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 Posted: Sun Aug 26, 2012 4:35 am
 Heart racing, hands shaking; there’s it is, there’s his chance, and a voice whispers quietly in his head, will you take it?
Inhale. exhale.
The world slows down.
There’s the slightest movement, a snapping branch, a shuffle of leaves. The wind picks up, whistling through the branches. The shadows ache and slither, slowly consuming everything as the day turns to night. Hoof beats now, the sound of teeth and the flare of nostrils, scenting something odd, something off. A head turns, and eyes stare back at him, waiting, watching, none the wiser –
Inhale. Exhale.
He takes the shot, and the sound of wings like an explosion bursts from the canopy above. There is a new scent in the air, fresh and metallic, consuming him for a moment in the heat of it all, his heart still racing, throat still dry. The huntsman pulls himself up from his perch, and delicately, respectfully, he climbs through the forest floor like a predator, and stands over his kill. The arrow is lodged where it should be; the death was quick and quiet, and as he leans in to recover it, he whispers a quiet prayer. Branches snap to his left, and there is a sound like panting above the din of birds in flight high above the tree line now. Something silver slips between the shadows of the trees, padding beneath roots and leaping over fallen foliage in its pursuit of prey.
The huntsman whistles quietly and the sound stops; the wolf turns its head.
Quietly, he stands, slinging the kill over his shoulders in one practiced move. It is plenty for the day, he decides, when tallied alongside the rabbits he’d caught earlier. The wolf tails him to his horse, and once the deer has been secured, the huntsman catches his foot in the stirrup and swings himself up. The forest calms around him, still, haunting. Darkness has fallen across the undergrowth, even though the faint glow of gold still crests the horizon beyond the tree line. The soft whisper of predators in the dark and prey rushing beneath the underbrush is an interlude in between the silence that the huntsman welcomes, exists contently within.
He follows an invisible path back towards the edge of the forest, listening, changing course whenever the wind howls a dangerous tune at him, whenever he hears something scratching around in the dark. The wolf follows after him and growls sometimes, as though making sure nothing comes across their path without knowing that there are sharp teeth and watchful eyes waiting. His form slips in between shadows, silver-gray fur highlighted only by slivers of moonlight that slip like ghosts between the knotting, spider-like branches above. Nothing more than a shadow, a ghost.
The huntsman is closer now to the edge of the forest where the trees spread out, open space between them filled with flat grassy beds and searching roots instead of dense undergrowth. He thinks of stopping at the Cauldron, though he’d already promised the butcher a late night delivery for an early morning sale. But that is when the wolf stops, and the air stills, and there is a stench in the air that catches both of them off guard. There is a far off sound like a struggle, wings beating, and a sickening crack that echoes defiantly across the soft din.
The huntsman turns, startled by the wolf’s sudden snarl before it shoots away into the shadows, its tail erect as it leaps and dodges between roots and trees. There is a moment, a pause, a hesitation in the huntsman’s actions though; should he follow? Should he not? Could it have been just a rabbit in the forest? Could it have been…
A voice rouses in his head. It whispers quietly, no.
The reins are slick and smooth between his fingers, and his stallion pulls against the bit as they surge after the wolf, hooves thundering over the ground, shattering the silence all around them. Up above, a startled owl shrills as it flees its perch, and in the ferns and the underbrush he can see a sliver of a tail, a beady black eye. Things move and coexist in the dark, watching, waiting, lingering just beyond his reach. The sound of howling catches his attention though, and the stallion takes a large root in a daring leap.
“No,” He calls after the wolf, even though it is drowned within the sound of the forest and hoof beats, and the predator giving short yips in the dark from up ahead, “we are going home, not back into the forest!”
But the wolf doesn’t stop, and his shape blurs into the darkness; a silver streak against the shadows of the wood, as though saying, “no, not yet, there is still something here.”
The chase leads him through the edges of the tree line and beyond, and when he finds the wolf again, they are near a lake the shape of a crescent that stretches far and wide beneath the sky. It reflects the silver of the moon, light pooling across its surface and its still, fragile frame. The wolf prowls along its edge, nose to the ground, and the huntsman swings himself to the dirt and follows, pulling nervously at the tips of his gloves. There is a scent in the air that marks a predators kill, and he has always respected the chain that connects each animal to another through the simple understanding of who is the predator, and who is the prey. But tonight the forest is stale and clammy, as though the prey had fought back, as though that chain had been rattled, defied.
There is a low, guttural sound, and the huntsman picks up his feet. The lakes shore is lined with soft sand that quickly gives way to meadow, and the mans boots leave imprints along the shore as he maneuvers his way through the dark, skin pricking to the steady sound of dripping and the scent of blood thick in the air. Something shines in the corner of his eye, something that seems almost like glass, but the hiss draws his attention away again, and his eyes lower until they come upon the culprit, the victim, the cause of it all.
What he sees, though, is not what he expects.
The creature is large – almost impressively so, is neck long, and the feathers coating it that are pure snow white. Its wings span perhaps the length of a fully-grown man, though one lay at an odd angle, and scarlet red pools from both it and the gashes in the regal birds sides. Labored breath comes from its glossy bill, but it wastes it instead on hissing at the two of them, good wing fluttering as though a defensive weapon. The wolf snaps its jaws and lunges forward; the huntsman is quicker though, catching the predator’s ruff and tugging it back, though uneasy guilt flutters in him at his own actions, and he releases the creature once it settles down, shaking at his side with low, angry growls.
It is only natural for the wolf after all. Here is a predator, and here is its prey.
The huntsman’s attention shifts to the wounded creature, and alongside his respect for the way nature exists, he cannot help but feel like this isn’t right, isn’t fair. His eyes flicker to the creature that so resembles a swan, snow-white stained with rose red. What should have been a quick kill had become a messy, drawn out suffering. What should have been easy had turned complicated… all thanks to a creature that disdained its own role in the invisible food chain; too stubborn to run, and too haughty and defiant to simply give in to a swift and inevitable kill.
“What a defiant beast you are,” He says quietly, and the bird hisses again at him, “to deny a proper death.”
And the huntsman comes to a decision then, one that could possibly be his stupidest yet.
