At Leisure Lake the sun is always shining and only a few stray clouds roam the open sky; paradise is the one word that really describes it. This beautiful lake is clean and refreshing, the very best place to swim and fish. Pups are known to play here while older wolves watch at the side, engaged in their own activities.

Refresh/Reload

BEAT NOW BUT NEVERMORE
IP: 98.206.163.124
Posted on February 25, 2014 at 05:23:59 AM by Filius Deum




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Filius blinked, face impassive. She was being unduly accommodating towards Hestia’s and his volatile customs. Neither of them were needlessly cruel; he needed the sharpness of word to keep people reproachful, condemnatory and bitter while still inadvertently willing to indulge him. A vague insult, a sarcastic compliment, a secret spoken dully as if to say: I’ve known for a long while now. Keep up won’t you? He wanted attention. Acknowledgement. Something outside Hestia’s unceasing devotion that would feed the sputtering flames he’d lived off in the throes of war. Oh, the days when those magnificent fires burned so hot he fought for days without an ache in his muscles or a wound on his neck, when he feasted on battle cries and blood and lapped praise up like he’d been birthed from it. He practically had, after all. Glory had been more a parent than any of his renounced kin dare imagined themselves to be. He molded himself to the image of hero. Now. . . He begged for titbits. A sick old dog sniffing out scraps of food and biting the hand along with it because, however good the taste, a soldier knows better than to accept kindness.
As for Hestia, Filius couldn’t know. He didn’t know why she stuck around or so eagerly defended him even when they both saw he was in the wrong. He couldn’t recall doing anything to justify her actions. She’d been a faceless pawn among dozens in a haze of endlessly intensifying savagery, fighting sometimes alongside him, other times as a subservient to his lead. He’d never thought anything of her. Hadn’t even seen her, not really, not as anything outside of a breathing, bleeding shout to the cause. A constantly potential martyr to his cause. It was likely, even, that she’d felt his teeth before. Back then he’d been appalling, need it be reiterated, and his thirst for conflict was insatiable. He found himself feeling slighted by the most innocent strangers, was quick to jump into redundant skirmishes whether or not he thought he could win and ruthlessly harassed anyone foolish enough to slip up in his presence. Filius Deum had been nameless too, but not for lack of relevance. Nobody called to mind his name when they heard it. Filius Deum was The Son of God, The Avenger of Virtue, but he was also the mindless, fitful spirit unable to still its desire for bloodshed. If there was a memory he recalled more clearly than anything else, it was the color red. On his lips, his paws, his skin, scourging the earth with the strength of an ocean storm, staining trees with the severity of their iniquity, hot and thick and beautiful. So why had Hestia saw fit to pull him from the pith of desolation? When he’d ceased slaughter and sheathed temper his friends had dispersed. Not betrayal; mercy. They knew he was a proud monster, and to slip past life in the absence of pity was what he’d thought he wanted. Hestia had known better, and she’d been there to shoulder his burdens— dodging furious protests all the while. Now he was wholly, dreadfully attached to her, allowing her to coddle him like a pup and bending as easily to her will and she did to his. He’d traveled with her for some time now, and he still couldn’t completely unravel her mysteries, and the mysteries she placed between them.
Most weren’t as indulgent as this wolf was being. The general response to their combined hostility was a cold shoulder or frightened retreat—the occasional fool making good on halfhearted threats was easily disposed of with Hestia’s more than efficient combat abilities. He watched her go with a thin frown. Always, always the mephitic suspicion, the frantic wringing of his shoulders and involuntarily scowl when she left his side. She’d come back, he knew, she always did. But still, mere minutes could literally become the beginning and end to a lifetime, and he worried constantly.
When she’d disappeared from sight, rendering his pouting irrelevant, he dragged his eyes back to the wolf. She was interesting. Not as interesting as, per say, himself, but definitely interesting. Blatant sadness was an endangered species. He hadn’t seen crying since a mother lay over her dead litter, causalities of unfortunate placement, and that had been ages ago.
“Alright.” He drawled, purposefully sitting so that he towered over her by a good head and masked the worst of his discomfort. If you ignored the way his ears lay flat against his skull and the edges of his lips pulling up every now and again you could almost pretend he wasn’t in pain, that he wasn’t sick at all but an arrogant young warrior zealously chasing friendship and passion, carelessly. Tenderly. The boy with golden eyes and richer prospects. Unfortunately, that was what he’d been many, many moons ago. Now he was just. . . Alive. Even that he did a poor job of.
“I’m glad you think so. That makes one of us.” He didn’t sound melancholic. He was testy by nature, and unwarranted unpleasantness came occasionally— though the nippiness didn’t reach his face, which remained as apathetic and cynical as ever.
“Have I introduced myself yet? I can’t bother to remember. It hurts my back, you see. Not very good on my thought processes either. I’m Filius Deum. I saw you across the shore and-“ The creases on his snout bunched, echoing the twinge of discomfort blooming in his stomach. Pain, familiar, familiar, always familiar- sometimes welcomed, sometimes not. Instinctively he scented deftly for Hestia, but her trail was tasteless. She’d be awhile more, then.
“And I thought you looked like you needed a friend. Regrettably, I’m not that friend. I could help you find one, though. If you asked.” He leaned minutely forward, trying to and succeeding in looking invitingly conversational.
“Nicely.” His eyes, feverish in their molten pools of gold, blinked languidly down at her. Mocking, perhaps. More likely he was being inquisitive, not making fun. Just then Hestia returned, and his attention was whisked away by the rabbit hanging in her mouth.
“For me? Oh, you shouldn’t have.” He wasn’t often talkative. When he was, like now for instance, he tended to throw as much sullenness and disdain into his words as had been pent up in the silent spells. Still, he waited until it had been formally offered to him and the seeds— those inexcusable ogres of nature that rolled disconcertingly over his tongue and refused to be caught between his gnashing teeth— situated before stealing strips of flesh from the corpse.



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