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hope is but a four letter word - Sikeax - 08-30-2016 i never said i'd stay to the end Leadership weighs a heavier burden than she had thought it would. No longer can she have the simplicy of mourning, time set aside to ease her way into her emotions and work through them so that on the other side, she can be a more stable person. No, they do not allow her this. The Sun God hasn't even allowed her this, immediately taking her magic from her as if he had read her mind in knowing that being a healer was no longer something she wishes to do, or maybe he really did read her mind, and decide that her failure in saving Gaucho would end in her punishment of taking the Throat up in her definitely not large enough arms like she had done her children and save them from the uncertainty of their future. The ocean of her thoughts turns into a raging hurricane in turn, unsure but knowing only that it is violent and that it must do something. A branch snaps beneath her hooves, drags her back to the low sunlight into the forest and the crying of birds that abruptly stopped with her mistake. Hobgoblin looks at her with large ears pricked, expression drawn out and wide, long on his small, feline features, tail curled into a small question mark behind him. The returned face to him is nearly as long as his own, sagging beneath endless weights and constant worrying, blue eyes filled up with fear, sadness and discomfort, ear hanging instead of thrown up like mountains as his do. Hunger takes a few gentle, baby nibbles out of her stomach. Neither of them are sure whose it is, but that still leaves them to the chance that it is the both of them. "Are you going to go hunt?" Speaking out loud to him has become sort of coping method within the past days. If there is company, then obviously she doesn't out of their near constant need for privacy, but nonetheless the idea of speaking to someone, anyone keeps her grounded. The irony of her choice to wander out of her herdland when needing company is great. She searches out loneliness when a portion of her begs and pleads for company and comfort from the bodies of those around her. "Not want." A frown stitches across her features. Hobgoblin's tail begins to shake as the itch to give up this current body for another one starts up. "Why not?" The birds are back to chirping as her voice whispers her out of her choice of two words, flipping the table on him as she becomes to the one to ask that same typical question. A breeze, one whose temperature is sinking towards its Orangemoon state, runs between the trees and brushes the palms of its hands against anyone it can find. And like this is a textbook example of their connection, bond, soul-entertwining, whatever you would like to call it, Hobgoblin responded with his body breaking apart and rebuilding in front of her, slamming her with the emptiness of a stiff expression that has no muscles or skin to show her how he feels. I hate it when you do that. Like nearly every other time with her statements that fall into that category, she is met with silence, the proof that Hobgoblin, past all of her insecurities and fears that are growing at a remarkable state during this time, doesn't care anymore than he must. OOC: I TRIED, OKAY? they're just standing around in the woods doing nothing. Hobgoblin is in his serval form up until his change is mentioned and is then in his wendigo form. when both us knew how the end always is RE: hope is but a four letter word - Volterra - 08-30-2016
@Sikeax RE: hope is but a four letter word - Sikeax - 08-30-2016 i never said i'd stay to the end Hobgoblin is the first one to notice her, caught up in the sudden ending of songs from the beaks of the birds. They all seem to cower in fear at the passing of a golden queen, yet for him, it is the belief that at the mere sight of him that the world cowers. It fills him with a pride that Sikeax should wear instead, or even in unison with him. All it actually does for Sikeax is draw her brows into one another and stare upon him with disappointment. She is the Dragon’s Throat Sultana, the only one because Gaucho the Wildfire, after years of vibrant burning, has finally burned out. It puts a reminder of pain in her chest. “Not fault.” Attempts at reassurance are fruitless. He is set fully on the future while she cannot pull her head away from the present, too scared of what will happen if she can’t address the Wildfire’s death and how the herd must look upon her as their next leader. She has healed their wounds and rescued refugees from their borders, saved their children from death before they can even access the situation, but has failed them in the worst way possible. She has let their leader die. And how is she to apologize to them with