, his own kind had been hostile toward him, because no matter what his scent told them or who and what he was: he was different from them. Maybe his open personality had been developed for the attention he had always craved, an attention that wasn’t at all filled with distrustful stares and vengeful dares. But this maiden’s staring was indeed one of those very few that were in awe of him, kind of like how he remembered his own face to be when allowed for the first and only time to ride along with his mother on her golden wings.
The light touch of a blush across such delicate features had him inwardly pleased to be a spectator of this Fae child, as well as amused by her very scatter-brained behavior. Her kind and young spirit was like a harp spinning beautiful melodies into the ear of his ancient soul, melodies familiar and always welcome. As much as he didn’t approve of her too trusting nature, it was fairly growing on him. She innocently answered his question, showing no signs of understanding what he had intended by the question. The girl had been away from home for at least a full year now, something not completely unheard of by her kind but definitely something he had raised eyebrows about hearing. And it didn’t help narrowing down her age any either. The lycan fairly chuckled at her rolling of eyes and insults to her kind’s ways about not traveling. “You don’t say? I bet none of them would do well in the occupation of merchants, peddlers and the like then. Not well enough, anyway.” He mumbled in turn. Fenrir did actually laugh though as she recalled why the conversation was being held in the first place and he ignored her talk of drying off once again.
The girl then further returned his talk of how the Fae had taught such a song, teaching him more on the subject, on the parts his mother hadn’t known of. Even Angel’s had their limits. They didn’t teach it like the humans apparently, they taught it more of a warning on never to disobey an Elder than to never trust his evil kind. Which was something he’d never agree with given the true story of such a tragic tale. It wasn’t within the power of an Elder to play God in his eyes, to tell people how to live their destinies and what not to do. Of whom to fall in love with. It was a sin, a great and terrible sin. But they always seemed to try anyway. It was those rare souls, those strong in virtue and their own beliefs, those not necessarily brave but just -those were the few that were able to pass through such judgment without meeting such a fatal end. The dear Princess though had already given up, that had been her downfall. Fen was sure her Werewolf lover would have wanted her to continue on happy, but she wanted to follow him into death and so it came to pass. He barely caught the end of her words. The words saying that if such a teaching were mainly to never trust one of his kind, than she’d be disobeying such a rule right now.
He didn’t say anything, cause he didn’t think himself wrong. He was more than sure that her Fae kind would see him disapprovingly. Especially if they knew of his heritage, not many saw a cross with an Angel to be good. Not many thought such a crossing were able to happen, to be a reality. He was a taboo and well aware of it. The term ‘Freak’ had become much of a nickname to him as a pup and he didn’t believe otherwise. That was, well, until he had met Tyr. He thought it odd that another Angel, one who served under the same Demi his mother had, believed him to be just as natural as the stars in the sky. Well, assuming the poor thing wasn’t angry at the time anyway, because the Angel did have a mouth on him and when tempered he wouldn’t hold back. He supposed that Tyr was much like an older brother, one he’d never had. Such a friendship was rare.
And he had betrayed that friendship. Sure, there could have been no telling whom he would have killed in his moon-phased state, be it child or adult, but just as much he could have hurt no one. Yeah, maybe he still didn’t believe that thought, for he still believed it right for him to have asked his Demi-Goddess to take control of his body for a time. Just for the time of the moon phase, for the full moon, when he’d become wolf without control and give into the monster’s instincts without a choice. He couldn’t have known the Goddess would use such a thing to her advantage, for her to smite Tyr with his own body in punishment. The Angel had been displaying traits of meaning to defy Paradise and its uptight ways, much too similar to the way of the Fae’s and Tyr had seen such a thing as nonsense. The Angel had wanted a life of his own, he was done with being a puppet to the higher callings of others. But he was sure the Angel hadn’t expected for Fenrir to be the one bringing down punishment on him, for he had attacked the Angel while under Lupina’s control and he had seriously maimed his friend. A friend that had just broken himself away from everything he had ever believed in, from Paradise. A friend that had needed his support when he became a Fallen Angel as further punishment.
That was why he searched for him, he wished to make things right. He wouldn’t let himself believe he had had no choice. He didn’t care if he had been unable to control himself, it was his fault his friend was alone right now. It was his fault his friend was one handed now. He couldn’t even remember most of the details from that night, something that was usual with the coming and goings of the full moon. He hoped Lupina had not said anything through him too.
Fen was grateful that her words had trailed off as they made it to his little abode, his body slumped on the ground beside the blaze nearby, amber eyes calculating the interesting view of the maiden. She was afraid, he tasted it in the air, smelled it, something too familiar for him. And it was confirmed as she forced herself over to where he sat, her eyes tightly closed and her body going stiff. He laughed inwardly, he couldn’t help it, she looked cute like that and he had already guessed what ailed her. By the time she had made it close behind him, he had tossed the rag, that had cleaned off his bloodied shoulder, toward where the dead stag did lay. Her voice had him pausing though, his mind blinking alarm and cursing him for his revelation as she asked if an Angel had sung that song to him. “Here,” he whispered. The Werewolf’s movement was still oddly quick, an inner calm bringing out his wolf instincts as he moved his hands to grasp her shoulders lightly and push her down to a sit on a nearby log, careful that it was far enough away from the fire to bring her at ease.
He took a seat by the dead stag though, opposite to her over the fire and far closer to the warming flames, his hand bringing out a skinning knife from somewhere on his person instantly. Fen knew she still expected some kind of an answer though, his hand pausing at readying the meal before them. “Who taught you the song, specifically. A grandmother perhaps? Or was it really just your teachers?” He finally settled, ignoring her words to return them on her differently as he dragged his catch to the nearest tree and strung it up with some rope he had snatched up from the cabin earlier. Once it was at a reasonable height, he flicked his knife along the memorized points of where the beast could bleed out the quickest, before returning to the fire and grabbing up that rag again to wipe away any trace of the blood. His nose didn’t take too well to such a scent even though it did stir up his wolf’s hunger.
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Post by devispooky777 on Nov 2, 2007 12:17:48 GMT -5
It was the way of the Faes to constantly be a step ahead of everyone else, knowing the outcome of every situation they may be thrown into, even controlling the outcome altogether. Legends spoke of how, especially with the humans, they used their wit and sly wisdom to completely take advantage of whomever they pleased, for their own personal gain. They been known as the worlds finest tricksters, their cunning second to no other. Even though, over the last few centuries, the Fae have slowly brought themselves away from the world in which they once held in the palm of their hand, their ability to manipulate and surpass others was still within their blood, and at certain times, this trait would surface, showing them at their best. It was this trait that Findabhair was missing horridly as she found herself being nearly forced down onto the dried out log, her eyes wide in mere shock, chin pointed up.
Blinking, she allowed herself to settle, watching him walk around to fire, to the other side. Glancing over the flame caused her to flinch slightly. She didn't care for watching the corpse any plant burn helplessly, which was something she couldn't help. Swallowing back her pride, she forced herself to look past the flame, and the air that quivered within the presence of the heat that it gave off. As she watched him begin preparing the stag, she watched him with now questioning eyes. His avoidance of her question only opened far more. She placed her hands gently on wither side of her, taking in the feel of the withering bark, her head following his near every movements.
Findabhair found it best to now chew on his personality. He was just as shy as she, which was quite clear, and contained a charm that was rather unique, contradicting that which she would expect from a Werewolf. Though he did posses some very lycan-like personality traits as well. It was quite obvious that, even though he showed very little of it thus far, he had a roughness, sharpness to him, and she could also see how vigilant he was a near anything, most likely a canine instinct. Also, a very telling bit was his protectiveness that he had suddenly chosen to place over her, which indeed surprised her, since it was very unlike on of his kind to protect a stranger, his trusting habits also contradicting to his race. But it was his gentleness that struck her as the most shocking. Again, he may not have expressed it much as of yet, but Finda could tell fairly well that he was one oh a gentle soul.
