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Date: March 1st.Setting: The Dampwoods, near the border of Inferni Time: Dusk Character Form: Optime |
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table © Jenny
ooc: Talitha, get your fine woman-flesh in hurr.
The loneliness was eating away at him.
He had had companions in the past. Pretty women, all of them - Delightful, wondrous creatures that had amazed and bewitched and fascinated the boy. He was a man now, but still easily taken under the spell of the Fae. Perhaps it was his curse to crave them with every inch of hot blood in his veins, till they broke his heart. Then, with this release, he could slowly rebuilt and move on.
Talitha Lykoi had not broken his heart. He thought of her more and more, when the cold nights crawled under his skin, and the man would dream of soft curves and horrible weeping. Memories colliding, but she had red eyes, the most beautiful and the most terrible red eyes he had ever seen.
The black jackal haunted his mind also, and he would pine for her as he did for the russet-hued witch. What horrible spells they had cast on his skin and his heart to make them crave to horrible, unfulfilled by the break of daylight. Food had no taste. The world was slowly seeping itself of color, while Caillen Winters wasted alone in its silence. The dampwoods were out to mock his existence - A weak sun had begun to melt the snow, which had once been a suitable cover for the ivory and slate brute. Now, they prey saw him coming, and his snares were often carried away by small rivers of half-melted sludge. He ate sparingly, but wanted the food less and less. It was not sustenance his life form required, but company.
Caillen was literally starving - Starving for the woman with the ruby gaze.
His body had lost its impressive glossiness. Mud had turned a luxuriously plush pelt to a messy carpet of dull browns and lackluster grey. The thick oily fat that had once sat in place over his muscles, giving the youth an attractive bulk, had all been absorbed by his body - Now the muscles were hard and lean, muscles of necessity. The wolf blood within him had tapped into a survival call, and it ran him in him now. Sometimes he hunted without being fully aware of his actions, and more and more the brute stuck to his lupus form, for it was faster for the kill of the slow-eyes doe, or the unwary hare.
A scraggly white beard, once trimmed neatly along with tan-tarnished locks, was now roguishly long. His fringe spilled in unruly locks over ice-blue eyes, filled always with that familiar hunger.
He waited for her, as he'd promised he would. Always, the waiting. Once or twice he had caught her scent, but always had the brute remained at a safe distance from the skull-lined borders. His immense size made scouting nearer almost impossible, and it was only desperation that had drawn him near to them this dusk. The pale sun was sinking lower and lower, bringing the wolfdog some much-required cover. His eyes moved erratically over the landscape. Perhaps today. Perhaps she would return to him today.