And it involves a lot of pain, and certainly a lot of irritation on both the bird and the mans part. When he arrived at the edge of the forest again, he now carried the magnificent bird against his chest, bruises and bloody and perhaps none the wiser. It had been a struggle all the way, until exhaustion won out pride, and the bird simply stilled against him, the only sound it still emitted a soft, shallow breath indented by weak hissing. The wolf followed him as well, nipping at the horse whenever it paused to graze; it wasn’t a pet, no, because the huntsman didn’t believe that the wolf could be owned. But it was a friend, and he trusted it enough to keep the finicky creature at their side walking until he could once again reclaim the reins. The city spread out before them, sparse at first along the edges of the forest, clustering together as the roads turned from dirt to stone and led further and further in, merging from farmland into a sprawling world all on its own. The huntsman followed the paths, little more than a ghost in the night, his feet leading him down familiar roads, to familiar places, where perhaps he would, with any luck, find a familiar face as well.
It takes three rounds of impatient knocking for the door to finally swing open, and the wide eyes that stare back at him were not the ones he expects to see. The dainty girl in the doorway is little more than a doll, her demure size only exacerbating her still childishly wide eyes as firelight began to pool on the floor around her from the lantern in her hands.
“Hello,” he says after she fails to greet him properly, her wide auburn eyes staring at his face in what nearly seems like sheer terror, “I’m looking for Sophia. Is she in?”
This startles the girl into tripping backwards through the thin entrance hall, and the sound of feminine voices squabbling sounds from one of the rooms beyond the door. The huntsman taps his foot impatiently; shouldn’t she know by now that he only ever appears this late at night with emergencies at hand? Better yet, shouldn’t she know that he nearly never comes of his own will unless something dire is going on?
The veterinarian appears after a few minutes in the hall, stalking towards him with a wildly hungry glint in her eye.
“You always bring me such fascinating creatures,” She coos when she gets close enough, admiring the snow-white creature in his arms. Suspiciously, she adds, “its not dead this time though, is it?”
As if aware of its own fate being discussed, the bird hisses, giving an upset flap of its good wing when it passes from the arms of the huntsman to the trained hold of the vet.
“I found it, if thats what you're asking.” He says defensively before she can open her mouth, “This is not my work.”
“Well unless you turn into a four legged creature at night like your friend there, I would expect not.” The veterinarian rolls her eyes at him, and something that sounds like shattering glass in the background makes her swear. “Will you stay? Your house is pretty far, and this looks like a night job for me.”
Her hopeful glance makes him hesitate.
“No.”
There’s somewhere else I have to be.
The air turns stale between them for a long moment before she nods and turns around, taking the white feathered bird away from him, its strangely defiant eyes still open, still watchful, as if staring straight through his heart. And there’s a moment, a hesitation where he should say sorry – but for what? – and he should say that she needs to move on, but words have never been his strong suit, and her pride is too explosive for him to dent with stuttering apologies over things he himself still can’t understand. He also feels an odd sort of hesitance to leave the bird behind, as though a responsibility has fallen on him.
That’s ridiculous. The huntsman sighs and folds his arms. That’s absolutely not the case.
“Close the door on your way out!” She calls back at him while he broods, breaking the huntsman’s reverie, “and don’t forget to drop by again before long. I’ll need your help for when I put this thing back in the wild.”
The huntsman shrugs noncommittally and closes the door behind him, and the night swallows him whole. His footsteps echo off of the cobblestone streets, drawing him towards somewhere he’s not sure he wants to go, but knows with all his heart is the only places he wants to be.
He realizes only after knocking – perhaps a bit too impatiently – that he is stained in the birds blood. Irritation swells in his gut, exacerbated by the sound of a voice inside that is distinctly female, and a low rumbling laugh that follows it.
“If I am disturbing you, I can leave instead – “ He starts waspishly when the door opens, before the one who’d opened it even has a chance to respond, “I didn’t realize you had company.”
The man stares back at him, startled before his expression folds into something familiar, something warm and mischievous and happy all at once. He moves forward, and the huntsman is all at once aware of how cold he is, and how searing hot the others hands are on his upper arms, and how hard his heart is beating in his own chest when there is suddenly no space between them at all. The man presses his nose and mouth into the huntsman, right at the crook where his shoulder and his neck meet. The huntsman sighs, clenching and unclenching his fists in an attempt to neither punch the man nor hug him back, especially when his laugh reverberates into the night, followed by only one sentence, one name.
“Wren.”
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Posted: Sun Aug 26, 2012 4:36 am
Wren was tasked with releasing the bird again nearly two weeks after he’d found it, and he did not take this news well at all. The huntsman was many things, but a caregiver was not one of them, though the surge of responsibility he couldn’t shake made him visit weekly, feeding the bird whenever Sophia allowed him, and brooding when she called him out on such odd behavior. The wolf waited by the doorway patiently each time, neither interested in the creature anymore nor willing to get close, as if the healed wings were a threat he was not willing to tempt into action.
When he took it back to his horse it seemed pleasant enough – not tame, not at all, but certainly not wild either. It was somewhere in the in between, a regal and defiant creature that made the huntsman wary and fond at the same time. How could a creature defy its own standing in nature? The prey acting like the predator… The huntsman sighed and derailed the train of thought as soon as it came into his head. He would only lead himself in circles again, marveling at the bird before disdaining its existence, an endless circle that would only give him a headache after all was said and done. The swan made a soft grunting noise when it was tucked into its wooden carrying cage, flexing its wings experimentally before settling down. Wren draped cloth over the sides of the bars to shield both sunlight and attention from the creature, and when he swung himself into the saddle, the wolf joined his side and led the way.
As the city made way to farmland, and beyond it the beginning of the forest, the wolf broke into a light jog, surging ahead of the huntsman and into the shadows beneath the dense canopy of trees. It took a few twists and turns and backtracking for the huntsman to locate the wolf again, and more importantly, the swan’s home. The lake was as he remembered it, a large pool of fragile calm, ripples spreading across its surface whenever a bird lands or takes off. The sound of the forest whistled all around them, singing out a sweet and familiar tune.
The huntsman slid to the ground, and watched with exasperation when, unlike their last visit, the wolf leapt ruthlessly into the shallows of the lake, sending rivulets of water over his snout and coat in one fell swoop. It reminded him in particular of Deimos, though that man did not linger long in his mind either, for the huntsman’s innate fear of thinking too much of him, lest he somehow magically come to the realization that he might or might be just as important to the huntsman as the huntsman was to him. With an exasperated sigh, Wren set himself to the task at hand - the swan.