Bringing herself back, out of her thoughts, she blinked a bit more to find him cleaning himself of blood once more. Taking in a deep breath of the pungent smell of burning wood, she held her head up, "I can't say I learned the song from an angel..." she finally replied, "But as far as I can remember, I learned it from either one of our caretakers... or my mother. I am one of many sisters, and at night, when we were very young, she would sing for hours until every last one of us was asleep, and that was most likely one of many songs she sang."
Leaning her head forward a bit, now looking up at him through her eyelashes, she cocked a brow, "I do wonder though... why would angels sing of such a tale? My people have very little to do with them, at least those who work directly under the Demi. Have you even had such a pleasure as to witness an angel singing that particular song?" Though she tried her best to make herself non-conspicuous, she refused to allow him to drop the subject, so her finishing words were far more blunt then she had originally intended.
She decided that it was in her best interest to try to take more control of the situation then she had now, so allowing him to drop her question so easily wouldn't fly by Findabhair.
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Post by Fenrir on Nov 2, 2007 12:19:08 GMT -5
She remained nervous and ever the spectator over him, his curiosity already proving to understand one of those things. And the other left him nervous. It was very like any natural born woodlander to be wary of fire. Especially a daughter of Fae. It had something to do with how fire crushed anything it touched, decimating whole forests in its wake if not attended properly. It was an element that consumed others. And this girl smelled of everything nature born, she had a right to be afraid of such a threat. But fire only posed problems if not controlled, as did so many other things, and Fenrir had never acquired a disliking to it. He’d heard upon the stories and rumors told of the Fae that they never used fire at all for a light source. He’d always wondered how that was possible and then what they managed to do for warmth then, but maybe he could remember to ask her about such a thing later.
The fact that she didn’t seem to like watching a fellow plant burn down to nothing before her very eyes, didn’t even cross his small mind.
Her staring and memorizing the contours of every plane on his face was not obvious to him and definitely starting to make him tense and jumpy. It was a habitual instinct though, for he didn’t know why he should fear anything from this kind soul, even if she was a Fae. Fenrir wondered if she understood that almost all Werewolves were wary of her kind now. The magic of that song proving to be a warning to them as much as it had been to the humans. She was very lucky that she had run into him instead of any other Werewolf. To disturb his hunt like that, a ritualistic process, no wolf would have considered her anything more than another piece of their prey soon to be brought down.
The lycan cleaned off his blade on the grass once finished with cleaning off himself, the stained rag tossed into the flames soon after he was finished. The fabric crackled and jumped for a moment before melting to ash entirely before their eyes, leaving a different and sour scent mixed into the ash and death of wood, in its waking. He didn’t put away his blade though, instead busying himself with flipping it in the air and stupidly catching it with one hand, an act he preformed quite often when bored.
The maiden spoke of her family, of having many sisters, of a mother that may have sung the song to her as much as his own mother had sung it to him at night. He wasn’t smiling as one might think at the end of her cute tale, this being for a different reason altogether even though it did please him that she confidently answered his question. He had been forced to pause in his knife throwing as he listened. She took a leap of faith and bent forward, toward him, toward the fire, and she cocked a dark brow. The pose made her look fairly inquisitive and mildly brought amusement to his features, until she returned the question he had ignored moments before. Apparently it had not gone without her noticed that he had ignored such a question. He had always been very bad in tactics such as changing subjects, maybe this was due to him usually leading the conversations though.
Fenrir sighed heavily, eyes detached and fixed on his blade rather than on her where he knew she’d be trying to read his emotions. He fiddled with the knife for a moment longer before stowing it away somewhere in the folds of his khaki pants. “I must congratulate you on being a little more forceful than I had thought. It seems you’re not as helpless as I believed, you may not be so strong in the physical but you definitely have tact,” he grumbled, moving a hand through the silky strands of his golden hair as he stood to move around the fire and then plopped himself down beside her. Looking over the flames so much was making his eyes burn. “That song is sung by far many than you’d believe, a warning to all, as I said before. In a Werewolf’s eyes though, it is only warning us to never fall for one of the Fae, that their ways are too different from our own. You’re never to trust a pretty face.” He smiled awkwardly as he turned to look her in the eye, very aware of his words.
“But an Angel would only know of the song if they kept watch over the Fae or the wolves particularly. Only those two seem to use the song as ritualistic as any of their dances or hunts. And the Angel who sang it for me was no different. She worked directly under Demi-Goddess Lupina, the Goddess of our kind in more ways than one. Every now and then the Demi would send her Angels to watch over certain packs that were under a bit of trouble, suspicioned to be enjoying the taste of blood too much.” He ignored telling her that his specific pack was probably one of the worst. That the two alphas together found an obsession in blood so much that when finding old scriptures upon the dead, they tested rituals of blood magic, of necromancing. His mother had put somewhat of a stop to it, but had Lupina found out the whole pack would have been punished with death. For playing with the souls of the dead was never an honorable deed. “The Angel was apparently very literate in the tale of that song. She enjoyed the truth and told me the song was a tale of her own future.”
Fen was smiling gently now, as if the action was so fragile that the image in his mind was soon to break. “And I did have the pleasure of hearing her sing that song. Combined with the gold of her wings, it was a rare beauty I doubt will ever be surpassed in my mind.”
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Post by devispooky777 on Nov 2, 2007 12:20:47 GMT -5
Within her mind, repeatedly Findabhair encouraged herself to keep up a less nervous front, though thus far, she had little luck in pushing far at all. In her mind’s image, she tried to be more mischievous, much like her people were so well known to be, with the look as though they knew exactly what was to become of the situation, holding the control within the palm of her hand. Finda was indeed not the shyest one of her sisters. In anything, she had turned out to be the most optimistic and out going, never backing down, the whole nine-yards. Even her father, gods rest his soul, commented on how brave she would be in social situation. Yet, why now? Why was she not able to access this strong one within herself? She felt as though she had never had that strength before, and that her awkward, jumpy self was the skin she had bared all her life. Perhaps she knew too few werewolves, because she needed to overcome this odd behavior.
With a gasp, Finda finally realized that she was still gripping the seaweed leaves, her knuckles whitening within her intense grip. Blinking a bit, she gently laid the pile of leaves, as well as her bag, behind the log in which she sat, surprised by how relieved her muscles were to be rid of those burdens.
Cocking her brows as she watched him finish up with his prey, she sighed. Instead of putting on a front, she needed to tap into her more natural behavior. Closing her eyes as she drew in a deep breath, meditating for the briefest of moments, she once again focused on him, a playful smirk over her lips now. By the time she refocused, she found him addressing her once more, making his way around the fire. His lovely hair seemed to glow within the light of a burning flame, making his face look lighter, despite darkness of the sun, settling behind the trees. As he sat beside her, she gave a lighthearted giggle. Helpless, indeed. “I’m trying, trust me.” she replied, giving him a passive wave, as if telling him to not worry about it at all, “And I do hope I didn’t appear hopeless, ‘cause I wouldn’t want to lead you under false pretences.” With that, she gave him a wink.
So far so good, Finda thought to herself, finding that she was growing more and more comfortable in the position she was bringing herself. It felt as if she were slowly shedding her awkward, nervous skin.
“Now, now, compliments are no way to end such a warning-filled sentence.” Finda laughed, her cheeks growing slightly red, “You’re cursed with a pretty face as well, so I’m assuming I should be more careful, huh?” A question popped into her mind of how biased his own people were to hers, though she had to right to ask, when her own people would possibly even consider having hung for merely spending as much time as she had thus far with the lycan, though she knew she was exaggerating slightly with that thought.