her failure? The forced, scared acceptance of her title of Sultana. They’re probably laughing at her now, back in the desert, conjuring up ideas as of how they can remove a woman who wasn’t ready for the throne off of it and place a person more capable in it. “Stop.” Her stare hardens into stone. He wears nothing in return. There is no distance between them, both physically and mentally, yet she feels as if the passion that drives from him in waves is absent. Dullness slips from him, drowns her in turn. There’s an off chance that he’s just reflecting how she is making him feel back to her, but effort has held her head as much as it has held her bones. She doesn’t have the energy to think it through. The physical silence in the world is deafening, crushing, thrusting needless weight against her and pushing down until she feels that she cannot stand it anymore. What birds there had been appear to have left, and when she is about to usher Hobgoblin and herself, each and every one flees in a flurry of rustling wings and hurried panic. Yet imagine the odd relief that she drinks in absentmindedly when it’s Volterra, the man who had sired her son and brought him back to her when he had disappeared(or not really, she knew that Zhu had left on his own accord well), who had shown himself to be changing the last time that they had been granted the ability to speak without emotions fueling some sort of situation. The stress in her shoulders relieves and they sink in response, tense brows smoothing, twisted ears falling slack into her tiredness. As far as she is concerned, he isn’t much of a threat. Her name on his lips hits just as hard as it has within the past few days. Its becoming a thing she doesn’t want to hear anymore but no longer has control over. Everyone will know it soon enough. They’ll know that Sikeax is the name you hear when you think of the Dragon’s Throat, or maybe they’ll still be caught up in denial and think Gaucho instead. Hope fills up the cup labeled for the ladder. “Volterra.” Against the brutality of his voice, even in simple tone, her’s is soft, silk, a mother’s tongue from the children she’s raised(all from him, except for one now) and the times that she’s had to console her patients when needed. Too bad last time it didn’t work. A question slips forth. One of the first choice of things that you ask a person when you first meet them, and she wonders if he knows yet. She wonders if he has remembered that she was supposed to be saving them, to be healing them. Probably not. The beginning of her response is a lone sigh, Hobgoblin’s head migrating about to further more search out his only friend, separated by different species and whatever distance there is between him and the red dragon. “Honestly?” No spare thoughts flicker through that tell her if she should trust him enough to bring her feelings out onto the table, to let him know that what he wanted is something that she has unintentionally achieved with little to no effort. “Terrible. Possibly the worst I’ve been in years. Things have been crashing down in the Throat a lot faster than expected.” She crumbles a lot easier than expected, but in truth, she is weaker and more frail than she has ever been now, softer than clouds and more breakable than porcelain. “But how have you been? It’s been a while.” when both us knew how the end always is RE: hope is but a four letter word - Volterra - 08-31-2016
@Sikeax RE: hope is but a four letter word - Sikeax - 09-04-2016 i never said i'd stay to the end Each breath claws its way out of her throat, sinking claws into the raw walls made from crying and digging further. Reality is still crushing her. None of her pores are willing enough or even brave enough to open themselves to accept the idea that fate and devotion was caught up to the her in the end. It’s just not something that she was supposed to be. But then again she isn’t sure what she wants to be now. All of her life has been put towards what she has dreamed of doing(healing, being a Sun Physician), and once her dreams had been met, they didn’t play out the way that she had imagined. What was it that she had imagined? No, because childhood innocence has a certain sort of bliss that doesn’t think of how cruel life really is. Healing has destroyed her, taken pieces of her and shaken it, taught her things that not many come to accept on their own terms only because it has brutally shoved it into her face. “I failed.” A soft mumble that leaves her with tired, gathered up courage, enough to keep her together. Adding background noise to their bond, already filled up with a thousand differents things that are all pouring from her soul like an endless waterfall, Hobgoblin grumbles. He knows exactly where this is going and has nothing left to fight it with. Sikeax