woe is (you and) me

In the heart of the mangrove forest, where the shadows danced, and secrets lay hidden, Absinth prowled with curiosity. She had scented Yarra around the area, and always eager to meet her brutal darling she had been tracking her down, careful not to disturb her if she were hunting or securing herself a new pet. Absinth felt as though she was rather close to her quarry, when the stench of metallic blood hit her nares all at once. Her senses immediately heightened, each step fueling the fire of displeasure that smoldered within her. That was Yarra’s blood. It was trailed away, back from where Absinth had come from, but not quite on the original trail. It must have been the one who had claimed the blood from her, but Absinth could not get a proper scent from that trail. It only smelled like salt water. She did not linger long on the attackers trail, instead whipping her attention back to the matter at hand. Where was Yarra? Had she been in a fight?

And then, amidst a clearing bathed in the soft hues of dawn, she found her. Yarra, that addictive woman, lay crumpled upon the ground, her form marred by the cruel hand of fate. Anger pierced Absinth's heart like a dagger as she beheld the sight, her fury simmering beneath the surface like a tempest waiting to be unleashed. A crow sat atop the woman’s nose, her gaze frozen to the sky. Truly a dramatic picture, one she hated to have witnessed of the fierce Saxe woman. With a growl of pent-up rage, Absinth rushed forward and knelt beside Yarra, her paw moving carefully to press gently into the blood stained fur of Yarra’s cheek, a stark reminder of the violence that had befallen her. The crow shooed off by the proximity of another wolf was like an omen above their heads, and Absinth's vision blurred with a red haze as her voice finally came to her.

"Oh, Yarra. Who did this to you?" She demanded, her voice a low, soft snarl that echoed through the stillness of the forest. Her emerald eyes flashed with a primal ferocity, her claws digging into the earth beneath her with an intensity befitting the cruel monochromatic wench. "Shall I hunt them down?" Absinth's anger softened, replaced by a protectiveness that lay heavy in her chest as her voice cooed her sickly sweet offer. Of course she did not think Yarrabelle weak, nor that she could not handle her own problems… but anger was a funny thing, and it urged Absinth to get revenge for Yarrabelle. Who had hurt her lovely, wicked lady? "What happened?" Her voice whispered, a small comfort against the solitude that surrounded them. Her muzzle moved to press into the side of Yarra’s own snout, pressing for answers. How long had she laid here, beaten and bloody? What else had the attacker done to her? Was this… what Absinth looked like when Rhazien was done with her? The thought disgusted her.

wormwood