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: 12.246.51.122
Posted on July 15, 2019 at 10:42:32 PM by Olya
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How quickly everything could change. Olya shut her eyes quickly and began to count backward from one-hundred, blocking out everything around her. One-hundred. Ninety nine. Ninety eight. Ninety seven. For far too long now had she become complacent to her surroundings, had she hoped and believed in a future for herself other than as less than dirt. Ninety six. Ninety five. Ninety four. Ninety three. She had been taught the hard way just how miserable life could be, how insignificant she was. Ninety two. Ninety one. Ninety. Eighty nine. That no one cared for her, but she was allowed to live solely for the pleasure and entertainment of her betters, of her masters. Eighty eight. Eighty seven. Eighty six. Eighty five. She knew better, she knew better than to grow attached to anyone, for if she did then she would experience heartbreak and pain when they were sold to a different master, or when they inevitably died. Eighty four. Eighty three. Eighty two. Eighty one. And yet despite all of this, despite everything that she knew, she had fallen for the tricks of this Siku, who had held before her a dream that was painted in the most beautiful array of colors, all possible paths that she could choose for herself. Whatever she wanted, whatever she desired. Eighty. Seventy nine. Seventy eight. Seventy seven. Olya still curled tightly around her three pups, waiting for the blow to land that would bring her pain, that could potentially end her life. Seventy six. Seventy five. Seventy four. Seventy three. She was aware of Siku above her still, and the pain of his betrayal resonated in her mind – he had said that he had not lain with the femme on purpose, but how exactly was it that a male was forced upon a female? She had known rape, but what he described was something different, something she had never experienced, something she could not wrap her head around. Seventy two. Seventy one. Seventy. Sixty nine. And then, suddenly, the quietest noise pulled her from her mind, from the downward spiral, halting her retreat in its tracks. A mewl, innocent and pure, called out to her as one of her whelps crawled toward her abdomen, searching blindly and hungrily for a teat. Sixty eight… sixty seven. She still counted down toward zero, toward the number that would have her disconnecting from reality, but the count had slowed. The feeling of her pup’s maw urging against her, the rush of oxytocin, the endorphins, and finally the curling of a tongue urgently suckling milk down had her feeling something she had never felt before. Sixty six… Somewhere, she distantly heard Siku talking to her, pleading for her not to be affected by Nukilik’s illness, to not take it personally. Sixty five… Her tired gaze fell upon the fallen wolves, ones who could not be roused from their slumber. The concern in Siku’s eyes. Her audettes caught onto the question of tiredness and Olya found herself nodding. She was tired. She was so very tired. Sixty four… Olya slowly unfurled, the danger having passed, and then peered at her pups, two of them now firmly attached. But the third… the third lay still. Deadly still. She was briefly aware of Kallik approaching, speaking of ignoring Nukilik, but how could Olya? She never wanted her little pups to suffer as she once had. Olya had grown attached to the twins, but now that she had her own pups, she could not ignore the danger. Sixty four… Sixty four… “Sixty four…” She muttered the number aloud before realizing that her fear was gone. At least, her fear for her own safety. Hesitantly, she rose to her paws, wavering. “Nukilik can get to me, but she will never be allowed near my little ones. I will not risk them. You, Kallik, you have shown no ill will to them and as long as you continue as such, you will be welcome in their life.” Olya reached down, grasping their odd scruffs gently to lift them before she trotted away, but not before she dug a shallow grave for the unnamed brute. Not toward Siku’s den, for she could not think of keeping them anywhere near Nukilik. She trotted carefully until she found a shallow indent in a hill. Glancing upward, she deemed it safe enough given the weather, and laid down, placing them into the crook of her belly. Over the past weeks, Olya had dug the den, deeper and deeper, painstakingly making escape tunnels much as a hare would. For she was no predator, but instead was prey. She had been prey for her whole life and if nothing else it had taught her how to survive. But she also had deepened it in order to allow room for her surviving twins to grow. Her once swollen sides had collapsed inward, both from the absence of them within her womb and because they had stolen so much from her in terms of nutrients. She had kept them from Siku, from the twins, from everyone. It was both due to her mistrust, but also because she did not want to introduce them to the pack if another of them was to die. But today marked their 1 month birthday, and she had decided that it was to be their naming day. Softly, she nuzzled her two pups awake. “Jamila from now on shall you be,” was what she whispered into the ear of the femme. “Jamila, my darling little Jamila, named after my mother of whom I have few memories. Dakarai, my strong little boy, named for the happiness you provide me with. Dakarai, open your eyes.” Words: 948 |
| Olya Slave of her own Chains || No heart || Jamila, Dakarai, Unnamed || Part of Graes Waegholm |
| ♥dante |
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