Once he began speaking of the angels once more, Findabhair softened. His eyes slowly shifted, and expressed something within him that she couldn’t identify. She could almost see joy, yet loss. A look of deep sadness. Lowering her head some more, she nodded, looking up at him with near sympathy, “I’ve never heard of angels that watched over us. That wouldn’t blow over well with our leaders…” she gave an self-conscious laugh, “You know… you sound as if you knew her well. Did you ever get the chance to?” It was pretty easy to tell that he was indeed very close to the angel that he spoke of, though his words said differently. It was hard to hide things like that. His charming eyes spoke volumes.
Opening her mouth to address him, Findabhair froze. It wasn’t until now that she realized she didn’t know the werewolves name. Giving another lighthearted laugh, she offered him her dainty hand in greeting, “By the way… my name is Findabhair.” she finally introduced herself, felling slightly embarrassed by how long it had been before she was actually able to establish a name exchange.
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Post by Fenrir on Nov 2, 2007 12:22:23 GMT -5
You’d think such a kind soul as Fenrir would not be so mysteriously shadowed and hidden, yet this wolf was frozen behind barriers so tall and vast, few knew existed. True, he was much more laid back than most, he lacked a fighting spirit and his mouth was open and fluid enough to bring much trouble. But with as much knowledge and years he had passed time with, comes loss and despair. He may have appeared to be the kind and open, young soul sitting before her, barely still taller than her when sitting on the forest floor and her on the log by the fire. But he was guarded by so many thoughts, habits and accusations he didn’t even realize he still followed. His focus was his own.
From the moment he saw her, he’d been aware of magic, of mystery and the unknown. It had drew him to her. He’d broken through that mystery though, all the while, he played his cool act and didn’t once reveal too much of himself. His main race, the one that haunted him in the mortal realm, was granted no matter what. It took with little ease to know what he was. But the other blood that tainted his veins remained a shadow of the shell he’d become. And from the moment he’d come into contact with her, he had played it safe and by the ear, he’d never once revealed his name either.
All were habits, if not his own rules, that he chose to follow.
Yet the girl before him was of no mystery at all. Her race had held an eyebrow quirked of course, but her personality hid nothing. She was open and innocent and as cunningly swift in thought as all of her kind were. She revealed everything she wished to and seemingly hid nothing, watched her words little, and tried to enjoy herself and her time away from her biased people. This was truly a miracle to behold.
The Fae was holding tightly to her weeds still and noticing this shortly after, sliding her pack and the bit of nature to the ground behind her and her choice of furniture. Personally, Fenrir believed the hay he’d gathered inside the cabin to be a much better choice to lay down upon, but the air outside was calm and just being outside itself was what he was born for. When he looked at the maiden again, he had to raise an eyebrow, there was a wickedly familiar smirk upon her tempting lips and an obvious new confidence filling the girl’s face. He smelled mischief.
Her giggle was less heavy than the earlier ones he’d witnessed and her returned words of comfort along with her motions had him chuckling with her. The lycan shook his head to the wink she gave, with a side thought to the maiden’s childishness reminding him of his own. And then she went on about his compliments, blushing cutely only to tell him he was also cursed with a pretty face. He paused only for a second at her words, not seriously upset by them, but definitely growing annoyed. The Werewolf sighed for a moment, bringing back his grinning goofiness as he stripped away any dark thoughts she had mistakenly reminded him of. “Thanks, love. I think,” ended up being his only response in words though.
She seemed to enjoy his tale of the angels and this brought him comfort, although the look she was giving him was angrily familiar as well, one he’d rather do without. Sympathy had no place in being given to a taboo child. She shyly admitted that she didn’t think the Elders of her people would enjoy the thought of the Angels watching over them and he grinned his agreement. “Of course not, the old tight bags would probably piss themselves. If you don’t mind me saying. They’d be damned to know that the Gods above are also keeping watch over their lives, just as controlling as them, you can imagine that they don’t get along too well.” It was fairly easy to lapse into such entertaining words as this for Fen.
Her next words didn’t really make him as upset as it would have any other time. She asked him if he knew the Angel well, the one who’d sang to him and watched over his pack. No, his emotions were carefully controlled that he merely was smiling still at her. Truth be told, he hadn’t really been with his mother for that long. She eventually asked her Leaders if she could be stripped of her wings and be made a human, so as a way to be with her love and son more (of course, she didn’t tell them she’d had such a half-breed child already). His father grew furious at this though, a fury that was never sated through any hunt or any fight among his kind. Truth be told here, he was only so angry because he feared for her safety. An Angel was far safer around the pack than a human. But Fenrir had never understood the truth of his father’s anger and his mother hadn’t either. They grew apart and his father blamed such a thing, even his mother’s decision to become human, on his son. It hadn’t taken him long to understand what the word ‘taboo’ truly meant. And then, after the incident that would have made him become the alpha leader of their pack, his mother had looked upon him the same. He knew leaving was his only option.
So when he gave this woman her answer to such a question, he did so with a soft and gentle voice, barely breaking the silence. “No. I didn’t know her too well at all. I don’t think I ever wanted the chance to.” He didn’t elaborate his meaning and he didn’t try to look away from her eyes either, there was no point in doing so. It’d been years since he’d thought of his mother in this way. Strange, wasn’t it? For a soul like him to think so fondly about his mother still, but always to blame all faults possible on his father? He despised his dad. And most of the time it had nothing to do with the monstrous wolf that he’d inherited from him.
The girl before him paused long enough to finally realize an important thing that had never been lost to the wolf before her in all this time. They had not exchanged names. With as much ease as it had been for her to laugh, she supplied a hand for him to probably shake and then the biggest amount of her trust thus far. Her name. Findabhair. The move and motion was so casual in itself, that he found himself doing the only thing that came natural to him at that moment. And that was taking her hand comfortably tight in his own and tugging her hard, purposely wanting her to lose her balance and collapse safely onto the relatively soft forest floor under her. There was a saying that went especially well with his mischievous spirit, he’d heard it from his own mouth on numerous occasions after a brawl with Tyr.
“Don’t sit on the edge, my dear, for you are most certainly demanding me to push you off it,” and he laughed. Completely random and probably startling this girl to death, but he couldn’t help it. This girl brought him some strange amount of mixed comfort and innocent torture that he had been so long without ever since his bout with Tyr. Without even thinking any further and defying all logic unto himself, he did something completely uncalled for by all of his rules.
“Fenrisulfr is my name. But please, call me Fen.”
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Post by devispooky777 on Nov 2, 2007 12:23:50 GMT -5
Looking down on the scene, from a whole different perspective, Findabhair found it far easier to grab a better hold of the situation. It was one of the strangest circumstances that most couldn’t possibly even try to imagine. Everything just seemed wrong, yet still on a comfortable level. One of the pure earth, with one of the dark moon. Never in her own, wildest dreams would Finda find herself having an enjoyable conversation with a lycan, one in which she found herself as open as a book, an experience she had never felt before, though she did curse herself for allowing herself to be so exposed. She had to promise herself to try to become sturdier, though not disrupting the natural feel to their pleasurable banter.
It was hard to actually begin thinking of the possible true nature of the gentlemen in front of her, who continued to show his witty, good-humored spirit, much like her own, though he seemed to internalize and analyze things far more, which showed a more intelligent side of him, which he obviously was not trying to hide.
As Finda got more and more into her impish character, she also found herself growing far more comfortable within her own skin, to the point where all she could do is grin. Tilting her head as she absorbed his short, awkward silence, she gave a small giggle, “You’re quite welcome. And don’t take it personally, it’s a compliment. It means no harm.” And with that, she raised her hands, palms up, as if to show she was not armed. Still, she beamed, “If you don’t care for compliments, then you can blame it on your genes, then.”
Rolling her eyes, her smile not faltering to a second, she huffed, “Ah, the Elders… My father had been considered an elder…” she started, remembering when her father had taken his seat of power of the earth village, joining the ranks of all the other elemental leaders, “Our Elders are just as snobby as our people, and may the gods help them if the Elders knew anything at all, quite honestly. Even if they knew that I were here, now…” Forcing a laugh as she quickly banished the thought, “But let us not worry of old men and the gods. The Elders are behind me, and the gods are nowhere in sight.
