06-05-2008, 04:30 PM
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OOC: Hooray for long histories and posts!
Lubomir listened. It was out of curiosity more than politeness. Skoll had listened to his tale, and made valuable inputs. As far as Lubomir was concerned, everyone had a story to tell. There were so many facets to a wolf, so many shades of grey to be discussed that even a puppy's life would prove valuable material to the grey one. But now, faced with the possibility of learning from another, of furthering his knowledge and gaining insight into what life here must be like, he was sure to accept the challenge. Lubomir was young by Souls standards. Not in age, but in experience. He had lived his days as long dazes, broken by the brief spell with the town-dwellers, learning the art of story telling, reading and writing and basic numerics, and the return to his pack, the batch of pups, hunting and the mock-fights. He'd lived a sheltered life and subconsciously had kept to himself even here, allowing nothing to harm him. Yet, anyway. He knew very little of wars and political moves, of coyotes and blood lust. To him, Inferni was a distant cloud on the horizon and the cold that would seep into his heart slowly was not even a speck of dust in his life. He could understand vicious killing, yes, he had seen torture, but war, full out conflict where lives did not matter as individuals as long as they served a greater good... that he had not seen and perhaps in a way he was as innocent and naive as a puppy.
His introspection was broken quickly by Skoll's words. The story would begin and he had to focus. Slowly, his mind opened up to the descriptions made by the yellow wolf. He noted with some concern that Skoll was much older than Lubomir had initially thought and he was about to dwell on it when the description of the pack lands caught him. Yes, it was indeed like the Great Frozen Plains. A small smile tugged at Lubomir's muzzle when he heard the name of Skoll's father. How quaint, that two wolves born so far apart would have such similar names. His mother had been Freyja, though she could not tell him the origin of her name. Would Skoll's father had known? 'You father's name... it was similar to my mother's. She was called Freyja. By any chance, did you ever find out the origin of that name? I have searched in all written records and yet I cannot find it.' His tone was faintly sad. He had loved his mother. But not enough to seek her or his former pack after the massacre.
Lubomir's insides turned icy cold. The mention of that killing rage tugged at him. As far as he was concerned, he'd been knocked out and left for dead. The animal that would, in coming weeks, surface more and more, was still a faint motion in the pit of his stomach, a shadow in his dreams, a vision at the edge of his nightmares. So why did it ring so familiar? It struck him as odd but he decided that perhaps he and Skoll had such violent stories to tell that it was beginning to affect him. The vivid imagery was surely taking its toll on him. Still, he would go on. 'Please, I don't mind details. They add flavour and colour to your story. And you are a great story teller. Please, go on.' His own voice sounded strange to his ears, as if he was very far away. Perhaps he was. The mention of such betrayal, being shunned by his own people made Lubomir's eyes widen. He could feel it, deep in his heart, the kind of pain Skoll must have felt when his own parents and siblings chose to ignore him. 'No...' His voice was strangled now, a low cry in the back of his throat. And then fighting... Skoll could have killed his brother. He had the strength to do so. Would he have stopped without the intervention of others? 'You wouldn't have killed him. You are too valiant a warrior, Skoll. I trust that you would only have ruffled his fur, so to speak. Please, go on, what happened after you left?'
708 words
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Lubomir listened. It was out of curiosity more than politeness. Skoll had listened to his tale, and made valuable inputs. As far as Lubomir was concerned, everyone had a story to tell. There were so many facets to a wolf, so many shades of grey to be discussed that even a puppy's life would prove valuable material to the grey one. But now, faced with the possibility of learning from another, of furthering his knowledge and gaining insight into what life here must be like, he was sure to accept the challenge. Lubomir was young by Souls standards. Not in age, but in experience. He had lived his days as long dazes, broken by the brief spell with the town-dwellers, learning the art of story telling, reading and writing and basic numerics, and the return to his pack, the batch of pups, hunting and the mock-fights. He'd lived a sheltered life and subconsciously had kept to himself even here, allowing nothing to harm him. Yet, anyway. He knew very little of wars and political moves, of coyotes and blood lust. To him, Inferni was a distant cloud on the horizon and the cold that would seep into his heart slowly was not even a speck of dust in his life. He could understand vicious killing, yes, he had seen torture, but war, full out conflict where lives did not matter as individuals as long as they served a greater good... that he had not seen and perhaps in a way he was as innocent and naive as a puppy.
His introspection was broken quickly by Skoll's words. The story would begin and he had to focus. Slowly, his mind opened up to the descriptions made by the yellow wolf. He noted with some concern that Skoll was much older than Lubomir had initially thought and he was about to dwell on it when the description of the pack lands caught him. Yes, it was indeed like the Great Frozen Plains. A small smile tugged at Lubomir's muzzle when he heard the name of Skoll's father. How quaint, that two wolves born so far apart would have such similar names. His mother had been Freyja, though she could not tell him the origin of her name. Would Skoll's father had known? 'You father's name... it was similar to my mother's. She was called Freyja. By any chance, did you ever find out the origin of that name? I have searched in all written records and yet I cannot find it.' His tone was faintly sad. He had loved his mother. But not enough to seek her or his former pack after the massacre.
Lubomir's insides turned icy cold. The mention of that killing rage tugged at him. As far as he was concerned, he'd been knocked out and left for dead. The animal that would, in coming weeks, surface more and more, was still a faint motion in the pit of his stomach, a shadow in his dreams, a vision at the edge of his nightmares. So why did it ring so familiar? It struck him as odd but he decided that perhaps he and Skoll had such violent stories to tell that it was beginning to affect him. The vivid imagery was surely taking its toll on him. Still, he would go on. 'Please, I don't mind details. They add flavour and colour to your story. And you are a great story teller. Please, go on.' His own voice sounded strange to his ears, as if he was very far away. Perhaps he was. The mention of such betrayal, being shunned by his own people made Lubomir's eyes widen. He could feel it, deep in his heart, the kind of pain Skoll must have felt when his own parents and siblings chose to ignore him. 'No...' His voice was strangled now, a low cry in the back of his throat. And then fighting... Skoll could have killed his brother. He had the strength to do so. Would he have stopped without the intervention of others? 'You wouldn't have killed him. You are too valiant a warrior, Skoll. I trust that you would only have ruffled his fur, so to speak. Please, go on, what happened after you left?'
708 words