is on her own as far as he is concerned. If she will not listen to his voice of reason, then let it be silenced until she feels that she can take the world back in. Memories, still fresh, vivid, alive with emotions that she can’t shed regardless of how long she’s cast herself out to sea, rush back in to remind her just how true it is. Ampere’s screaming words is their chant. No matter how hard she clenches her eyes shut, it does nothing to get them out. The bitter truth tastes like blood in her mouth. “Gaucho died. He got sick suddenly, and it ended up being bad.” Another sigh because she can’t stop doing it, using them to push out the bubbles of air that would have thrown themselves out in the forms of sobs if she didn’t. Crying in front of Volterra brought her no comfort. She can’t bring herself to burden him with her tears when they so barely know one another, just starting to get the idea that the other one isn’t as bad as they had previously imagined. Or at least that’s how it was for her. “I kept him glued to me for as much as I could, but it wasn’t enough. I tried everything I could imagine would work, and it did nothing. He kept getting worse, and it was like each day you could physically see him dying.” Last one, she promises herself, letting the need to cry leave her with eyes clenched, sniffles, and a long drawn out breath that is quickly replaced with a swift gasp. “Fine.” A nod. He drifts in return, lets himself go because at this point, he knows better than to interfere. She would slam him at any moment with her fists balled tight and aimed from any weak spots that he could ever imagine, tear him down in thick blows until he is no more and the companion victim to her soft heart. “He died when I wasn’t with him. I couldn’t stop it. That flame I showed you does nothing for illness if you can’t pinpoint it, and it was everywhere. He was losing his head with it too so it must have been something bad. “After he was gone, after myself and some herd members found his corpse, I decided I didn’t want to be the Sun Physician anymore. It’s the worst job there is. No one respects you for it but wants everything from you. And you know what?” A low chuckle bursts forth, like she wants to laugh at her own misfortune. Another way for her to cope with fate. “The Sun God made me fucking Sultana instead. I don’t know how to take it. I don’t know how to lead a herd, I don’t know how to do anything over than be a healer and teach those below me.” Distress coats her voice. If Hobgoblin had been in any other form, there would had been more obvious signs of it through him, a thrashing tail or the off-season sound of his singing, pained and without purpose other than to seek out some sort of comfort through it. Beasts of war are not made specifically for co-existing with souls like Sikeax’s. Instead, he takes his leave entirely, not even passing a glance in the direction of Volterra. His body makes no sound, the foliage on the ground that anyone else would have had to stomp and thrash through passes through his body like he is an early morning fog. He’s gone before she can fully accept his absence. Like every single time, he leaves her empty and lonely, looking for something in the dark, anything out there that will take up the space that he has left behind, treating him like he is her attachment object during childhood. While his offer to help, or at least what came off as an offer, had made it to her ears, it didn’t settle with her completely. Hobgoblin hadn’t cared to listen. She had been too caught up in her own things to think of it, but not that she takes the time to process it completely, it catches her off guard. Why? Hobgoblin’s attention pricks but in lazy fashion, attentive but not intrigued, listening but not like he intends to learn something out of her thoughts. Why would he want to help me? He can’t conjure up Volterra’s reason for her. Doesn’t even try. She makes eye contact with him, clings to it, tries to see if there’s something in his eyes that will give her the answer to the question she has but doesn’t want to ask. Muscles tense over her body in response, ears pressing forward for insight before ducking into submission. “I can’t think of anything, but I’m open for ideas. Gaucho left a chaotic mess of people with little guidance.” One more reminder of how much trouble this is going to be, how hard the future she isn’t ready for and never thought about will hit her. OOC: bleh also have my 300th post BECAUSE YOU AND VOL DESERVE IT <3 when both us knew how the end always is RE: hope is but a four letter word - Volterra - 09-04-2016
