Promises That Never Came [AW]
01-06-2017, 07:49 PM
(This post was last modified: 01-06-2017, 07:51 PM by Orica.)
Orica had meant to sleep deep and long - her tail drawn round her like a blanket, curled up in the nest of thread-bare, foreign furs (skins, but not-skins) that littered the wreck. She had meant not to open her blue eyes until they could glimspe an approaching dawn. But such was not to be the case. She was awakened by sounds of distress - by howls of hurt. Being a healer by nature and by trade, it was far from the first time. Where she could have slept through a storm peacefully (and had here, not so long ago) these sounds had her on her paws before she had finished blinking her eyes open. For the moment, her own mission was forgotten. There'd been nothing in the north. She'd done as Aki had suggested. She'd searched just south of this place - found a frozen lake and many peaks, and a place of pines just as he had mentioned. There were stale scent markers there and traves of enough wolves that even the snow hadn't covered them all, even given the time. But there was no one living there now. And no sign that it was the pack Orica had been seeking for so long. yet she didn't loose fate. She was quite certain it was fated she find them eventually. Even if just on her last day breathing. She had seen it. She had felt it. So she was paciently waiting for it to come to be. All the same, perhaps coming back here was a waste of her time. She had had hopes of running into Aki again.... but the male was off on his own travels - as he had said he would be. Foolish really. But no harm done. It just showed to her how keenly she missed the company of other wolves - even if they were just the nomads of her old 'pack' or the travelers she met on the road. Seemed no shortage of the latter. Not here anyway. The sobs continued, deep-reaching gasps and cries of pain deeper than a wolf's claws could reach. They drifted on the wind like the mourning songs of ghosts. Seeming to shiver against the ship's silver innards. Orica shifted herself out of the little den she'd made. Though still sleepy, the little she-wolf's paws were graceful upon the snow and metal. Her half closed eyes were barely needed for navigation - she crawled up stairways and ducked under fallen beams with the ease of practice. Only the leather satchel - that always hung from her shoulder - oft times bumped against the walls. But it was soft and light with dried herbs. Plants and barks and talismans, all tools of her calling. The same calling that had her walking towards the source of pain, the way some wolves were drawn to sources of thrill and pleasure. She slithered through a rent opening in the haul of the ship and stood gazing at the world of white and black beyond. It was like her - dark above and pale below. The same went for the figure down along the shores. The one that had thrown itself upon the sand, seemingly to die. Orica said nothing, just picked her way quietly and calmly towards it. If she was somehow heard - or if her presence was spotted (she made no attempt to hide it) then she would pause where-ever she was. But if the sounds of sorrow and night-winds served to drown out her feather-light steps, then she would let herself come within a few paces of the stranger, before laying her own smaller frame down upon the frozen earth. The wordless questioning sound of a whine would leave her muzzle. A supplicating, submissive sound. For she was about as far from a threat as a wolf could be. She'd like nothing better than to press her side against the heaving ones of the other fae. To offer warmth in a cold, unforgiving land, and whatever peace can be brought by a quiet, unassuming presence. But she had not lived to a ripe old age by draping herself over cornered and pained strangers. ....Actually, alright, she kinda had. But with age comes wisdom, does it not? "Soothee darling," she said in barely a whisper. The mother in her showed. Her words something like a sad song, and something like a quiet ripple. "Be at peace, wolf, or vent your heart if that will bring it. Or if this is to be a last howl of mourning, will you let a stranger sing it with you?" She would remain lying, almost flat to the ground, her ears tipped back and tail low. "Forgive me, for I mean not to trouble you more. I'll be on my way if you wish it." |
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