Once he fed her his answer, Findabhair remained silent, expecting more. His answer held only the knowledge he must have within a nutshell. When it was quite clear that he wasn’t going to lengthen his answer, Finda arched a brow, “Then you must have admired her a great deal, to speak of her so highly. Still, I envy you.” Nodded, she tilted her head in the opposite direction.
When he acknowledged her extended hand, and grasped it, her grin broadened. Only when her gave her a tug, did her smile twitch a bit. Loosing her seating, she threw her other hand up, grasping his upper arm as she tumbled forward. She was just barely able to hold herself up on her toes, making sure to keep a steady hold on him as she applied all of her weight to the balls of her feet. It was difficult to keep her magic calmed, as it nearly roared down her spine with the desire to help Findabhair catch herself. Once she felt secure and steady, she finally turned back to him, allowing herself to drop to her knees. Now feeling her skirt under her did she realize how dry it was, only the bottom hems were still soaked now.
Looking to their still clasped hands, Finda cocked her head as she snickered, tightening her own grip, as if returning a challenge, hearing his name only sweetened the feel of the playful joust, "Now, sir Fen, are you asking to witness the wrath of a so-called pretty face?" she asked, tightening her grip all the more, "Because I do love competition, but that wouldn't be too ladylike of me to beat you." Giving him her sweetest of smiles, she released his upper arm, using it to lean against the log she was once sitting on, balancing on her elbow.
((Sorry it had taken so long to reply! ^^; I've been really sick lately, so I've slowly been typing my reply bit by bit over the last few days! ^^;;;;;; ))
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Post by Fenrir on Nov 2, 2007 12:25:17 GMT -5
His companion was warming to him quite nicely by now, enough so that she was destroying the rarity of her smiles in his eyes. He was aware of such a beauty and innocence in her presence that he had been without before. The lycan was especially aware of how the plants and even, the forest, responded to her presence in that tiny-made clearing. They were as he was: drawn to her. Hopefully not like a moth to a flame.
Still though, she had that wicked sharpness about her that made her kind even easier to identify, taking in Fenrir’s disliking of his ‘pretty’ face and easily calming him with her gentle laughter. She raised her hands in a posture of being without harm, reassuring him to just blame it on his genes if he disliked the compliment so. And he was beginning to hate that she could read him so well. There wasn’t much he couldn’t not blame on his genes really, but he kept silent to her words; keeping his initial thoughts to himself was actually a good idea for this moment.
Finda continued to show her dislike for her ‘snobbish’ people while he played the attentive listener, informing him of the knowledge that her own father had been made an Elder. He tilted his head at these words, tresses of dark locks falling to obscure his red-hazed view, as he took the words into consideration and of how she had sounded once voicing them. By the past tense she had used, he guessed the man, her father, to be sadly dead. Either that or she was just using that tense cause she believed not to return to her home again. It was supposedly a high honor to become one of the Elders, but the Werewolf couldn’t picture any relative of this maiden’s to be as snobby as he knew the others. Fenrir made himself ignore her words that had been so abruptly banished though, words that may have led along the lines of what her Elders would think or do to her had they known her to be partaking in a civil conversation with a monster. But her comment about the gods had him smiling too.
“Ah, I would never banish the gods so quickly, love. They are always watching. And I suggest that it is the times when you can not see them, that you should be the most careful. Better to be able to keep an eye on your foe than to have them crawling and sneaking around you in the dark, am I right?” He used his words lightly however, for he believed in them. He knew that if he attracted too much attention, the gods would not hesitate in forcing a punishment upon him. And he already had enough people hunting him as it was.
Fen found himself a bit relieved when his faerie friend did not impose on him to explain his meaning about the Angel, because he was aware of her curiosity to do so just by that gentle arching of the eyebrow. She mentioned how highly he spoke of the Angel though and that she envied him, probably of such a meeting and audience, but she did not elaborate either. And he was very grateful to her when she did not press forward and instead dropped the subject.
But there was literally nothing that could have stopped him from bursting into laughter at the girl’s tumble by his own hand. Her reaction was a new one he had not seen before, and although she had managed to steady herself from completely falling, her shocked expression had been just enough amusement for him. His stout shoulders were shaking with mirth long before he felt the light intensity of her magic sway, but she managed to keep it calm and the unease left him. Finda’s closeness was making him a bit uncomfortable though, her scent too heavy for him to stand and yet he didn’t move until she was steady herself. And even still, he only tilted his head away from her a bit so as to not smother himself with her thick scent. Too much of such a rich flower was bound to give him a headache; sometimes having such a strong sense of smell wasn’t a good thing if you weren’t sure how to turn the annoying thing “off.”
Her words weren’t angered at his actions when she looked back at him, and, in fact, she joined into his laughter, mentioning if he was trying to uncover the wrath of a pretty face. She told him she loved competition and he didn’t dare question the fact but her opinion of it not being ladylike of her to beat him was another thing. “Beat me, love? Now really. “ He made himself take on a cocky appearance, eyes lowered and his smile altogether sly in nature. “There isn’t a competition I haven’t been tested at with such fears. And such a lie would never sway me.” He moved to ruffle her hair playfully as he burst back into laughter, rolling backwards and letting himself fall to the forest floor.
He forgot he was still holding onto her hand though.
((That's the best you can get out of me today. Busy, tired, and, just very sleepy. >.< ))
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Post by devispooky777 on Nov 2, 2007 12:26:30 GMT -5
The air around them slowly began to smoothen itself out as their conversation began to grow to a far more comfortable level. Fenrir seemed to be the type to be far more comfortable with the subject off of himself, and Findabhair respected that, so she choose to move on. He could open himself as he pleased, and she would apply no pressure.
Blinking a bit with thought, she wondered if he had taken her words on genes to heart or not. Finda was merely playing, and could only hope she didn't heighten any self doubt within him. He truly as a sight to behold, and there was little in anyone’s power to change that, so what blame was there to pass? No one should be held responsible negatively for a miracle.
She enjoyed watching him listen as she spoke of her people. The facial expressions that surfaced on him could only make her smile as she tried to continue talking, despite the distraction. Speaking of her father felt like a load off of her chest, instead of a horrid reminder. The mere mood of her current situation felt as f it were the safest place to relieve herself of random, bothersome thoughts and such. And Fen’s smile nearly took all the anxiety off of her muscles.
Once he spoke of the gods, she felt herself return to her mind to rethink her words, as well as take in his own. Findabhair never truly gave the gods even the slightest of thoughts, except for when it came to conversations such as these, and she had never even thought to notice the possible consequences of practically dismissing them all of her adult life. Her luck throughout her travels wasn't exactly admirable, though she was always able to squeeze by with a little more then by the skin of her teeth. Much had happened at home within the past year, while she traveled, then usually happened within a lifetime in her small village. Deaths, attacks, and more frightening news forced her to question her choices and suffer with the pang of guilt that came with virtually abandoning her people. Biting her lip, Finda tried to force herself back into the conversation flawlessly, banishing the thoughts of her poor people from her mind, “I suppose you're right…” she finally replied, smiling halfheartedly. “Leave it to my upbringing to anger the gods, honestly.”
Findabhair was never praised for her physical abilities. She was slow for a fae, and non-too quick when it came to reflexes as well. Finding her balance again as she found herself falling forward would have blown her family away. With the confidence boost, she looked back up to Fenrir with a whole new attitude. If she had to, she could easily take this pup in a playful bout, if she were able to keep her balance. Doing it once seemed to assure her that it would be no problem to do again, “I wouldn't question my abilities if I were you, because if I had to, I might just have to diminish my lady-like appearance, if only to teach you a lesson.” She replied with an elated laugh. “What would you say if I were to tell you that it was indeed I who is the competition who will sway you?” Asking that, she gave him a impish wink once more.
