The Huntsman | Boards2Go

To join Blossom Forest, post a new message with the following:

Name:
Age (pup, teen, adult):
Gender:
Appearance:
Personality:

Optional:
History:
Picture:
Player (OOC) Name:
Email:

Remember, do not post in-character anywhere on this site until you have been welcomed by one of the following people: Sandra, Dee, Akari, greensmurf, Larka, Kamy, Baku, Doughnut, DarQ, snowy!

_{Refresh/Reload}

The Huntsman
IP: 24.10.60.121
Posted on November 27, 2015 at 08:44:00 PM by Sonder

Name: .."The cub, named Marceles after his father.."

Age: .."She guided him into young adulthood.." (ADULT)

Gender: .."It was a son, nameless to his father.."

Appearance: .."born blacker than the ocean's belly.. " (blind; pupils swathy white & bloodshot) (lithe, powerful and sarcastic) (various scars, including a jagged one across forehead)

Personality: .."His love turned to frustration, and from anger to apathy as the moons, passing, pulled him further into himself." (Restless & withdrawn) (sexually apathetic & addicted) (obsessive & solemn) (dominating & strung-out) (passive & thoughtful) (possessive & paranoid)

The Queen, The Witch and The Huntsman

There's something evil about black wolves. Realistically, they're no different than any other wolf; same blood, same heartbeat, same species. But in the minds of two children scaring themselves in the dark, in the eye whites and translucent knuckles of wailing, fearful instinct we understand on a fundamental level that a black wolf is never to be trusted. Shadows welcome their dark brethren as if they were one and the same. Red and yellow eyes seem so much brighter, more sinister against the night sky pelts and teeth small and knife-sharp; brilliant ivory needles. A wolf alone is enough to send the devil running, but a black wolf could shake earth to its core.
Marcel didn't trust his father for this exact reason. Though his mother, a gentle milk and cream doe with enormous hazel eyes, loved him with every beat of her pink heart and never saw a grain of sand wrong with him, Marcel felt on an interstellar level something which he was afraid to admit: his father, with those oily features and tar lips, was a monster. Perhaps he wasn't born this way, perhaps the thick sludge of monstrosity slicked his veins only once his coat turned from youthful gray to pitch. Perhaps he battled many years with his condition, and fell from grace only once his soul grew weary. But either way, this ugly head showed itself only to his son. It was always the smallest of things: a look in ones' eye, a raised lip, a low growl meant only for his ears. Every nerve seemed to jump to electric life when he was near, the wildlife would grow in silent trepidation and recoil from his step. If wolves refused to acknowledge it, Marcel saw it - their wills bowed to his father, and not just because he was their Alpha. It was because they felt it, too. The cold menace, the absolute evil which only a truly black creature could exude so effortlessly. Marcel was terrified of him, and fled his pack the moment his eyes turned from sky-blue to wild honey-suckle yellow.
The young never last long on their own, and so it was with Marcel. He grew up feeling abandoned, as if his solitude was anything other than the product of his own means, and that's man's folly: to refuse blame, and instead grow bitter at the world for it. Marcel wandered, chasing women in packs he wasn't welcome in, chasing birds into places too high to reach and dreams which burned him to the core. The wolf ran himself into the ground, and buried himself in it. He left little memory, and only one heir to the hollow and brilliantly brief life he'd claimed. It was a son, nameless to his father, born blacker than the ocean's belly to a haggard omega girl with half a tail and less of a heart. Marcel had taken one look at the mewling boy before taking his son in his mouth and snapping its neck. Or so he'd thought, with the howls of a furious mother in his ears and the wild road in his eyes.
