|
Post by kerrigan on Dec 22, 2009 1:10:02 GMT -5
d u r i o n . . . . .
[/font] Tis now the very witching time of night When churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out Contagion to this world: now could I drink hot blood And do such bitter business as the day Would quake to look on [/center][/font] It was dark, as these things should always happen when the moon was close and the sky clear. Light was available, and it made everything it touched a ghostly silver. It pulled the color out and made it almost holy. It was probably the area as well, but the moon had never been known to be picky about where she let her hands reach. It searched out those faces that stood out, and left the darkest shadows alone to their solitude. No clouds tried to scuttle across the stars, leaving it beautiful. The details usual left unseen were in clear relief. A light blue-silver, the many areas in the heavens that were lovely. Stars of all sizes, so many it was impossible to even count a few glowed and winked down at the sleeping land. It was late, way past midnight, almost three in the morning by human times. It was a sacred time in many places. A doorway between worlds. While midnight was one too, from one day to another, three was the time of death, the hour when magic was strongest and the veil between the world of the living and that of the dead was thinnest.
But that was not why he was out at this time of night. Or maybe it was. A love for stories and legends affected everything, even the way he acted and thought. Three was special to him, and it was the time he had chosen to walk. True, he had left hours before, nearly a day ago when he'd heard the first calls of Lucid. When his heart had sunk and those many things he'd warned the pack that had taken him in were coming alive. His slow pace had taken him far, as it always had and probably would till the day he passed on. He had traveled, and so he was again doing so but this time he did not wander. He let his paws carry him to where he needed to go. He did not need to be told which direction, or that it even existed. He could feel it. And while this would be odd to many, he had always trusted this feeling to lead him where he needed to be. When the call had echoed within his heart and strength had flooded his limbs once again, he had not hesitated but had wandered out of camp without a thought.
His steps were slow and steady, and it was not beyond him the time he would arrive would be exact, or as nearly exact, as they could be. This place, he knew somehow, was the Sacred Circle. This ancestors, the guardians of the wolves of Aelyn were contacted here. The feeling of it as he came closer could not be mistaken. He had visited many places like this. Every land had their own beliefs. Here they were the Ancestors, in another Fenris, another Nox, in yet another Lupercus. In all those places there was power, some area that leaked the enchantment of a higher being. He was not a believer in any one, but of all. He was blind physically, but his mind and senses were vast and he would not battle the sensations he could follow as well as any scent. He had come here, for reasons he did not know, but the need was there.
A brief thought flitted through his mind. Had the pack noticed his leaving? It was a low thought, one that a much younger wolf should experience, but it wasn't laced with pity. He did not think so, since he stayed in camp most days and did not help out. Maybe this trip was about himself, but the need for knowledge had urged him out of his den, passed the snoring hunters and warriors of his pack and through the sentries. Whatever reason, he had traveled and there he would wait for whatever answer he would get. He was not expecting any answer, nor was he expecting silence. He accepted that the ancestors would do what they must, and did not owe him anything. He was but an old storyspinner, a dreamweaver in talent. Odd looking and failing in limbs but not in power or mind.
His normally gray coat was a brighter silver than most things, the pelt actually groomed and neat, though it was no choice of his. His odd tail, short haired on top, with long strands on the underside, stayed still as if even it knew not to waste this new found energy. His odd arms were curled tight, crossed over his chest. The longer fingers clung to his shoulders and stayed out of his way. His almost anorexic body kept moving, the trembling that usually assaulted his legs gone for the moment. His bones did not show anywhere, but he was so thin it was a shock to know he was at his peek physical weight. His large ears were up and pointed ahead, taking in the small, quiet sounds of night as he kept moving and he faced ahead, as if watching. But the thin layer of skin and fur that covered the empty sockets belied the illusion of sight, even if the small signatures of heat registered and he could sense and in-a-way-see the shapes of trees and rocks, cool now in the dark.
His steps slowed only as he sensed that he was where he needed to be. He stopped, outside the circle which he did not need to see to know what it was. His paw hit a stone as he stepped forward, a slow movement that was respectful as he entered the ring. He felt the sacred ease as he moved into the middle. He stayed standing but a moment before he curled his tail and sat down in the center, is skull lifting to the world above him. The stars and moon he could not see but knew was there. He remained silent, the stillness peaceful to him, stroking his coat, easing his muscles that now started to feel the long trip. He also felt the deep gnaw of hunger at the pit of his stomach but it did not take precedence in his mind. After a while, the time came to speak and he did.