The creature stared back at him plaintively from within its cage, its haughty defiance marred only by its somewhat calm demeanor. “You had best behave,” he told the bird quietly as he unlatched the front of the cage and reached in, gingerly pulling the recently recovered creature out. The swan did little to stop his actions, though once in his arms, it stretched out its wings, the feathers a silky white no longer covered in red. Seemingly to test the mobility of the large appendages, the bird gave them a few flaps, blowing the huntsman’s hair away from his face. Sighing, he carried the creature to the edge of the lake, hesitating only at the very end. What if this bird found itself in trouble again? Worse yet, what if it wasn’t strong enough this time to get away? Wren frowned. But that is natures way, he thought in defiance to his own emotions, shaking away the sudden protectiveness, I have no right to interfere.
The swan gave an impatient flap in his arms, and the huntsman stared guiltily at the creature, knowing all at once that he already had. And it went against every single rule he’d made for himself; every single belief he held while the forest became his home, his hunting grounds. He was every bit a predator as the wolf, only he had rules of his own to follow, he had an understanding of the natural world that went beyond simple instinct. He respected the forest, the creatures, and the chain that they all fell into at birth. He respected it, and made no move to touch it, change it, defy it. At least up until now. At least up until that night two weeks ago, the night he’d found a creature too stubborn to die in its rightful place.
The swan gave another flap, and Wren sighed, slowly lowering it to the ground.
There was little he could do now though, except this. There was little he could do, because time didn’t have a rewind button, and he doubted anything would change, even it did. The swan was graceful and elegant when it entered the water again, ruffling its wings as it settled in the lake as though it had always belonged. The huntsman leaned back on his heels and sighed. There are just some things, he thought helplessly to himself, that I cannot change.
Decisions that he would always forfeit to, mistakes that he would never stop making despite learning from them each and every time.
Wren turned and began to walk across the shore of the lake, taking in the beauty of it, the calm, serene quietness that was at once both alike and unlike the stillness of it during the night. Behind him, the wolf climbed out of the water and began to shake itself out, and the horse grazed calmly in the background, content simply to wait for its master’s return. The summer breeze shifted and whistled through the faint outline of trees in the background, bringing with it the whispers of the city. Wren lost himself in his mind then, and when he came back to himself, he was almost all the way across the lake, his horse nearly opposite across the water from him. It was little more than a tiny figure by now, and what was once late afternoon had become early evening. Neither interested nor favoring the idea of another late night spent here, the huntsman turned on his heel to begin the long walk back when something glittered in the corner of his eye.
He stopped then, and his breath caught in his throat at the sight.
The gentle, steady hum of water lapping at the shore brought with it the shine of something foreign, something made of glass. It rolled beneath the surface and along the sand, though it neither stirred up clouds of underwater dust, nor did it create ripples above. Wren was taken aback for a long moment; after all, the glass bottle looked as though it has been crafted by a master of the trade, with dark lines wrapping around its breadth and reflecting the wavering iridescent colors of the water that surrounded it. Surely no one would simply leave it out here, forgotten. Right…? The huntsman glanced at it once more before stepping forward and bending, his fingers dipping beneath the cool surface of the lake, ripples threading outwards from where his hand was now submerged, an echo, a disturbance, a change.
The glass bottle was cool to the touch, and when he pulled it above the surface, he was surprised to see it seemingly empty. He turned it over and over in between his palms and his damp fingers, watching the shift in the color, iridescent and mesmerizing. It reflected a deep blue, though it whitened at points, and he almost tricked himself into believing he saw feathers when he turned it a certain way, the long slender neck of the swan when it caught light.
How strange.
But then, he thought as he came back down from his private admiration, the lake itself was not exactly normal. The defiant swan itself now rested near the middle, its snow white feathers reflecting the molten gold of sunset. Wren wrapped his fingers gently around the bottle, protectively almost. His eyes flickered; there was no point in keeping it really, and surely an owner must be around somewhere, right? But another voice whispered impulsively in his head, no, this is mine. This is where it belongs now.
And it may or may not have been, he didn’t know. But in that moment he realized that he was keeping it, for reasons he couldn’t quite explain, least of all to himself. He felt - felt, ha - as though this was meant to happen. As though this wasn't just a mistake.
Wren took the trip back to the stallion with leisure, spending the walk admiring the bottle and all of its colors, all of its shifting patterns and what at one point seemed like the faint reflection of wings. The stallion snorted into the palm of his hand when he fed it a treat before pulling himself up into the saddle, the bottle now safely tucked away in the saddlebag. His eyes glimpsed the swan in the lake one last time as the wolf joined him, trotting up and shaking the last of wetness away from its maw and its coat. The creature itself had tucked its long neck against its body, and he imagined that it was sleeping now; content to be back where it truly belonged.
The huntsman sighed quietly, thinking of the strange creature and the strange bottle, and all of the time spent in between. His fingers fidgeted on the reins, and he comforted himself with the idea that it was only a trinket, and this was simply a poor example of a swan.
It’s just a cosmic joke.
He closed his eyes and pressed his palm to his forehead.
It’s not as though anything has changed.
The stallion snorted as he urged it away and back to the town, his companion padding silently after him through the woods. The swan’s lake was left behind as moonlight pooled over the land in bright silver hues, consuming it in shadows and darkness once more. And the bottle shifted in his bag, reflecting the shift and stretch of snow white wings as the huntsman let his mind drift, logic telling him that now his life would go back to normal, while everything else whispered, crooned that something, everything was about to change.
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Posted: Fri Aug 31, 2012 2:11 am
He was caught in stasis, and he could not say he liked it.
No, not at all.
The world outside of the house spun slowly, marred only by the dull roar of rain, heavy sheets of water running thick over the glass pane windows in waves. The fire crackled and consumed another log, and Wren watched dully without really watching at all. The wolf rested its head on its paws and slumbered lightly at the foot of the couch, and another book was slowly devoured in the silence as a last resort. The huntsman was not the kind to neither like nor welcome inactivity and laziness. It was just the sort of environment that made all of his thoughts clear in his head, and oh, how he hated the idea of listening to them.