It was when he pulled her down that she once again lost her balance. Within the blink of an eye, though, to her, it also felt as if it were in slow motion, Finda watched as Fen rolled backwards, and as, still gripping his hand tightly, he yanked her down with him. Throwing her free hand out instinctively, she stumbled over her, finding herself face to face with him, her palm pressed into the ground right next to his head, and her hair cascading around her face, framing his own.
Heart racing, Finda bit her lip hard as she tried to get her mind to catch up. Blinking wide eyed down at him, she felt her cheeks glow with embarrassment, but she refused to let her attitude slip, so she quickly broke out another mischievous smile, "Now... are you trying to provoke me?" she asked, arching a brow, hoping to play out the situation smoothly.Not even for a second did she question his intentions of his actions.
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Post by Fenrir on Nov 2, 2007 12:30:00 GMT -5
Yes, his earlier assumption that she was very good at reading people was really truth. For he had been getting a little testy in his own, speaking about his past. Or rather, remembrance of it. For he had been purposely vague for a long time. It was still something of a mystery to him as to why he had told her his name. It must have been one of those spur-of-the-moment things. And yet she had been able to sense his upset and steer clear of it, despite her own curiosity to know the answers to such questions that must have been only the slip of the tongue away. It was truly an admirable trait to think in terms for others instead of your own and the maiden had no idea how much higher he looked at her now because of such.
While he cringed at his speaking of the past, the opposite effect was being granted for the faerie. For her talks of her own past seemed to calm her, her memories of there, being ones more good than bad. Or maybe she was just severely homesick and to speak of such things aloud was settling her mind from bottling it up for so long. He knew the feeling, it was somewhat of the same thing for him when he first started speaking about the song his mother had taught him. But then came the regret, followed closely by the guilt.
Then when he spoke of the gods did her guilt return to her, he noticed. For she bit harshly onto her bottom lip, much like he did when he got nervous. Funny how he could recognize the gesture on other people, but not notice when he was doing it himself. It must have been one of those many traits people carried on the back of them, unable to see their own yet clearly able to see the people in front of them. She brushed off her unease though, a lot quicker than he had too. It kept him smiling to know she was so strong. A lot more so than he had given her credit for when first sensing her presence. Although this said nothing about her quick trusting, he still thought of that as a mistake on her part.
Somewhere along the lines of her unspoken shock of his next move and his bursting of laughter, did he notice the confidence return to her features. He wouldn’t have pegged her as being slow for a Fae and the thought never crossed his mind here. This was largely due to him never meeting a Fae before though for him to compare to. And he was glad he hadn’t met one until now, it probably would have changed his views on the situation and he would have fled once first sensing her magic. She mentioned forgoing her lady-likeness to seemingly teach him a lesson and his laughter was graced with a few more small chuckles as he ruffled his own hair this time, legs extended and bent before him into a crouch.
“A lesson on what, my love. Tact?” he replied, as she continued her challenge by voicing her beliefs that she was the competition he hadn’t met yet that would change his fast judgement. He hadn’t needed to say more to this, mainly cause that was around the time that he threw himself backwards to lay down in the softer grass; close enough to the fire to still feel its warmth but not so much that it was too hot. He felt the soft hues of mixture under his back for all of a moment and gazed up at the slowly darkening sky of shadowing blues, before he realized his right hand was tangled up in something and, equally, something heavy had just snuck the breath out of him and it had landed on his bare chest. The force of which had made him grunt in silent surprise.
He peered downward then and slowly, his amber eyes turning into amusement as he realized what exactly happened. He didn’t really bend his neck to see her, and he really didn’t have to. In fact, he hadn’t even had to lift his body any from the cushions of the ground. Fenrir felt the velvety texture of the girl’s forest hair on his cheeks, her face staring directly down and into his only inches away, his own hair thrown back and probably revealing the tattoo markings under his eyes a lot better. He felt the warmth exuding from her body this close and soon reddening her face in a light flush, her hands to the side of his face and supporting her on the ground. The girl’s scent washed over him and he closed his eyes briefly to savor it, marveling that such a strong scent hadn’t given him a headache when getting closer, it had only made him enjoy it more. The Werewolf was in an awe that she hadn’t reached for her magic at all this time. And her face held no fear. In fact, her only bit of maybe-fear would be her quickened heartbeat, which his favored hearing could pick up thundering against him. A sign of complete trust.
This beautifully odd girl, in fact, exuded overconfidence as much as before, with her ever mischievous smirk. The lycan would have killed to have been watching this scene from afar. It must look hilarious, with the big bad wolf pinned as he was by a beautiful maiden, no less, and one with wings spread about them, no doubt (he couldn’t see). Well, kind of pinned. He could obviously move with ease still, his body laying flat on the ground and his arms spread wide. Fen proved as much when she asked him evilly if he was trying to provoke her, one slender hand reaching up to capture the bottom of her chin, his face mirroring her smirk.
“Depends. What are you suggesting I’m provoking you to do?” He asked her then, eyes moving from watching her own down to her lips, a flirting movement but that was also natural for him.
The moment, however, was completely broken as an odd sounding whine came through the air, catching his attention with an odd familiarity. Fenrir’s head snapped up for a moment, eyes going wide as the scent that lingered in the air finally hit him, disguised by Finda’s scent being so strong on him before. He cursed, knowing exactly what was headed toward them and thus forcing him to do the only thing he could do at the moment. The Werewolf used his hyper speed to bring his hand up at the last second, catching the silver chain that had been thrown at them just before it smacked his companion in the side of the head. The chain wrapped itself around his wrist by the momentum of the throw and instantly Fenrir let out a yelp as the curse of his kind had his right wrist feeling as though it was on fire, a searing pain shooting up his arm and quickly spreading farther. “Fly,” he whispered under his breath to her, his teeth gritting together from the painful poison breaching his skin.
“Well that was easy! And lookie here, we probably just saved this poor angel from being eaten alive! What do you say to that boys?” Came a voice from the brush, holding the identity of an elderly scum of a man and quickly followed by the snickering sounds of others. His eyes were glued to Finda in an odd way that was bringing chills to Fen’s spine.
It seemed he had been wrong about the bounty on his head: it had reached Mikoa village. For the six souls that now rushed into the clearing, surrounding them on all sides of the fire, looked recognizable from his recent visit. One of them he specifically remembered to be a servant boy in the Little Long Hotel he had stayed at. The shaggy-haired child had asked for his help in carrying inside a rather heavy vase filled with water from the well for their upcoming dinner and he had showed off his lycan strength a little more so than he’d noticed, at the time. The kid must have been sent to spy, he realized and this knowledge had him growling more so than the binding chain burning into his wrist. He hated to see a child thrown into the life of violence before they should have.
The Werewolf puzzled himself around the fact that he hadn’t heard or smelled their coming, and from their smirking and laughter, they had been watching for some time. But then he almost paused to kick himself as he recalled, they knew what he was (kind of). So it was most logical that they had crept up downwind. That, or the faerie maiden had distracted him in both noise and scent enough that he just hadn’t been on sharp alert. A strong tug on the chain binding him brought him out from under his companion’s body and dragged swiftly and harshly close enough to receive a sharp kick in the head from the source. The Werewolf visibly grimaced, stars coming before his vision for a moment before he looked up at his captor in something of a glare. A bear of a man dressed in thieves garb, holding a rather sharp dagger in the other hand, his extended one wrapped also in the cursed chain. And poor Fenrir had a feeling that the blade wasn’t made of any ordinary metal, its surface gleaming from the firelight.