"I am unsure, at this time, why I have come here. I do not wish for an answer if none is coming. I know the wolves here believe in you, and I do not refute your presence nor have I any of the other beliefs of wolves. I feel you, as I expect many have, and I hope I am not intruding where only the privileged may go. I come in respect, as all should, and I ask the questions I do not know, for answers I cannot yet know I want. But talk if you wish. I am Durion, and if no answer shall come I will rest here for only a while. A Dreamweaver I am, and many years have a traveled. I came here not knowing why, to this Sacred Circle, and to Aelyn. I believe my timing is not so good, since I heard the call across the lands. Sorrow, I feel for this, but also a sense of acceptance. It shall not be changed, and this male must live and happen and the story must unfold as any land has it's Fate, and She is not to be messed with. But I will wait a while, contemplating. I thank you, whomever is listening, for letting me come to you."
His voice was the smooth skill of his ranking, and it was polite, and slow with deliberation. And as he finished, his closed his maw and a small smile slid over his lips and he rested. He did not wait, for waiting was only for the young and impatient, and because those who ruled the other world were not going to answer just because he wished it. He accepted and he learned. He had spoken, and he would leave without knowledge just as readily as with. But for now, he let the wind slip over his fur, the slim fingers of the Circle slip through his bones, and soaked in the feelings that came with blessed places.
|
|
|
Post by ˟ PunkWolf on Dec 26, 2009 3:05:58 GMT -5
((arrrreeee you lookin' to roleplay with an ancestor/guardian *twitches* since you came here *twitches in excitement*
orrr not? *sad twitch*))
|
|
|
Post by kerrigan on Dec 26, 2009 15:55:17 GMT -5
ooc - i am. if you're up for it >D i was hoping, but i wouldn't be depressed if no one had answered. and make it loooong. cus durion needs some long post love :D
|
|
|
Post by ˟ PunkWolf on Jan 16, 2010 22:46:09 GMT -5
Weak claws scratched at the earth with every step. He had no destination, no purpose. There was nothing left of him. He had let distant memories and unfelt emotions rule his judgment; and he had paid the price. There was a reason he was cold. A reason he rarely pretended to feel something for another’s sake. All there was to go from was long dead reminiscences of the past, and who he thought he had been. But truly, he was lost. His mind corrupted, and his soul sold into oblivion. Judgment and reason was ruled only by anger, and though his internal struggle was just, he could never overcome his damned heart completely. Trying to ‘do what was right’ and ‘protect others’. But what had it been for? What had any of it been for? He didn’t know. To stop a tyrant? To save an innocent fae? But he had no reason to do either. He didn’t care if all of the realm fell into the claws of a murder. He didn’t care if an innocent fae spent the rest of her life cowering in fear. He didn’t care; because he couldn’t.
So why had he gone to the mountain pack? Why had he hunted their alpha, Lucid? And why had he fought for something he didn’t even care about? Because it was the right thing to do? He had let his anger, let the wrath within him escape; willing to slaughter two innocent pups in his noble duty. The only thing that had stopped him…had it been his mock-judgment? Of right and wrong? Neither held definition or meaning to him. He wouldn’t have felt guilt or devastation had he stolen the lives of the two who had opposed him. There would have been no remorse, no care in his dark heart. So why had he stopped…
Because of that damn fae, that foolish girl. How she confused him…how he wished she were dead. Masina, even the slightest memory or thought of her and he felt lost. Even though he was nothing more than a walking-dead puppet for a hellish demon, she managed to make him feel lost. She loved him. No. She was a foolish girl, clinging to anything that seemed like a safe haven from her past. He was nothing more than an empty shell. A vessel, damned to walk the earth with no soul; ferrying instead, a darkness within his heart. She could not love him. Foolish girl. She knew he felt nothing for her, he simply couldn’t. And still in her naivety she had claimed it to be true. He could feel nothing for her. But still…her memories…her thoughts…it had been enough to make him stop. In the mountain pack, he would have stolen the life of those young wolves, and it wouldn’t have disturbed him in the least. After all, he had greedily taken the lives of his own children and felt nothing. But a mere thought of her had pulled him from his anger, and stopped him in his blood rage. That damn fae…
Bloodied and broken, the white male’s steps were slow. But surprisingly, his ghostly form still appeared to glide over the smooth landscape with every step. Each breath was shallow from the broken rib on his right side, but the pain didn’t stop him. If it was physically possible, he would have taken in the deepest breath to expand his chest to full capacity, welcoming the immense pain it would bring. But his body could only do so much, and the small puncture in his lung prevented him from taking a deep breath. Every time he had tried, his exhausted diaphragm would succumb to spasms and fits, and the toll on his body would cause him to pass into unconsciousness. And he could not relish in the pain if not conscious. The burn upon his chest had tightened over, slightly limiting any movement to do with his chest. He would stretch his stance wide to rip it open and feel the pain there, but he had repeated that movement so much as he walked that the area no longer felt pain, only dull numbness.