Another log snapped in half, and the wolf’s ear twitched in its sleep. Wren lost his place in his book for the hundredth time and let out an aggravated sigh. Outside, the wind continued to howl, the trees shaking beneath the weight of the downpour. And softly, quietly, the sound of wing beats echoed throughout the house.
Wren’s eyes flickered up from his book, but the silence beneath the muted roar of rain returned, and in the end, he regarded the strange disturbance as little more than a trick of his mind. The book in his hand was quickly discarded however; as he hadn’t turned a page in hours, and he wasn’t sure he’d be able to, even with nothing else to do. The huntsman sighed and considered sleeping like the wolf, but instead, restless, he turned and collided with the pillows of the couch, staring upwards at the ceiling as the fireplace crackled softly, the flames smoldering as they turned to embers and cast a dim, burnt light wavering over the floorboards, consuming the shadows in their wake.
And in that long silence, Wren did what he could to ward away thoughts. He counted sheep, counted shadows, counted everything he could, and listened to the steady rise and falls of the wolf’s side as it breathed in and out and yawned. There was a knot of unease in his gut that told him to move, to do something, to do anything but sit in stasis and listen to all of the unwelcome thoughts and emotions that he chased away during the day.
They were much better off ignored in his opinion, after all.
Slowly, the huntsman’s eyes drifted closed, and that was when the sound echoed again; wing beats, steady at first before frantic, and this time even louder than before. Something rustled; sounding as though it was sliding across the floor, snapping and colliding with the hard wood, and Wren pushed himself up from the couch, staring into the shadows beyond the fire distractedly. He considered briefly calling out – but then he realized how silly that would be. It didn’t sound human at all, and if it was… well.
The sound quieted though, and in the silence, Wren was almost able to relax. Almost, and then –
Bam.
Something shot across the floor from the hall and ricocheted off of the wall, clattering to the ground. Wren jumped backwards and yelled, falling headlong off of the couch, and the wolf yelped when there was suddenly a human body colliding with its side. The two scrambled apart fervently, and Wren followed the noise warily around the couch to where the suddenly animate object had gone, the wolf prowling at his heels now that it had been so rudely woken up.
What he found though, as with most things this entire month, was not what he expects to see.
On the ground was the rucksack he so normally carried around with him in the woods, and its clasps were together even though there was obviously something within – something living, something angry and defiant and wanting to get out.
The sound of wing beats reverberated across the room again from beneath the thick cloth, and the rucksack slid backwards, the creature within bumping angrily against the cloth in a mad attempt to get out, and Wren watched, helplessly mesmerized and slightly horror-struck. What could have gotten in there? What could have gotten in there that had wings?
The wolf growled and padded forward, nosing it and nipping at it and placing its muzzle against the cloth. No sound returned the canine’s intrigued banter, which Wren found even odder than the fact that his rucksack was alive. After a few minutes of shock, the man wrenched himself away from the couch and tentatively leaned over the wolf to grab the rucksack, the winged creature inside giving a few defiant flaps when it was picked up as though to say, I am not to be manhandled!
And there was a pause, a hesitation. Wren knew animals; knew how they acted, knew their ways. Instinct presided over them in a world where there was no such thing as logic, and he wondered briefly if whatever was in this rucksack would try and claw his eyes out once he gave it the chance. But –
I can’t just leave it in there.
Wren frowned at his own thoughts. Goddamned sympathy.
Quietly, he laid the rucksack on the couch, and taking a deep breath, moved to unlock the buckles keeping it closed. He imagined fighting off an angry bird, chasing a winged cat out of his house. But neither of those things happened, no. Instead, there was silence, and then –
Something silver shot at him, and landed with a dull thump against his chest. Wren fumbled to catch it before it fell to the floor, startled as he looked down and saw not a creature but… a bottle. The bottle. His bottle. The swan’s bottle.
“Aevah.” He breathed quietly.
In his hands was the beautiful glass creation that he’d found not even a few days ago. In his hands was a beautiful glass creation, stretching out iridescent, half corporeal wings. They spanned the length of his own forearm, soft white at angles as though solid, and when tilted another way, almost like ghostly wisps, tricks of light. The beginnings of the majestic appendages pooled down from the stopper, and as though sensing they’d fallen where they wanted to be, gave a few pleased flaps. As if to say, finally, it took you far too long.
Wren watched in fascination – and very seriously contemplated the probability that this was some sort of dream, - as the wings then folded themselves around the bottle as though to blanket it in feathers. What once were nearly corporeal wings now became little more than iridescent wisps, though still they seemed to radiate a presence, one of regality, one that made Wren feel as though the bottle was positively preening at him.
Slowly, his fingers uncurled, and he reached out to stroke the glass, and when the wings did little to stop him, he scooped into his palm. The glass was warm, and once within his touch it seemed to vibrate. Wren stared down at the little bottle, either too shocked to consider how dangerous this could end up being, or too accepting of the unknown to care.
“I imagine you think yourself rather pretty, don’t you?” He asked the glass creation sardonically, frowning when the wings quivered and gave pleased little flaps. Majestic might have been a better word, really, but Wren was rather wary to consider whether or not this thing had a conscience, and just what sort of ego he might create if he gave it one too many compliments - or any at all.
Wren was just about to start contemplating whether a birdcage would be sufficient means to hold a flying bottle when a knock reverberated above the din. Startling, he worked his fingers but couldn’t catch the bottle from sliding out of his fingers at the sound.
The bottles wings unfurled inches from the ground, allowing it to hover before gently landing with a clink on the floor. There was a pause, a moment of silence – the knocking got louder in the background, - and then the bottle began to rock back and forth, wings beating furiously at him as though indignant. Wren scowled.
“Hush, you.”
The bottle continued its wordless tirade even when he went to the door, wrenching it open to reveal a drenched human that could have passed as a mobile river. The man in his doorway smiled and then his face wrenched, and turning to the side, he sneezed.
When he turned back, he was smiling again, and Wren glared at him sourly – more towards the man’s indifference towards getting sick than the fact that he was there. Something that he would never, ever make clear out loud.
“What?” He snapped waspishly.
Deimos chuckled and shook out his hair, and the huntsman raised his arm to block droplets from splattering across his face. “I was in the neighborhood,” He stated cheerfully, crossing his arms over his middle, “when it started to rain!”
“How observant of you.”
