The forest stands tall and lush here; ancient trees reach weather-twisted arms to the sky, fighting monster-like storm clouds back with their interlacing fingers. Shadow seems to lurk everywhere you look, but it spills calmly, coolly, inspiring a sense of stealthy calm or protection rather than unease. That is, if you've forgotten what kind of creature might be stalking just out of sight...Abendrot is a land cradled by the dark woods on all sides; in the center, some of the larger trees stay behind to reveal a small plateau - a citadel where this pack can gather and defend itself from invaders. There are, of course, softer sides to the land. Clearings here and there allow the sun to throw down its rays in incongruously resplendent gold showers. Ignore the lingering scents of blood spattered here and there along the borders: those do not concern you. The river on one edge of the territory is playful enough when it hasn't been gorged by violent rain. You can choose to note the ragged claw marks raked down tree trunks and the forest floor as friendly "Home Sweet Home" signs, if you wish.
All who treasure loyalty, order, victory, and the occasional indulgence of raw visceral pleasure are welcome, once they've been approved by the ever-watchful eyes of Abendrot's Alpha. But keep one thing in mind: no matter what your motive, this is not a fool's Paradise. This is the land of soldiers, assassins, and spies. This is ABENDROT.
Make up your mind quickly and prepare to prove your worth. You wouldn't want to add to those blood spatters, would you...?
IP: 76.243.46.249
Posted on December 4, 2012 at 07:37:19 PM by VLADYA
Okay, Abendrot Healers, do your best. Your place in this pack depends on it . . . . lol not really but have fun.
Vladya's injuries are numerous: he has bruises, welts, fang-marks, bites, scrapes, and lacerations practically all over his body, in various stages of freshness and infection. He has a slight fever from infection and perhaps some kind of cold. Oh, and he's also seriously considering giving up on life. Your job is to nurse him back to health to the best of your abilities.
 | It was probably an understatement to say that Vladya felt like shit. Not even probably—it was definitely an understatement, the understatement of the freaking year, as far away from the truth as the moon was from the Earth. Vladya felt like shit that had been ground into a million sharp rocks with the deadly pressure of a steel-toed boot. He wasn’t so much slumped as smeared into the frozen floor of the cave, breath leaking out of cracked ribs and fur plastered down with wounds and eyes like busted fruit, purple and bruised, staring at nothing in the darkness. If Kershov returned to inflict more punishment, Vlad was beyond being able to fight back. He’d been tortured for days. It was difficult anymore to see precisely how the alabaster Alpha had harmed the poor white dog: there were too many fang marks, lacerations, welts, bruises, gashes, scratches and scrapes to tell where one injury ended and another began. They melted together into one garish scarlet tapestry of pain. All over. So much . . . Vladya shuddered and then winced at the involuntary movement. The cold was getting to him—the heartless elements tormenting him while the snowy Czar was away. Kershov had chosen this spot because it protected the pallid cur from the worst of outside weather . . . well, every type of weather except this blasted cold. Stone held no comforting warmth. Vlad couldn’t even feel grateful for his frigid bed when his fever spiked the hottest; the icy rock warred with the flames under his pelt until every sensation slammed together and was processed in his fractured mind as burning: freezing heat and searing cold. Extremely pleasant. Not. Why don’t you just kill me? Vlad thought to himself—and not for the first time. The thought ran laps around the inside of his skull. He saw the words like subtitles on a screen every time his blearly gaze met Kershov’s harsh stare of infinite blackness. Why don’t you just kill me? And Vladya knew the answer. He didn’t deserve to be killed. Killing him would have been merciful, it would have released him from the shame of his betrayal and the wretched truth of his existence. Besides, those packmembers needed an example, didn’t they? Hard to scare a bunch of cutthroats with a dead body. They were used to that crap. Showing them a half-dead lump of meat would really make them shit their pants! Somehow, through his agony, Vladya formed a smile on his blood-caked maw, the strained expression like a fresh weal across his face. Wouldn’t the king be just pissed if his chewtoy actually had the audacity to die? Imagine the horror! The grand imperial gangster coming in to administer more punishment only to find that Vlad had already given up and was slumped like a sack of lifeless laundry on the floor . . . HYSTERICAL. Kershov couldn’t force the white dog to keep living, especially if he kept Vladya in this deplorable condition. Wolves died all the time after they gave up the will to live. Common practice on the tundra. Now all Vladya had to do was concentrate and eliminate every last shred of giving-a-fuck he had left. His existence depended on it. |
Replies:
- hope is a frail thing - By Verity December 4, 2012 at 11:46:30 PM
You Really Want to Be Like Them? - By Lore December 5, 2012 at 01:04:17 AM
I HATE MY LIFE - By VLADYA December 5, 2012 at 03:23:27 AM
no one would miss me [ finished ] - By [ key ] December 5, 2012 at 04:46:43 AM
hope is a frail thing - By Verity December 6, 2012 at 00:50:32 AM
the oddity is never the best way to make friends - By i v e v December 6, 2012 at 05:37:00 AM
I HATE MY LIFE - By VLADYA December 11, 2012 at 09:33:37 PM