His head was doing some quick thinking though as he glanced over the other intruders, his free hand massaging the side of his head that had been hit, eyebrows lowered. Even before hearing the chain being thrown at them, he wouldn’t have been able to get up and handle them all, even with his speed. Half of the intruders looked physically built enough to cause him a little trouble then a quick knock out, the other two being older males, one of them reeking of ale. And he thanked his quick thinking before for not just tossing Finda off of himself instead of taking the hit for her, he wasn’t sure if she would have landed face down and he wouldn’t have wanted to harm her wings. Especially if that would be her best chance to escape these mongrels. Sure, she could probably take these men alone with her magic, but he paled at the thought of such power being used in front of him, the after effects to his body might be just as bad as the silver on his wrist preventing him from changing. The lycan blinked though as he realized she wouldn’t know of this, he hadn’t told her.
“Don’t move another muscle, wolf boy. Or I wont take another thought to running you through,” threatened the man beside him before he could even open his mouth, his voice deep and gruff as he waved that dagger around in Fen’s face and the Werewolf had to bite his tongue from the words he wanted to instantly utter back. They probably aren’t fans of sarcasm, Fen. And his fears of the blade’s metal were realized to be correct at these words too. He was shoved forward roughly soon after, the man’s heavy boots digging into the back of his neck as all he could see or taste was dirt. He was dimly aware of the man grabbing his other hand and forcing them both back behind him, the burning pain added to his other wrist explaining to him that the chain was now around both arms. What annoyed him the most was that he knew he could have taken the men had his one hand not been struck in the damnable silver. Hell, he could still take them, as long as Finda was safe and the man forgot to tie up his feet in that stuff. But he’d have to do it soon, the poison of silver was creeping along his back now and he doubted his Werewolf strength would still be there in another couple minutes. His reddening eyes quickly sought out the safety of his partner.
“Hey boss! Looks like the wolf also got us our lunches too!” yelled the young boy as he pointed to the strung up stag’s carcass, not far away. The ‘boss’ seemed to be the eldest man there, about his late thirties, wrapped in the garments of a young lord (probably stolen) and covered in scars from the neck up, he gave the boy a sidelong smirk and returned his attention to the faerie after checking out the kid’s idea. The other older man, holding with him a huge rusty axe, went to string down the deer. “Well, hun, we saved you from a terrible beast, you know. He’s a monster wanted for many terrible and sinful crimes. Now what do you think that means you owe us in return?” The boss chuckled, moving forward cautiously with his own choice of a weapon, which looked to be some kind of whip. His other two closest men held bows in their tight grasp, one trained on Fenrir and the other on Finda. But it was the boot keeping him strung to the ground that kept the lycan from doing anything.
Instead of continuing in his lines of thought, the boss man turned to Fenrir, getting close but not enough so that the Werewolf could kick him even though his current position on the forest floor was still head first in the dirt. This was kind of a good sign, either he was cautious or he was afraid of the Werewolf. Fen had been able to move his neck up though, enough to allow himself a view of the scene just around the time a sharp intake in the wind warned him of the whip’s direction as he sought out the glee in the large man’s auburn eyes. He held his breath as the tip of the weapon dug into his back, the wound shallow but easy enough to heal though considering it wasn’t made of silver. This didn’t keep it from hurting like hell though and he already felt the warm liquid running down his back. Defiantly though, he smiled back up at the man.
“Pretty good swing for a half dead looking geezer,” he mumbled, earning himself another slash, this time a little too close to his burning arms strung up behind him. Again he held his tongue, unable to stop the flinch his body did. “I’d watch that tongue of yours, pretty boy. We know how much trouble its already caused you. You wouldn’t want something else wrong coming of it, would you?” the man echoed, smirking at him still in that very annoying way of someone who thinks they’ve done real good for themselves. “Looks like you didn’t get your evenin’ meal for today. Too bad. We won’t ever have to worry about that again with the gold we’ll get from your head though.”
He thought himself clever, he really did and Fenrir would have laughed had his head not been spinning now. It must be a side-effect of the silver poisoning. Damn. Well, this was a fine way to end an evening. He wanted desperately to tell Finda to flee again but he didn’t wish to bring attention to her by speaking to her, so he remained quiet. He was pretty sure either way this ended, he might be laid low for several hours. Either from the effects of the silver he knew were going to be inflicted on him soon enough, or from the magic just waiting to be released from his companion. He wouldn’t ask her not to defend herself and he was sure she’d have to with these sick men.
((Sorry for the length, but I got bored. And I needed some action. XD Feel free to take up the role of one or more of the bandits/hunters, if you like))
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Post by devispooky777 on Nov 2, 2007 12:32:01 GMT -5
It had been far too long since Findabhair was able to actually let loose and have some real fun. If she were to be perfectly honest with herself, she could hardly even remember the last time she had a good hardy laugh. Since leaving home, the journey was, as expected, rather lonely, but she was willing to accept that ever since the beginning. Eyeing Fenrir playfully, sizing him up, she couldn’t help but grin widely. With this mere pup, and within meager moments, Finda was having the most fun she had ever had within all of her travels.
Giving him an impish smirk, Finda rolled her eyes back in play-thought, “Now, do you really need me to list all that you need lessons on?” she replied, shifting her head to the side. And with that, and the slightest of efforts, he was down.
Surprised by her own actions, it took her a few moments to collect herself as she stared wide-eyed down at Fenrir. Naturally, a smile was able to bubble up above the now deep red of her face, her own heart pounding in her ears. She had to toss her hair out of the way a bit in order to see his face, but his expression was priceless, and made her flush all the more. Opening her mouth to apply another witty comment, she was stopped as soon as his light touch grasped her chin. Time itself froze at is very touch, as his words seemed to barely string through to her ears. Blinking a bit at his wandering eyes, Findabhair nearly melted, inwardly cursing her own foolishness to her sudden weakness, “Goading… would be a better way to describe it…” she uttered softly, trying to provide a laugh, though it came out completely awkwardly with her own self-consciousness.
Within the blink of an eye, just after her last word left her lips, Fen’s arm flew just past her head, grazing her cheek. Gasping, she slowly turned to find him grasping something, which shone around his wrist, “Fenrir…” she uttered softly as she quickly turned her gaze back to his. It was here that time began speeding up even faster then she could manage. His yelp of pain made her jump with shock as she clutched his free arm instinctively.
“Fly…” he uttered through gritted teeth, taking her even farther off guard.
“No!” Finda snapped back, in a whisper, just as she heard the voices of others, many entering the clearing.
Snapping her head in the direction of the voice which spoke first, she narrowed her eyes on the sudden intruders. For reasons unrenowned to her, she felt anger suddenly swell within her chest, above fear and confusion. Snarling at the meager human who labeled her an angel, she gripped Fenrir’s arm tighter.
With a sudden tug, Finda found herself tumbling backwards as the silver chain that was bound to Fenrir’s wrist yanked him out from under her. Throwing her arms out behind her, she just barely caught herself, landing with a grunt, yet never taking her eyes off of Fen as the man wielding the chain yanked him farther away.
“Stop it!” Findabhair barked as she helplessly watched on of the men drive his foot down for a powerful kick to Fenrir’s head. Fear and anger making her quake, she finally pushed herself back onto her feet as she turned a few times to take in how many there were. Enough to take care of, as far as she was concerned. And the bastards had brought enough silver to take care of any wolf.
Watching how most of them looked at her, and how they all looked to him, made her sick. As she clenched her fists tightly, she focused of picking up her magic once more, allowing the power from the earth under her bare feet to flow through her, collecting as much as she could, in small doses, and with a steady stream of it.
It was when one addressed her personally that nearly spat. Turning her glaring eyes to the large man that spoke. The big guy, the one they all followed, answered to. Taking in a sharp breath, she tried softening her look, taming her rage as she absorbed his self-centered words, "What... would it possibly take to repay you?" she asked, tightening her fists still more as she finally forced a mischief-filled smirk.
Though inaudible to the human ear, the creaking a trees from all around the clearing rang throughout the woods, as, ever so slowly, they began bending to Finda's will, the tips of those directly behind the 'boss' slowly lowering. Entire trees began, inch by inch, to bend. The sound of the whip slapping against Fenrir's bare skill made her faulter slightly, cursing herself for not being able to help any faster. Don't worry... she thought, as if speaking to him, .... I'm sorry, just give me a few more moments...