“Yes, very,” Unperturbed by his friends cattiness, Deimos continued, “and I thought, wait, I don’t have to walk all of the way home, my best friend lives out here.”
Wren snorted, kicking at Deimos’s ankles when he tried to close the space between them and cross the threshold into the house. “Your friend must be very nice to be tolerant enough to let you stay in his house like that,” He replied sardonically, “it might be unwise to keep him waiting, and I’m afraid I am not a very good conversationalist. You’d best be on your way.”
“Hmm.” Deimos leaned against the doorframe and smiled down at the shorter of the two. “Yes, he is very nice. You would love him, I’m sure.”
The corner of Wren’s mouth twitched. “And why is that?” He asked caustically, and Deimos smiled, proving that the huntsman had, in fact, just fallen face first into his trap.
“Oh,” The man laughed, “well, he’s a huntsman, first of. He’s actually kind of smart, but he acts like a cat most of the time. An endlessly, inevitably angry one. You get used to it though; the yelling, scratching, hissing.“
“I’m not seeing what’s so endearing about him yet.”
Deimos’s smile widened. “Well, you see, he’s rather kind sometimes in his own way. A very candid way. I don’t think he means to be catty half of the time either. It’s just that he’s got a prickly exterior is all. But underneath it, he’s rather – ah - lovely.”
The door slammed shut in Deimos’s face.
“Go away,” Wren snarled, face burning, from the other side and stomped back into the living room, ignoring the rushed shouts behind him. He reached the place where the bottle had been fluttering around indignantly only to realize it was – well, gone.
There was a faint fluttering from around the house, signifying that it was still inside at least. Good. Wren pushed a hand to his head. Yes, he would definitely buy a birdcage.
The sound of something wrenching open and water splashing all over the floor caught him off guard in the middle of his contemplation, and Wren swung around and brought his arm up just quick enough to shield himself but Deimos’s shakedown.
“Do you mind?” He hissed, pushing his hands into the others chest. “You’re breaking and entering!”
“Come on, Wren,” Deimos’s voice turned deceptively innocent and there might – might have been just a bit of hurt too, “it’s pouring dogs and cats out there. Let me stay, just the night?”
Wren opened his jaw to reject the idea before it snapped shut just as quickly. Deimos’s expression quickly drifted from hurt to joy. “So you will.” He said, almost smugly.
The huntsman scowled. “Not like that – “ He retorted waspishly, yanking at the man’s wet clothes. “You will not drip mud and rain all over my house – again!”
“That’s alright, I’ll need something to sleep in anyways.” The man said exuberantly, grinning at Wren’s expression of morbid defeat.
“And pray, where do you think you’re sleeping?” Wren grabbed the mans elbow and started to drag him towards the bathroom, wincing every time the sound of mud and water came off of Deimos and hit the floor with a spray. “You’ll be lucky if I give you the couch this time.” He grumbled, and to his private delight, found Deimos’s expression quickly melting to horror.
“I will not sleep on that infernal thing,” He all but whined, as the huntsman went to open the bathroom door. It already stood ajar, and swung open easily beneath his touch. “Let me sleep on your bed, come on, just this once.”
“No – “
“Don’t be heartless, Wren!”
“I already said – “
The two were interrupted quite abruptly by the sound of glass and skin meeting in a collision, and Wren stumbled backwards into Deimos as the bottle zipped past him, hit the back of one of the near chairs and fell with a light clink out of sight.
“What was that?” Deimos asked, steadying Wren and soaking him through in the process as well. His mouth curved into a teasing grin. “Pray, let us hope you’ve not grown a liking for dangerous creatures other than that wolf of yours suddenly, Wren.”
“That is not it at all,” Wren snapped, swatting the offending hands away and pushing Deimos into the bathroom.
“So what was it then?”
Wren considered this for a moment as Deimos began throwing off his shirt in favor of the towel being handed to him instead. Wren grabbed another one and draped it over the man’s hair, rubbing the soft material against the wet locks.
“Wren?”
Deimos glanced at the other from beneath the towel imploringly, and the huntsman made a displeased sound in the back of his throat.
“It’s a magical, wing-sprouting bottle.” He said quietly, sardonically, and Deimos chuckled.
“Wow, never thought I’d live to see the day you’d crack a joke.”
Wren pinched Deimos’s ears and scowled, but refused to say anything more, and Deimos accepted the silence in return for getting his hair dried.
Later that night, when the bottle returned and knocked Deimos in the head this time before landing on the couch cushion, the man nearly startled his way off the side of the cushion, shouting, “Aevah’s a**, you weren’t joking?!”
He then spent a copious amount of time beside Wren’s bed examining the little glass creation, feeding it compliments as it preened, it’s true owner under the covers with a book and scowling at the fact that his best friend had somehow wiggled his way into his room.
It was only after he’d fallen asleep that the lights were turned out by quiet hands, and the bottle found its way to the windowsill where it sat contently until morning, though whether it was because of guiding hands or its own, tiny wings was a question left unanswered.
When he woke the next morning to the bottle still there, he could only sigh and think, gods but none of it was a dream. Though somehow, in some way, he imagined he’d known that all along. And rolling over, he kicked Deimos out of bed for the fifth time, and life went back to normal – or as normal as a life could get with magical flying bottles in it, and men who refused to stop making late night visits when the weather decided to play a cosmic joke on them. And it couldn’t be called peaceful, but it wasn’t terribly eventful either. No, not at all.
Not yet.
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Posted: Fri Aug 31, 2012 2:47 am
( PRP ) x A P P L Y x S O M E x P R E S S U R E
↺ ┊ Wren, Alastair, and Meital.
↺ ┊ City; bookstore. Rainy weather.
↺ ┊ Complete.
C U R T A I N C A L L ;
Another mundane trip to the city for Wren turns into
a chance encounter with another dust owner, and the
huntsman is none too pleased when his bottle happens
to get loose in front of such a scholarly man.
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Posted: Sun Sep 02, 2012 2:11 pm
Prey.