He was not a self-mutilator. The white male would not purposely rip his leg open or slice his paws on jagged rocks. But in a world that was empty, in a world where he could not even feel the influence of right or wrong…the feeling of pain was something he would cling to when it was presented to him. Any sting, any throb or blistering burn he would welcome as if it was the private touch of a female. No emotions, no feelings, no soul, unable to die…pain was the only thing connecting him to the mortal world. But now he had lost the most of it. His insides no longer gave it -at least not in the volume he lusted for- and he had worn out the nerves upon his chest. Left half of his skull was mangled with burns; as if he had been branded by a white-hot iron on nearly the entire left side. But for an odd reason, the scorched hairs and the wrinkled flesh gave off no pain. He had tried to provoke it, but none had come. Perhaps the nerves and tissue had been damaged to the extent that they would not heal. The burned brow was stiff and slightly swollen, but it was capable of moving with an expression: not that any was ever made by his fading will.
His expression was always dead, emotionless, unfeeling. Heavy set brows were always curved inward slightly, giving the appearance of a cold glare, while the folds beneath the eyes were tilted upward, giving off what could be interpreted as the inner pain of thoughts and feelings. Bit it was nothing more than a misconception; he felt nothing on the inside. The white male’s posture always matched his expression perfectly. Head held down, slightly lower than level with his spine. It wasn’t lowered in submission or shame; just lowered in a manner of uncaring. Heavy shoulders spiked with ragged fur always were hunched, as if he struggled with an unseen weight set upon him. Nothing special about his pale ears or tail, they were simply their. On occasion, if a peculiar thought would cross his mind, his right ear would ‘tik’ rhythmically. But slowly he was doing it less and less: loosing his false identity even more with his curse.
He was nothing extraordinary. No wings, no spectacular markings or appendages; simply a white wolf. Hardly any yellow dusted his features and he would appear clean, though he never spent the effort grooming himself. Any dirt or grunge that would find its way onto his pelt would be washed off in the rain that he wouldn’t bother to get out of. But he had met no rain since the fight he had purposely sought. And now his white features were crusted with the brown remains of dried blood and the dirt that had caught itself in it. There was no red upon his maw, as he had licked all the evidence there away; and the blood upon his paws had been wiped away by the deep snow of the mountains. Chest, neck, and upon his underbelly had remained matted with the evidence. But he held no cares, and wouldn’t bother to wipe it away himself.
No cares. No destination. No purpose. He had simply walked, with aggravatingly slow steps. Cold amber eyes had barely registered his surroundings had his lean legs had carried him down from the mountains, and through the plains to this spot. And before he had walked slowly into the circle of the sacred rocks, his dark heart had felt the presence of another. Before sight, sound, or even smell would have reached him, his heart would always reach out, sometimes unknowingly to him, and feel the presence of another. The rogue would usually avoid meetings, for the sake of other’s. But had no thought to apply the effort to avoid this wolf.
He walked through the mist of the grounds, holy grounds…grounds he was not privileged to even scent in the wind: he was damned. And before he even sighted the stranger his smooth voice was carried through the air. The male didn’t stop. He simply listened as he walked – ghostly steps like a feline. His cold eyes followed the silhouette of the other through the fog. An arch in his path, he walked slightly around the stranger, but barely. And with his cold, ragged voice, he merely mentioned in passing, ”They won’t answer you." Cold eyes remained staring forward as he spoke. "They never answer you.” [/blockquote]
|
|
|
Post by kerrigan on Mar 14, 2010 13:16:03 GMT -5
He caught a flicker of red, in the gentle blue and greens that made up the cool night. So someone would join him at this sacred place. Well, that was expected. Everyone was looking for something, be it answers, skills, a future,a home, or a particular word that just would roll off the tongue. It was the nature of all beings with a mind. He had decided that it was the trade off. Reasoning and memory, for a want for more and the inability to be happy with what they had. Even he had come here. For answers, maybe, but mostly for a bit of relaxation and knowledge that someone was watching their trials. And here he felt it. But he'd already gone and analyzed that, along with the other places he had been, so he wouldn't repeat it, even in his own mind. He sighed, his eye ridges twitching up wards, making the thin membrane over his eye sockets stretch flat. The shadows darted, making him appear more odd than he already did. The ancestors decided to answer with a new fellow. Whether that answer was revealing or not, it wasn't his choice to say. Gods were fickle creatures indeed. All new that, on this plane. Even their messengers did.
He let his muzzle tilt up once more, curious indeed. This is it, my dears? I am to receive this mortal in response? Ah, I wonder how intriguing this will become. His internal words did nothing but ease him and he sat to wait while the beast approached. As Durion had no eyes, he had to rely on his powers of heat vision. It wasn't really a power since he didn't have to call on it, it was just there. An adaption. Something that made the screwed up codons in his DNA balance out. They had not only made him blind, but roped him of eyes completely. Not that he noticed it as a loss. He had been this way his whole life and as such this was normal. It amazed him that others saw differently. But that was the way of things. You could never imagine what you never had. And so, he saw in blue-grays, deep blacks, the brightest of reads, oranges, greens, yellows, whites. True, he saw all the colors, but not in the deemed 'normal' way of the wolves that made up most of the packs. But he new how to read it. Nevermind that the temperature readings changed at any point in the day. It was a way to tell time. If it was noon, most everything had a gleam of yellow to it. And his vision gave him a distinct advantage.