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Post by Fenrir on Nov 2, 2007 12:34:00 GMT -5
Had it really only been moments before that he had been staring up at that beautiful, faerie maiden, curtained by the flow of her wondrous hair? Her body above his and sending him her scent as well as her warmth within a breath’s pace? Flirting with her in both words and motion yet unable to ask himself truly if he meant the words or not? Unable to explain the odd sensations filling his mind and body at her simple words? At her attempted smile? Usually with him it wouldn’t take even a second for the Werewolf to know his flirting words meant nothing; they meant nothing to his company or the source himself. And it usually only took one look at his companion to know they didn’t mean anything by their outward fetish either, other than he was really good looking. But really, had that only happened a moment ago?
A Werewolf of his century age was used to time flying by, or creeping forward at a dreadful pace of the moon’s cursed grace. The wolves should be used to seeing familiar faces among the mortals growing old, the bodies decaying inwardly far quicker than their outward appearance did them justice. They should be used to the oddity that was their own body when it stayed in top health, never seeming to grow or shrink in nature, their fur never dulling with the shimmer of silver so long as to keep their wolf characteristics in prime condition. But not him. Sometimes he still would wake up at night thinking he was hearing the melody of his mother’s, a fantasy story about true love and its costs, the likes of which his mother held a similar fate to. Or other times he could swear he heard Tyr’s sensual teasing, always insulting but filled with a deep underlying trust. But none of this seemed to keep him from disturbing over the fact that mere moments ago, they had been in peace. Not harming a soul and not at all deserving of the treatment they were enduring now.
Still, Fenrir tried to keep his mind on the reality that was as strong and solid as the cold earth under him, his body having been dragged away from the fire minutes before despite the strong hold his female friend had kept on his arm. She had deliberately ignored his plea for her to fly to safety and he had known it would sadly be that way. She struck him as a chivalrous young girl, full of the honor of tragedy despite how much harm usually would come to such because of that little personality. She wasn’t the type to leave him seemingly helpless and she wasn’t the type to not punish these fools for their wickedness.
And Finda’s innocent pleads had gone ignored as well, as easily as the brute had rammed his foot down onto the lycan’s head. It really was a meager wound though, all of them were, especially for a Werewolf. His kind could pull through of just about any wound, fatal or not. He shouldn’t even have to worry so much about the silver chains now binding his wrists together. Sure, they would burn and spread the silver poison about him and thus weaken him, but as long as they weren’t piercing him, he would live. It seemed the only thing those chains did prevent, was his ability to change into his wolf form. Knowing this though, didn’t calm his mind as the metal continued to burn his skin, for he wasn’t one adjusted to pain well, unlike most of his kind.
His faerie companion had pushed to her feet, a wise decision and probably instinctual. And by the look she was sending him and then their intruders as well as her now tightly clenched fists, she was just about ready to go off. They didn’t seem at all startled by this news, but then they might not be as perceptive as he either. He braced himself by gritting his teeth again, but this time sliding his legs under his body, without the brute, holding him down by his boot, noticing. And slowly, Fenrir was aware of his head beginning to throb and his breathing steadily becoming harsher, first it was nothing but a haze to his senses but then strong enough to be distracting. Magic. It was his cue.
Fen became oddly aware of the two archers still pointing their weapons in their direction, each with cold stares and one of them still grazed in the shadow from the forest. He hadn’t moved any closer, it seemed, which was far more the wiser. The boss was now holding onto the end of his whip in one armored hand, his back turned slightly in Fenrir’s direction as he gazed over Finda at her words about what it would cost her. As he licked his lips in response, the Werewolf finally found himself growling. The man holding him down had let off his foot a bit, either by accident from remaining curious to his boss’ conversation or something else, and the lycan glimpsed idly as the man with the axe, whom was also strangely coated in a shroud of black, had entered the open cabin. He left the stupid boy to try and get the stag’s carcass down on his own, his shaggy ebony hair falling about his shoulders as he reached for something definitely a lot taller than himself. The deep gashes on his back were tingling, the likes of which reassured him of their quick healing but the pain coursing through his body now had nothing to do with that or the silver binding him. So once again, he tried to focus his thoughts. It didn’t take him long.
Fenrir’s gaze was blurry by now and at that time alone, did he finally force movement into his figure. First though he needed the attention off of his faerie maiden. He made as if to struggle from the bonds holding him, pushing back on the man’s foot and almost making it up into a crouch, the grunts of pain coming from his mouth genuine even though his actions were not. It did the trick well enough. “What do you think you’re doing? Stay on the ground and don’t move, mutt!” Came the annoyed shout of the man holding his chains, the tip of a blade poking the base of the back of his neck. He pulled on the chains to make them tighter, grabbing boss man’s attention as he swung around and threw his arm back over his shoulder, making as if to bring the whip down on him again. “Seems you didn’t have enough, eh?”
“I don’t think so, grandpa,” the Werewolf growled at the same time as he suddenly propelled himself forward with those legs he had made sure to keep under him, using his superior strength to pull the chains from the man’s grasp enough so that he could evade the boss man’s attack. But not only that, it had the lovely effect of having the whip slice into his own comrade’s flesh, startling and hurting the big bear of a man enough to actually drop the silver chains altogether.
A cry of surprise came from most of the men in the area and almost all of them out of fear, his line of sight allowing him to notice how the boy was running for his life. The others should have learned from such a simple mind. But the boss man pulled his arm back to retrieve his whip and strike at him again, his large eyes going wide and frantic now that the beast was loose and already standing tall. Although unable to untangle and pull the silver from him at the moment, the cursed chains could serve as a well enough weapon when against a whip so Fen tossed his hands back behind him to. Fortunately for him, his speed was also superior to the meager human and he had his chains tossed forward and tangling in the man’s whip long enough for Fen to dig his feet into the ground again and push himself forward. With amazing strength and combined sharp speed, he brought his skull down hard onto the man’s forehead, the unsettling crack piercing the air worse to describe than the man’s body being thrown by the momentum and tossed into the fire behind him, limp of life.
The flames licked high, a bunch of the wood catapulting into the clearing and out of the Werewolf’s make-shift camp, startling the bandits even more. But he wouldn’t have really noticed any of this, for Fenrir had been forced down on one knee after his attack. Of course, the attack itself hadn’t really done anything to him. But now he was closer to Finda’s magic and as it was already dizzying his vision before, a conk to the head had only made the sickening feeling even worse. By the time he had blinked enough so to gain some semblance of the world outside, the Werewolf was finding himself snapping his head to attention and his body back to his feet at the sound of an arrow being set loose.
"Shit," seemed to be his only quick-forming response.
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Post by devispooky777 on Nov 2, 2007 12:35:31 GMT -5
It tore at her heart painfully to watch these simple-minded beings beat Fenrir, and as Findabhair faced down the leader of their tiny little band of uselessness, she cared very little for what ideas were blooming within his small, insignificant mind.
Amongst her people, manipulating the minds of men, thick, meaty, human men like these jerks, was a skill that the youngest of children learned. This boss, a animal of a human, would be no different from the men she would toy with whenever they would venture onto her peoples’ land.
Fluttering her eyelashes, as if they themselves were wings, Finda nearly hovered a few steps forward, keeping her eyes on the leader’s, tilting her head slightly, giving him an extremely impish smirk. C’mon, big man, she thought to herself as she gave him a giggle, watching his lick his lips at the sound of her offer. “There must be something, gentle mortal, that you desire.” She said softly, “There is very little that I cannot do in return for such bravery…” Each word slowly floated off of her tongue and lapped against the large man’s ear, casting their own spells, all the while, she forced the forest behind him to close in around him. The trick took a lot out of her, but was very worth it, all she need was some more time.