(Dust Spin --> Child Quest*) The dawn hasn't even begun to break and the Huntsman can already tell something is off; there's an eerie silence in the house, as though the whole building is holding its breath, and just audible beyond the white static of the night, Wren might pick up the urgent footfall of passing beasts. Peering out an open window (or broken, if Wren closes them at night!), the Huntsman beholds a most baffling spectacle: around a tall tree on his property, almost every manner of forest-beast claws at the base of the trunk, all their pointed teeth and hungry eyes turned upwards. Wren needs only to follow the line of creatures ascending the tree to see their prize: the bottle, softly enveloped in a translucent form of a swan, perched high and precarious in the crown of boughs. If he hopes to save his bottle from a grisly end, he'll have to act fast, as there's a large amount of cats and predatory birds already closing in! What does he do? Does he go on a hunting spree? Does he brave his fear of heights to try and scale the tree some other way to reach the bottle? How does the Huntsman retrieve his errant swan, and is there some way to ensure he can keep it safe until the wild magic the bottle is exuding is spent? *Please note, there's a minimum word requirement of 500 words for this quest.
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Posted: Fri Sep 07, 2012 4:21 am
SEPTEMBER 5TH, 8:07 AMxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Rule number one; if, and when, you find yourself in a situation where fear is your greatest obstacle, do not panic. This will only kill you faster.
Wren, having lived most of his life abiding by this one simple rule, threw his head forward, and began screaming at the top of his lungs.
SEPTEMBER 5TH, 6:30 AMxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
She was pretty in a way that many men overlooked. She was pretty, and she laughed with her eyes closed, and taught him the way the world worked.
He still dreamed of her sometimes, her laugh and smile, the way she reminded him of heavy spices and summer heat. Most of all he dreamed of her on that day, that day when everything went wrong.
The sun was barely stretching over the horizon when the huntsman woke up in cold sweat; his heart hammering in his chest and his mind telling him something was off. There was a chill in the air, like windows were open even though he knew he’d shut them all the night before. A cruel, unbearable silence had settled over the house, as though everything was holding its breath beneath the tension thick and chorded within the air, waiting for it to snap. Wren’s eyes moved to the bedpost, ready to blame the nearest thing that spawned some sort of subconscious of its own (aka the bottle), and realized very slowly just how empty his nightstand was.
This, as he was beginning to learn from experience, was bad.
A sound like hooves stamping wet earth came from the far end of the house, and grudgingly, the huntsman roused himself out of bed and into breeches and a loose tunic. The tension only felt thicker now, and when Wren came upon the living room, he found the wolf not curled up in his usual place near the sofa, but by the door, growling as its nails raked and clawed at the door.
“No,” He rasped at the canine, his voice coming out splintered and dry. Wren reached and pulled the wolf back by the scruff, away from the door. “Stay here.”
The wolf growled mutinously, and Wren had to hold him back with one bony foot as he slipped out the door, slamming it shut before the wolf could slip out after him. He couldn’t understand the creatures thirst to be outside (he usually waited patiently through Wren’s morning routine every day before leaving the premise), though when he looked out at the fields, everything suddenly fell into place with an oncoming dread.
What seemed nearly like the beginnings of a stampede had swallowed the meadow beyond the barn - eagles and hawks circled from above while the hooves and paws of many wild beasts shattered the early morning quiet with a growing urgency. There was a thick hunger in the air, like a predator starved for a hunt. And at the top of the tree, the very source of their thirst and craving was the bottle. Though as he looked closer and close, what had once been wings now appeared to him as a translucent swan, its long neck arched back, a brimming defiance radiating the space around it.
There were a number of curses and sailor-worthy swears that he could use for this situation; none of them seemed to even breath the sheer horror of it all though.
And really, there was only one solution that he could think of with an oncoming bout of horror-stricken calm, the kind that one got in life-threatening situations, right before the knife comes down, right before the hands sharpen so tightly that the world goes black. The kind where the world slows down and its not ones life flashing before their eyes but certainly something close.
She was pretty, and her memory flashed in his head, her laugh, her smile, the way she looked, painted in red. He stared up at the tall tree, surrounded by predators and birds of prey, and he wasn’t at all afraid of being eaten, he was afraid of the climb.
But that bottle wasn’t going anywhere, and there was life in there, a soul, a creature of its own nature, waiting to come out. And if he left it, left him, or her, or whatever that bottle turned out to be, it would die.
Wren’s feet moved before his mind, and they felt heavy and heavier still when he reached the edge of the mob. It was easy to shove aside the bucks that had swarmed to his residence; their desire was fleeting beneath their fear of humans and finicky nature. It was the inner circle that made Wren’s heart drop, his adrenaline pump thickly in his veins like a poison. There was a knife in his boot and no desire to kill, but sharp claws tore at his body as he moved closer in, an unwelcome disruption away from the hunt.
He was surrounded on all sides by the scent of nature, a thick musk that made him sick. Creatures snapped at his heels and his legs, and at one point he lost his balance and fell, and the hooves and paws of wild beasts surrounded him on all sides, trampling at his body until he took the knife and slashed at the appendages without cutting deeply; only enough to send the mob back, far enough away that he could stand again and drag himself forward. The creatures scattered, and he could at once hear the wolf in the house howling madly, though for him or the thrill of the hunt, he did not know.
When Wren finally found the trunk of the tree, he didn’t think as he grabbed the first branch and hauled himself above the swarm. And then he was up, only a few feet off the ground, and already his heart lurched, and the fear in his heart screamed for him to get down. But there was something, someone at the top to save, and maybe this time he would make it before…
She was pretty, and she taught him the way the world worked, even though she couldn’t handle it, and when she stepped off of that ledge, he’d never seen her look so afraid.
Wren closed his eyes and his body ached from the scratches and the bite marks, but all of it seemed insignificant to the idea of height, and him so high in the air. He could only climb blindly, his hands reaching and groping and pulling as he hauled himself further and further without looking down. His heart hammered like a knife in his chest, pumping adrenaline through his bones along with a thick chill. He wanted to scream, and at one point he did. He wanted to vomit, and he was only glad he hadn’t eaten before this because he most certainly would have lost it on the way up.
Don’t look down.
Wren made it half way up the tree before a panic attack settled in. He wasn’t aware of the sounds he made; all he knew was that he was breathing but there was no air in his lungs, and his vision was specking with black and the ground was too far away. And she kept coming back and back and back into his head, a haunt that he wanted to forget, a memory ingrained into him with a sense of shame, and guilt, and hate, and fear.
Only the translucent shine from above broke away the panic enough for him to climb, and when the crows angrily shoved their beaks in his face and at his clothes, he nearly fell. The birds seemed angry with the intruder, and hastening to try and make him fall, took turns diving and nicking at his clothes.