@Sikeax YAY SIA. And sorry for the essay ooooops! RE: hope is but a four letter word - Sikeax - 09-08-2016 i never said i'd stay to the end Whether she acknowledges it on her own or Hobgoblin does it for her, Volterra’s set attention is enough to get a thin stream of acceptance going. Chances are it is directly from Hobgoblin. Her eyes are downcast and shut, head hung low while the Rougarou’s jaws remain clenched shut and gaze hard, staring straight into the man’s direction, studying for something. Any weakness of her’s is his, and while it doesn’t affect him on such a heavy scale as it does her, there is the thought that she had previously thrown herself into the fray for him, and nonetheless for something that has both mortally wounded them in their bodies and their heads, selfishlessly risking her life for him. The upwards tilt of his exposed skull is all that anyone other than himself can make out as a symbol of respect. Yet disgust sinks into her with the same feeling that one could imagine comes when a cactus is purposely rubbed against their hide. The lack of skin makes it difficult for him to obviously express his rare feelings of protection over her, but it projects to her well, gives her a warning that she isn’t sure is needed or not. He’s moving towards her, muzzle extended. Cera’s loving comfort has made her surprisingly more acceptable to such gestures at the presence of trust, and who is she to not say that there has steadily been the growth of trust between the two of them? They are not exactly close enough to consider one another friends, or are they? The pressure is warm. It urges her to give up her feelings of distress as she subconsciously leans into it, looking, even searching out more of a touch, a sweeping wing that he doesn’t have thrown over her smaller body, the pull of a hug that seems out of character for him. Even this comes as out of character. She has never imagined him to be compassionate, with the exclusion that he had saved her life under the reason that she was raising his children. Regardless, she melts into his words and touch. But not all good things last. She should be one to know as this is how her entire life has gone, and the expression that he had offered her is short-lived, drawn away at the mention of her new leadership. Hobgoblin has already pushed himself far enough away to not be aware to the surprise in chest, the rise of unsteadiness that he might have acted upon, emphasis on might, the worry that creeps in at the stray thought that Volterra may take advantage of her emotional weakness and her own loose trust in him to take her down and make a chance at his goals that she had so carelessly taken when he had wanted it so badly. He has been so kind to her in the past, but ambition is a brutal master that commands its slave to take and act upon every given chance to achieve the end goal. She is nearly hesitant to answer, but there is he with a slap to the face that he’ll never know he gave, trailed by the agony of guilt because here he is trying to be kind, giving her advice, congratulating her, telling her how wonderful it must be to have a god bestow upon her the rank of Sultana while she frets over the idea that he might try to take her throne from her. In the end, he is enough to crack a smile across her lips. Happiness buds a small flower in her chest. Yes, she tells herself with a pitiful amount of confidence that she has managed to conjure up, I can do this, except it’s a lot bigger with more ranks. I can do this… None of it is set in stone. She is too frail a beast at the moment to believe such things. Time will have tell for her. “Thank you, for all that. You make it seem a lot simpler like that.” Hurried, low words gathered up into one another that make a desperate leap towards sincerity together, trying to prove that she means in it in complete truth. And as if his words of kindness wasn’t enough, Volterra comes to offer her around another thing. It catches her off guard almost as much as it did for him upon learning of her promotion, except instead of swift action and vibrant displays, she is slow, pulling herself up and stitching up so that she can drive out some sort of seriousness as her face gathers into confusion. Why? She begs herself to ask it. Hobgoblin pushes his head into her own, curiosity driven. “I thought you hated herds. Why?” Brave, even if just for once. Asking what she’s terrified to face. “Why would you so suddenly decide to join, especially under me?” She is a blade taken to herself, looking to bring wound without physically having to do it to herself. Without a doubt, she begs for more. “If you really mean it, the Gladiator position is open. You won’t be a lead, but you’ll be right below me, training the soldiers and giving commands to them. You can have it, a key, a home, any else you want with it, if you mean.” Stupid when both us knew how the end always is RE: hope is but a four letter word - Volterra - 09-11-2016
@Sikeax |