The cub, named Marceles after his father, is the protagonist in this story. His mother, Jewls, loathed him. She was weak of will, with beady crow eyes and a massive, gaunt chest which seemed to echo with the pounding of frothy blood waves, and had adopted Marcel's distaste for the night. She'd loved him, only because she didn't know the meaning of the word and he'd paid her attention. She blamed the child for Marcel's leave. She might have been able to save his sight, and him from a lifetime of suffering, if she'd cared enough to lick the blood from his eyes that day. Alas, she left Marceles where Marcel had dropped him: a butterfly whose wings had been plucked. His ribs were splintered, his skull spiderwebbed with cracks and a gash spanned his small forehead like a rutted river valley. The blood rotted in his underdeveloped eyes, and robbed him of his vision before he'd gotten even a glimpse of the world he was destined to dominate.
When Jewls saw his adamant refusal to die, she begrudgingly took him in. That's not to say that she raised him, because he did that himself. Rather she claimed him as her own, with slobbering jealousy and a wicked bite. His adolescence was spent under the cruel claws of his mother - drunk with sorrow and a slow-burning fury wrought from a lifetime of being dealt poor hands. He longed to be free, but he was blind and weak and found in himself such a resilient dependence and reluctant, distorted love for Jewls that to be without her scent was agony. There was no end to her cruelty, but when he began to mature - his shoulders broaden, eyes deepen and growl smolder in the way only a wolf's could her affections took on an entirely different nature. She was his mother, his lover and only friend. He saw nothing, felt nothing, was nothing without her. As far as he knew, nothing existed without her, and the world was a frigid and morbid place in her absence. Sex and sin and sorrow and rose-thorn love, pain and isolation begot Marceles in his youthful chapters. The alpha of his mother's pack, having been absent for so many moons in the wake of her mate's death, was horrified to find the sick pair locked in hot embrace - a fae with an empty chest and a tortured creature with the Milky Way in his muted eyes. Without a single moral stutter she put Jewls down. It wasn't hard, she put up little struggle and her bones were frail with age. Marceles, on the other hand, was mad with sorrow and rage. He nearly killed them both, his entire universe spiraling into a void he neither understood nor knew. The dream was over.
The alpha, Svia, overcome with sympathy for the sobbing teen gave him the gift of life, and righteous motherhood. She guided him into young adulthood, teaching him to breath the way the forest does, to be as silent as the dawn and fierce as the sun. Knowing no other way, he fell deeply in love with her. Finally, he wasn't afraid, and the world opened up before him like a blooming bluebell. He clung to her every word, became enamored with her scent, the way she spoke and felt against his shoulder. Beneath Svia's warmth, he excelled in every field. He could hear a field mouse foraging in the dry grass a mile away, could smell a carcass from ten, taste a storm in the air and feel a mountain spring's dew before anyone heard its bubbly cry. He banished his childhood, never thought of it, perhaps didn't even remember it. His life was sweet as honey, and he was happy. Then, as we all expect, as the cosmos insists, his cup overflowed and weakened under the strain of abundance. A neighboring pack swept in like a plague one night, scattering Marceles and all he held dear. He called out for Svia, heard her pulse quicken in panic and the wailing of death deafened him. Run, his mind screamed. And he did; he ran and ran and when he felt he couldn't go any further, he remembered how his Alpha shone like the moon and ran all the way back. But she was gone, they all were, in their place nothing but a humid mist of blood so thick it choked.
He searched. He scoured the forest, then the surrounding mountains, then the plains beyond that and trailed along the sea, he left no stone unturned nor pack untouched. Those horrible memories began to leak into his eyes, and he hardly slept because they colored his dreams as well. His love turned to frustration, and from anger to apathy as the moons, passing, pulled him further into himself. So here our nightshade hero walks now, shoulders shaking with exhaustion he hardly feels. It's as if the world is as small as it was when he toiled beneath his mother. He doesn't know it, but he's stumbling upon somewhere magical, somewhere meant only for those who aren't looking for it: Blossom Forest.

Replies:

Accepted! - By LSVK December 1, 2015 at 02:27:33 PM

Post a reply:

<-- -->

Name:
Email:
Subject:
Message:

Password To Edit Post: