[m] [p] little bird, don't stifle your song

Marcel Moineau · 09-15-2012, 04:58 PM

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Sad sad sad sad sad. D:

Sometimes Marcel wondered how he could have fathered such a scared little scrap of fur such as Sparrow; his sons, after all, were growing into strong men if a bit too soft around the edges yet. He might have been shocked to see that his other daughter, the disowned, the ugly whelp whose face he scarred, had been the one to truly inherent his pride and his violence. He considered her useless, though, out of reach, not as malleable as the brown-furred little girl who’d taken shelter in this tiny house. He had learned that even the weak and the dumb had their uses, though; Renard had taught him that, ushering along Wisp, feeding her, asking her questions that she always answered with the same simple, hollow, stupid smile. She had been more than useless, but she had become his father’s pet, just as he made a pet out of Sparrow. She was little more than a timid little caged bird, but a bird he could train to sing for him and that he could let perch on his finger as he showed her off to the world.

The darkness of the house gave him pause, and his snuffling was nearly audible as he stepped forward. He caught her sweet ’yotish scent in a corner and turned his attention there, seconds before she deflected his question with a soft little excuse. He paused, head tilted after the manner of a dog, and then broke into a tender smile marred by the gruesome scar ravaging his face.

“Oh, come now, girl,” Marcel crooned, kneeling down where she was. “Even if you don’t want to eat, you can at least come outside and celebrate with the others.” His orange gaze darted to different points of her face: a wolfish muzzle and soft cheekbones, the subtle mottling and the round, broom-yellow eyes. “And what of this sweet face, hidden in shadow?” he asked, reaching out with a hand to trace her jawline with his finger, affectionate, even gentle. “I want to show my daughter off to the world, you know.” Not that the raiders knew he was her daughter, of course; the looks he passed her crossed over into something far from paternal, and he was not too stupid as to think they’d turn a blind eye to something like that.

A crooked grey finger ran back against her cheek, and he fondled one of Sparrow’s oversized ears in a manner reminiscent of a human stroking their pet. The difference between their forms—or, rather, her lack of an upright body like he carried himself in presently—only strengthened that illusion. His smile faded away thoughtfully, and he withdrew his hand for a moment, still kneeling close. Born non-luperci himself, he hadn’t minded that the girl lived on four legs—but it was getting a bit burdensome, now. He wanted to see what she looked like in optime, although he could imagine it and had imagined it well enough before.

“Are you sure you don’t want to go out?” Marcel asked, his voice falling quieter than ever—although his grin, if an auditory adjective could suit a facial expression, was very loud.

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