Eyes in the back of his head, so to speak.
The thermal vision was not selective to the same range that a regular wolf's eyesight was. It went all around. 360. No blind spots. It was nearly impossible to sneak up on Durion, but that was not very helpful seeing as he could do nothing to defend himself from a danger and because when something flickered past he saw it, no matter what it was if it lived. And that could cause him to flinch when he wasn't paying any mind to wait was going on. But he could see, and he had spotted that creature coming toward him. Not that he could exactly tell what it was from this distance. If he could, Durion would have stopped watching, just waited until the animal decided to make itself known or hide, but with his power he had to watch it approach, become more form than red blob. And that was another issue. Sometimes he wished greatly to be able to select what he could see. And sometimes, yes, he could turn his vision off, like right before he went to sleep, but it took some energy to bring it back online, as if the cells needed a good surge to get them moving but after that they could run perfectly well on their own.
He sighed, bored with that train of thought and wondering what exactly was approaching him. Considering it was in a relatively straight path and not darting, it must be a wolf of some sort. Or a very unafraid deer. Who was walking toward a wolf. Unlikely, though that was. So wolf, for sure. Durion's nose gave a small twitch as he tried to see if he could tell for sure, and the wind worked for a minute, wafting a hint, but not much. So wolf, of an unknown gender. Well, hopefully this canine was not cruel. Durion knew very well that he could not protect himself. He was scrawny, his only abilities that of thermal vision and his story telling voice. But what could he do, talk his attacker to death? Really, he could only make them imagine a story, and only if they wanted to listen really. And his body...eh, not the greatest form. And while it did not quake yet, because the nerves were numb, he knew that soon he would have a problem. Because getting home was a whole different thing than the walk to the circle.
His tail, feathered on the bottom, shifted idly, brushing his back and making one random hunk of hair to stick straight out as if it was a symbol of something. Not that he noticed. Blind, duh. His grotesque, lightly furred second arms stretched out, one long, three hinged fingers curling and then brushing his face, itching behind his ears with a soft scrap, scrap of sound that seemed loud. Then the palm flattened, running down his neck briefly, smoothing the fur he'd messed up. He missed a few bits, so hair stuck out in that one place like on his spine. Like it was gelled into place. But it wasn't noticed nor did the old wolf care much if it looked odd. The animal was even closer, and Durion noted this offhandedly, having forgotten he was supposed to be watching the red shape for danger. Good look out he was. He shifted his weight, tucking his back paw further beneath him, claws scrapping the earth in the cleared spot. He felt oddly safe, in the circle of stones, but he was unsure if that made it so he was safe from an attacker. He snorted softly, deciding his constant thought on this attacker business was becoming oddly annoying.
And now he was sure it was a wolf. The scent was strong, the red form morphing into a large, red-orange-yellow canine-shape. But now he could scent blood and his head twisted to turn in the direction of the paw steps. Soft, almost unheard. But just the same, he canted his head slightly, wondering if the male would stop, or continue on. The wolf did not even gaze at him, nor stop his meandering pace even as the deep, cold voice slipped onto the air. Durion knew it for what it was. A passing musing, not truly directed at himself, though he was yet the only one here to answer. That bothered the old wolf none, since he had gotten used to the varying faces of others. This wolf...was lost. Not in the world, no. In his own mind. His own heart. So then, there was no help he could do. This wolf would find his own way. Peace, or death, time would tell. Durion remained silent a moment, sure he would respond, not yet aware of the words he would utter. And then he did, and they filtered out.
"Ah, but I do not need them to answer me physically. After all, when we pray we are helping ourselves, are we not? It is in itself a response," he said, his voice lighter than his companions, gentle in a way and deep in meaning and age. But it was also peaceful and happy, despite the pain the old one knew would come later. The long walk to the camp. The day to come. His own death. His tail flickered in the dirt, and he smelt the sharp scent of soil, intense for a moment, then gone. He looked up, and away, second-arms folding across his chest and gripping his shoulders to anchor themselves. He sighed out a small breath, not in sorrow or depression, but a easy release of breath. His small, weak muscles rolled beneath his short gray coat. "And even if I do not get words to which I can rely, somehow, answers come. From myself. From others. Unvoiced. But maybe I seem whimsical to you, stoic one. Fore deeper troubles are those that plague you, however deep you wish to acknowledge them."
ooc - sorry for the forever wait.
[/blockquote]
|
|