Finda’s attention was quickly drawn away from the man as soon as she heard Fen’s struggling. The boss’s head, as well as her own, snapped to his direction. He was skilled in trapping their attention, but his little stunt couldn’t fool her. He couldn’t bring more attention to himself!
Biting her lip as she cursed under her breath, to was forced to think of a better approach as she watched the leader raise his whip once more. Before her heart could even sink with fear of it landing, the entwining of the silver and leather slammed in midair, stopping the whip’s blow. Findabhair found herself gapping as the whip and chain both fell to the ground. Fenrir was good.
And with that, Fen after the beast, an ear shattering slam sounding through the clearing as their skulls met, worsening the struggle. Finally, she turned to watch as others fled at the thought of the freed werewolf, leaving Finda glaring at them. But it were the archers that caught her eye just in time.
By now, the trees behind the boss and Fenrir were half-way bent over. Everything went into extremely slow motion as the arrows whipped past both sides of her. With her heard racing to the point of flat lining, she narrowed her eyes, and without a though, took off, her eyes staying on Fenrir.
Thankfully, at least he was already on his knee. With her wings giving her the extra kick of speed, within milliseconds she was able to shove Fen down by his shoulder, putting them in the same position as they had been in before the men had come. Looking down at him with a panicked face, thankful to see no blood, which was he first thought, she never felt the arrows pierce one of her still beating wings. Findabhair were looked down at him, gasping for breath as time began speeding back up once more.
((My turn to apologize! ^^; Sorry it's some-what shorter then usual. I only have about 3 minutes left of school, and my mind is DEAD... SORRY!))
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Post by Fenrir on Nov 4, 2007 8:51:59 GMT -5
Fenrir was too dazed to take much attention to Finda’s insistent distracting of the boss man. What he did make out of her conversation: her words were like silver honey dipped and flowing in a non-threatening way and yet seconds away from becoming far more poisonous than the silver that was burning Fen’s wrists. She was goading the man, baiting him with her own body. Yet the lycan split his concentration from the scene, his head was pounding in steady pulses as his proximity to the magic in the wood just deepened his physical pains. The Werewolf’s back stung heavily, still spilling crimson fluid down the tanned skin of his welted flesh in a light flow, a bleed he could stop if he was ever given enough time to shift and that would only occur if he got the god-forsaken silver off of him.
But next he attempted his preemptive strike and did so cleverly out-wit the boss of the bounty hunter’s rag-tag team, the remains of the lost man still going up in flames not far behind him. Actually, there were other things catching flame too, for he had obviously messed up the support surrounding his camp fire and now the blaze had caught onto nearby bushes and puffs of grass that had been too close to when the boss man’s body fell into the fire, sparking up the flames with the contact. He would have cursed at that thought had the sound of those notched arrows being flung his direction not given him a better thing to curse at.
But then he was being flung down by a tight grip on his left shoulder, a tiny grunt spilling from him by the sudden contact of his injured back to the forest floor, the weight on top of him seemingly familiar. His intake of breath as he steadied his dizzy head into concentrating on whom had pinned him, came in with a wondrous scent he had finally gotten far more used to in their short time together: A flower blooming and buried within hundreds of others, sweet and caressing in its plight of tangled scents. Findabhair.
His face was tinged with pain, eyebrows low and teeth gritted, body tense as he narrowed his amber focus only to her, a sickening slap and tear of something sounding-like leather being heavily ignored by him as he tried to be able to actually see her. That faced covered in worry, dripping sympathy and concern with every beat of her heart, raven tresses stringing around them and tipped emerald wings covering them in protection. A bundle of beauty. Innocent. She had looked much the same the last time he had been under her. Fenrir’s mind was slowly numbing, he realized, unable to do much of anything now, to focus on their situation, the silver’s poison eating away at his scorched wrists and reminding him of his heritage all the more as it finally sunk inside him.
The lycan was barely able to make out a shadow looming over their form now, combined with the sour scent of ale, as well as the dull hum of two more sets of arrows being notched and ready to set loose on them. Before his body blacked out, he recalled the axe-man that had went into his little cabin. The trickster-ish boy, the elder man with the silver knife, and the boss with his punishing whip had all either been taken out or fled. There had been six enemies to begin with and three remained. Two archers. And the one seconds away from swinging that axe down atop of their lying forms.
He had a faraway thought of warning the maiden above him, but it was jumbled in there somewhere with the hard beating of his heart, blood rushing to his ears and face before another pounding pulse of the head had those amber eyes rolling back and closing to darkness.
God help us…..
((I didn't remember what I originally typed up and I obviously couldn't find it. So I just quickly typed up something....>.< ))
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Findabhair
Newbie
The grass has watched you grow all along...
Posts: 35
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Post by Findabhair on Nov 5, 2007 18:12:35 GMT -5
As the flames began to slowly grow in strength and size, Findabhair could feel her head progressively start swimming with anxiety and confusion as she let her own body and instincts take control. The smell of blood was diluted with the stench of ash and ember, which stung at her lungs as if the fire was starting in her own chest. It took an even greater amount of effort to choke back weak coughs, her own body’s reaction to the cinders in the air.
Not at all did she care for the dead man, but the problem his useless corpse caused hindered her to a great extent. All manor of wood under Findabhair’s current control quaked and stilled as her power over them faltered and lessened. Her breathing became slightly rough and painful with every intake of the air, which became more and more tainted.
Wincing as she turned her attention away from the dreadful flames, her fear leaking to the back of her mind, Finda allowed her intuition to act as soon as she caught the archers raising their arms. As the time slowed, she looked the mortals whom were shooting straight in the eyes before she darted in the direction that their arrows pointed.
It was with a soundless cry that Findabhair launched her feeble mass onto Fenrir’s muscular own, forcing him down. With a cough and a grunt as they landed, Finda opened her eyes to his, making connection instantly, despite her air, which dangled like the thin branches of a willow tree in his face. The panic in her face subsided after realizing his wellbeing, and then the reassuring sound of the arrows striking into thick bark. Never would she have caught the fresh smell of cytoplasm, gently streaming from her now torn wing, over the smell of the ash, blood, and sweat that was streaming off of the flames and Fenrir’s body, into her senses, as her mind caught up with her body.
Taking in a sharp, harsh breath that caused Finda to nearly gag as it stung at the lining of her throat and lungs, she broadened her eyes at his glare. “You’re a mere fool…” she said in little more then a feeble whisper to Fenrir as she let her relief melt into weariness and fury. Digging her nails into the dirt on either side of his head, she let her glower sharpen as she watched his own gaze leave her own.
Arching a brow as she cocked her chin, Findabhair barely caught the black reflection of another body dawn over the two over them in Fenrir’s eyes. Looking behind her with a quick twist of her head, she gasped loudly at the sight of the axmen and turned her face back to Fen’s. With a loud swear, she burrowed her boney fingers farther into the earth before she could even conceive a thought, and tightly shut her eyes. As she bit hard on her lower lip, the earth trembled beneath them as she got a quick view of everything under the dirt around them. Within less then a heartbeat, the very roots of the trees that Finda had little control over broke through the surface of the earth and engulfed the axmen in a cocoon of dirt-covered wood. Findabhair gave a moan of pain, and a jerk of her body as the cocoon quickly began tightening, muffling the confused cries of the axe wielding mortal, and soon turning them into pleas of mercy, and then the cracking and breaking of human bone. It took mere seconds for the envelop of roots around the human to become little more then a thick tower, blood trickling thickly from the few holes that it bared.
The only sound that could be heard afterwards was the blunt thud of the axe head hitting the dirt, and Findabhair’s gasps and fierce gags as the overuse of power left her ability to fight off the consumption of the smell of flame to a pittance. As her elbow buckled weakly, she released any magical tie she had with any wood, and coughed hard into Fenrir’s chest, his still being there forgotten to her.
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