But he still climbed, because he had made it this far, and there was someone at the top, and he couldn’t save her, but maybe he could save this defiant, haughty soul, no matter what it turned out to be.
And then he was there, at the top, and the ground seemed too far away. He was there, and the bottle’s translucent swan seemed to nearly radiate soft warmth as he pushed himself up onto the branch and pushed his back to the trunk like a frightened cat.
Now, there was nowhere to go but down.
And the ground was so far away… and if he slipped, fell…
“You stupid thing,” Wren said quietly to ward away the thoughts, reached for the swan bottle. His hands pushed against the translucent swan and found it nearly corporeal, so he lifted the thing and put it against his chest, and wrapped his arms around it as the birds circled above and the beasts clawed the trunk below, guarding it, because he had no other choice.
And he waited.
Waited, because he wasn’t brave enough to go back down. Waited, because he remembered her outlined in red the day she stepped off that roof, and if he looked down, he would imagine himself the same way, and the panic would set in again.
SEPTEMBER 5TH, 8:07 AMxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Deimos had saved him.
It was an uncanny idea, really, because rarely did Deimos do the rescuing part of the mission. It was instead Wren’s position of power, seeing as the man got into more trouble than he was worth, and while a completely useful tool in front of socialites, was absolutely useless in a brawl.
The man – unafraid of heights, and in fact, rather fond of their existence, - had scaled the tree and coaxed Wren back down, guiding him the entire way.
“You really are a cat,” He said when they reached the bottom and the huntsman let his knees buckle and his hands bury into the thick fur of the wolf’s ruff for comfort. Wren was rather too tired to snap at Deimos when he rubbed circles over his back, mentally declaring himself not a child and therefore not in need of such acts, though the words never made it from his mouth.
“I am not,” He snapped instead, rasping. He was parched, and starved, and frankly his nerves felt like they’d been snapped in half, each and every one of them.
“You are though,” Deimos said, and pulled him to his feet, helping him back to the house, “you waited all day – nearly ten hours – in a tree, with a bottle. You also hiss when you're angry. Really, the likeness is rather admirable.”
Wren scowled tiredly at the other without any true anger, and when the couch came into view, he slumped into it gratefully and listened to Deimos rummage in the kitchen for tea. Thankfully, the creatures had all dispersed – somewhat grudgingly – as the day wore on. Even the birds, so keen on their prey, had eventually left him be, though they left him looking much like a corpse.
His arms were red and crusted with shallow cuts, and even his cheek had sustained a gash left by a particularly vengeful beast. The claws of the beasts below had done damage too, and everywhere seemed to ache mercilessly with the slightest movement. After Deimos gave him tea – both a peace offering and a way of soothing his nerves, - he suggested a bath and to disinfect the cuts, both ideas which Wren agreed to, though he kicked the man out of the bathroom even when he insisted he was only going to help.
Afterwards, exhausted and half asleep, Wren slumbered in a barely-awake state on the couch, his head Deimos’s lap; the only small gesture of friendliness the man would get, and only because he was tired and privately grateful that the man had saved him without laughing on about his irrational fear. The fireplace crackled, warmth spreading across the house in soft, undulating waves, and Wren didn’t even push the man off the couch when he spoke in low tones about the huntsman’s likeness to a cat.
As for the bottle, it now perched comfortably on Wren’s middle, the translucent swan explained to Deimos with a nonchalant I-really-don’t-understand-it-either shrug, which Deimos seemed to take in stride. Or perhaps not - Wren was asleep before he could really ask him about it, his eyes heavy and his breath slowing before he could consciously force the exhaustion away.
He still dreamed of her sometimes, and tonight she haunted him with a quiet vigor, the memory of her fall playing over and over again in his head. But then he dreamed of swan white wings, and the bottle that seemed not a bottle at all anymore. He dreamed and dreamed, and when he awoke, the world was quiet, and the house was still. Deimos slept beside him, and the wolf at his feet. The sound of rain came quietly from all around, haunting alongside the soft echo of wings in flight, as though a prelude to what was to come; a calm before the storm.
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Posted: Thu Nov 08, 2012 4:04 pm
The morning was quiet.
A firm autumn chill had routed itself in the air, and frost was crawling up the panes of glass that had only recently been replaced. The house groaned quietly as though it were holding itself up on little more than raggedy old bones, creaking beneath the weight of the wind and the faded sunlight. It was certainly an ancient thing – when it had been purchased, the men of the town had called it haunted. But there were no restless spirits wandering about the corridors. Instead, there was a certain quiet warmth inside - a fireplace that crackled heartily at night and layers of blankets and trinkets that decorated the house and made it home.
Wren’s morning consisted of a small number of things. He was not someone who readily woke with the first light of day. Instead, it took him several attempts to get out of bed from beneath the layers of quilts and duvets. And when that task had finally been accomplished, he padded through the corridors and downstairs to the kitchen where the scent of coffee spread through the empty halls. Of the many things Wren could live without, coffee was not one of them.
The man sighed into a fresh cup as soon as it had been poured, leaning back against the counter to take a longing sip. Today was a slow one; he had no immediate business to attend, though he’d been forced into a grudging promise to attend one of the Winters family’s dinners, seeing as he’d not been around in quite some time.
Something rattled quietly from one of the halls, perking Wren’s sleepy attention for a split second. Must have been the wind, He thought dazedly, settling back against the counter for another sip. The world was slowly seeping back into focus. The walls no longer seemed to quiver and dance in and out of focus. The sounds all around him no longer seemed to be on mute. Outside, birds took flight and somewhere, the stallion he’d purchased long ago rolled. The autumn chill pressed against his bare skin and at his sides where the plain, loose white tunic did not cover. It gave him a moment of wrenching fear, but he soothed away the tension in his muffles with more coffee.
He wasn’t on the streets anymore, after all. The world was not street alleys and the hard cold of winter, there were no men looking to steal what they could from each other more so than the cultured population all around. Plague was not a fearful word on everyone’s tongue.
Here everything was quiet. The streets were clean, the men and women decent enough on the outside. Only a few orphans ever scampered in and out of alleys, and the cold winters were not troubled with death and disease.
Wren sighed.
Around him, the morning came into sharp focus.
He left the cup on the counter and moved for his room. Only, he never got that far.
There was a sharp, shattering sound, and for a second, Wren was afraid that something had gotten into the house and had knocked something in the kitchen to the ground. But just as quickly, the noise was followed by the sound of flapping wings, and then – silence.
“Ah.”
Wren turned around so quickly that he almost lost his balance, and when he found it again he was staring into vivid black-blue eyes, mild with curiosity and even more so with a neutral air of elegance and disapproval.
“You – “ Wren put a hand against the wall to balance himself, clearing his throat as though it would clear his head as well. “Where did you come from?”
The boy regarded him a flat expression. “Put two and two together, I’m sure you’ll work it out.”
Without realizing it, Wren scowled, straightening to a height that he seldom ever exhibited in public. He was, after all, diagnosed with a chronic disease called too much slouching. Unbidden, his eyes drifted from the boy’s unnatural eyes to the snow-white hair, and then, with dawning horror, to the wings that curved and arched against his back, and Wren felt himself grow sick.
“Oh, lovely.”
“Yes, lovely.”
Wren turned abruptly and went back towards the den, falling unceremoniously into one of the overstuffed armchairs that Deimos had somehow wrenched in through his front door. The swan perched with a certain level of grace on the seat across from him. His eyes drifted over his own body as though in appraisal, taking in his own appearance with scrutiny that seemed almost funny coming from a child and not a king.
Satisfied with his apparent looks, the child turned back to Wren, lacing his fingers together and resting them in his lap. “Are you going to introduce yourself?”
Wren stared at the swan with a level of disbelief and irritation he didn’t know he was capable of. He nearly wanted to ask how the boy could talk so elegantly when he’d literally just appeared, but then he took into account the fact that magic was involved and things that didn’t make any small lick of sense fell dully under that answer.
“I could ask the same of yourself.” Wren’s tone was nearly cutting.
The swan regarded him mildly. “I don’t have a name yet.” He announced without any inflection in his tone. He truly didn’t seem to mind this. “I suppose I shall have to find one.”
Wren scoffed, his catty manner doing nothing to help the situation at hand. “And where do you suppose you’ll find one?” His words turned flat. “And where do you suppose you’re going to go now?”
“Go?” Quizzically, the boy turned his eyes back to him. “As far as I am aware, I fall under your responsibility.”
Wren had the nerve to look appalled. His responsibility? He couldn’t keep a goldfish alive for two days, let alone a child! There was a reason he lived alone, at the edge of society, with a job that made conversation with other humans such a minimal task. There was no humanly possible way he could take care of a –
The child droned on as though Wren was paying attention. “Seeing as you claimed ownership of me – whatever I was before I was me, - it stands to reason that you are responsible for my well-being.” His eyes turned with dead certainty back towards the huntsman, a sort of regal, all-commanding air to the way he spoke. “Or am I to assume you will kick me out on the streets?”
Unknowingly, the bird had hit a sore spot. Wren grappled for any reason to kick the boy out and run from this apparent responsibility that was now resting on his hands. He grappled for any small excuse he could use to hide away alone and without shame. But he couldn’t.
“Fine.” Wren snapped shortly, standing up with all of the offended grace of a cat that’s tail had just been stepped on. “But we’re going to lay down some laws. This isn’t a partnership. You’re not my charge. You can live here, eat here, sleep here, and come and go as you please until you’re old enough to fend for yourself. But I’m not your parental guardian in any sense of the word.” His lips pulled into a tight line. “If you get in trouble, that’s your problem. If you decide to leave on your own, I am not responsible in any way for the consequences of your actions.”
The boy tilted his head just slightly, his lips curving into a slow smile. With a calm sort of eloquence, he stood as well, regarding Wren with such calm superiority that it almost drove the huntsman insane.
“That is all very well. I accept.”
Two days later, he gave himself the name Venice.
It was, Wren suspected, the start of a very long, very troublesome year.
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Posted: Thu Nov 08, 2012 4:08 pm
( PRP ) x B U T x T H E x E C H O E S x R E M A I N
↺ ┊ Venice, Amadeo.
↺ ┊ City; coffeehouse. Late afternoon.
↺ ┊ Ongoing.
C U R T A I N C A L L ;
A late afternoon visit to the coffeehouse turns into
something more when Venice encounters Amadeo
for the first time. Whatever will happen between the
fiery dust and the swan prince on their first meet?
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Posted: Sat Nov 17, 2012 6:24 pm
lessons in the art of conversation.
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Posted: Sat Nov 17, 2012 6:27 pm
( PRP ) x M E E T I N G S x O F x R O Y A L T Y
↺ ┊ Venice, Samara.
↺ ┊ City; bookshop. Late afternoon.
↺ ┊ Ongoing.
C U R T A I N C A L L ;
Venice goes to the bookstore for music sheets and
runs into Samara instead. Will two children of royalty
clash? Or will their similarities pay of for it all in the end?
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Posted: Sat Nov 17, 2012 8:04 pm
( PRP ) x A U T U M N x L E A V E S
↺ ┊ Venice, Willow.
↺ ┊ Outskirts of the Whi Forest; mid-morning.
↺ ┊ Ongoing.
C U R T A I N C A L L ;
There will be an explanation here
when i am not so lazy which might as well
be never
ha
ha
ha
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Posted: Mon Dec 31, 2012 2:37 am
( PRP ) x W I N T E R T I D E x F E S T I V A L
↺ ┊ Venice, Everyone.
↺ ┊ Festival Grounds near Siren's Shore.
↺ ┊ Complete.
C U R T A I N C A L L ;
The Wintertide Festival has come, and Venice meets old friends and new.
Wren also makes a guest appearance as the grumpy guardian with little interest
in the coming celebration, and the swan leads a merry chase and nearly causes
more trouble than he does anything else.
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Posted: Thu Jan 03, 2013 12:54 am
( PRP ) x T I N K E R x T A N N E R
↺ ┊ Venice, Morrigan.
↺ ┊ Outskirts of the Whi Forest; mid-morning.
↺ ┊ Ongoing.
C U R T A I N C A L L ;
There will be an explanation here
when i am not so lazy which might as well
be never
ha
ha
ha
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Posted: Wed Feb 27, 2013 6:02 pm
I didn't know you had a friend. Behh not dead yet.
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