A wide river dominates this section of the forest. Romance is in the air, and wolves of all ages come to search for their mate.
‘Can you… talk’ The set of vocals that called out to her frightened her, causing her to jump in the water that she had thought to bask within in despite the fact that there was nothing aggressive in the words nor the tone. Olya could not help but bite back a whine as fear emanated from her – the years that she had spent as a slave to the kalaks were long behind her, were long gone, but they could never be erased from her memory, nor from her nightmares. And despite the fact that the very DNA of her genes had been torn apart and altered and changed her from that of a maned wolf into that of an Ethiopian, she could not forget her beginnings. She had been born the daughter of a slave, her mother the unlucky relation to one of Farant’s enemies. Her mother had been taken in the midst of a war, never able to return home. And, vicious as the world was, she had been taken claim by an innumerable number of Farant’s lieutenants and generals. Who was to say who exactly Olya’s father was? But the girl did not care, not at all, for he was an asshole and bastard whoever he was, and she was the offspring of exactly that. Growing up, she had been conditioned to know nothing but hatred spurned onto her, pain inflicted upon her by them, and her rising fear which led to her lack of self-confidence and trust. The last time she had been in one of these eddies, she had come across another fae, one that she had thought was a spy to take her back home as a slave, to punish her for allowing the ivory princess to ever be injured. That had been when she had first arrived here with Lilith, when she was still bonded to Lilith, when she had still trusted the princess, when she had still thought the princess was different. But Lilith had betrayed her with her own desire for a surge of power, Lilith had shown Olya that she was no different. Lilith was of the blood of Farant, a monster, though the deaths she inflicted were never by her own paws or claws. But a lot of time had passed since then, and Olya had at least grown enough to realize that not all wolves were broken into the simple three categories of warrior, slave, or spy. Besides the point, Olya no longer looked the way she used to – no one would be able to find her, not from her world. The femme swallowed, the feather rippling down her back as she shook, loosening the water droplets that were glistening on the surface of her beautiful, elegant cape. “I… yes. I can talk. Why, may I ask, was that the first question that came to your mind? Are most of your wolves you meet incapable of speech?” Olya found herself curious about this stranger – she was clearly no kalak. Perhaps… perhaps this time life would be kind to her and gift her a… a friend. But if that was even going to be a choice, Olya would have to play the odds and take a risk – open up a little bit. Olya was not much of a social wolf, and though she would speak when spoken to, she had no humor, no comedy… but she was very good at being honest. Attempting to lie was something that had been beaten out of her when she was young. They would command her to lie, about things that were obvious falsehoods, and then flail the flesh from her skin as soon as it passed across her lips. And so, she would stick with what she knew and what she understood. Lies were… dark things that caused pain. So… why ever lie? “My name is… is Olya. And I am a kalak, a maned wolf despite the feathers that are growing out of my skin. I guess you could call me a feathered wolf.” She laughed once, then twice… before stopping. It had been a lame, horrible joke, really a failure of one, and she knew it. “I… I’m not great at talking to others. But… what’s your name?” |
Slave of her own Chains || No heart || Part of Graes Waegholm |
♥dante |