[AW+] [m] i've lost all my patience
#1

WARNING: This thread contains material exceeding the general board rating of PG-13. It may contain very strong language, drug usage, graphic violence, or graphic sexual content. Reader discretion is advised.

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but there's a wickedness in me still

Sorrow had shifted way to bitterness, resentment, and wicked fury that had burned through him, and left him a bared husk through the passing days since he'd discovered her, there. The sight still lingered, a flash behind his eyelids - those high-keen howls of the coyotes still echoed off the canopies.

He hardly slept anymore, and when he did, it was fleeting.

His scabs itched. His altercations were hollow, and took tolls on his aching bones. His anger was a low one, now, fueled by the caustic nature of what had been taken from him. The ravages of time were not kind, and neither were his enemies. But perhaps they were onto something. The temptation of the drink left his throat raw, left his mouth dry, the taste of ash on his tongue. He did not crumple to his baser will, though. Solomon James was stronger than that. He was a man of conviction. He would persevere, because he had to. For his home, for his family, for his deceased loved ones, and his fallen party, he would persevere. There was no other choice.

His was the hand of God's. The pad of his thumb rubbed over the cross of his rosary, slowly, contemplative, while he stared out into the blue night of the dwindling dusk in that clearing on the moor.

The paler dusk, lined and wispy and silvery, stared back, scars curling up jagged between his whiskers. Their eyes were locked, and the storm brewing between them a tense, patient thing.


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#2
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And the stars will be your eyes, And the wind will be my hands

He had witnessed this man, once before, some time ago. The memory was fuzzy, while he gathered up younger members of the Posse after they'd strayed off, leaving devastation in their wake. It was the same look, in his eyes - a fire had danced, somewhere in the distance, and the bay of the wolves there rang hollow in his ears.

Wild.

Vindictive.

Santiago had not asked what happened - he was not in charge of the fleeing band of thieves, until they had started dwindling; to this man's hand, no less. Without mercy, this crooked Law, this savage man had chased them all down, and strung the coyotes up indiscriminately.

They remained in this stalemate, for some time. The night air was balmy with early summer, humidity hung in sliver-thin fog that drifted in off the lake. The silvery coyote had weighed the risks. The wolf had nothing to lose.

He, in turn, had everything.

Fingers flexed at his sides, his stance rigid - the aging wolf seemed more nonplussed by his presence, flipping the cross of his rosary between his fingers slowly and rubbing over it's worry-smoothed surface. Not once did those dark, amber eyes leave the pallid green of the coyote's. The wolf wet his lips, and that yellow, snaggle tooth poking over his top lip glinted in the paling light.

"Have you come to confess?" he finally asked, lowly, his tongue a blade through the dark and flashing its edge in threat.

"Can't say I have, no," Santiago replied cooly.


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#3
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Of course, he had not come to relent. He should have expected nothing less - especially from a heathen - it was by his merciful heart that he allotted this favor.

"Then God shall weigh your sins in full."

"And you intend to collect on that debt?" the indignant coyote asked, and Solomon watched as he jerked his head up, watched the sparse coat of the Southerner bristle. Desert trash - reckless monsters - they heeded not the warning of the importance of law. "I had no quarrel with you, 'til you went and started chasing us."

Solomon's lip twitched. His chest felt tight.

"Your kind, your lot - you know damn well what you did that night." He spat. He accused. Solomon knew what it was that he had seen, what he had witnessed. The transgressors fled away into the night, had razed much of his homestead, murdered his love; And this man - this cur - had taken them beneath his wing, and stole away. "Do not act as though you are absolved of your guilt, you roach."

The anger was seeping into his voice, slowly rotting him from inside. Solomon's smoothed face contorted, slow and ugly, into the viciousness he so felt - a fire scorched through his veins and consumed him, fanning outward from his chest.

"You were just as complicit in the killing - you hands bear just as much blood."

That bottle-brush tail on the coyote stiffened, and the slants of those sun-baked eyes narrowed on the wolf's face. Solomon's whiskers were quivering as his voice rumbled out in a growl. The other man's lips curled up in answer, baring that broken-toothed and gap-filled snarl.

"Confess."


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#4
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And the stars will be your eyes, And the wind will be my hands

Pieces fell into place, the context bared.

It still did little to sway the Hustler's mind - guilt was a heinous pill to swallow, and he'd come to peace with the wretchedness that came with the joys of life. His lot, as the wolf had said, were not good people, and did not do good things - but they did what was right by them, by their own.

Was that not the way of the world, in the grand scheme of it all?

Once more, the wolf pressed for confession, and needled the coyote for his own righteous cause. He wanted to hear it, craved the absolution of damnation, it read clear across the deep furrows of his face, the way his grizzled lips had curled with salving tongue seeking that vindication.

"No."

Santiago swelled his chest, and let his thin growl seep out between the broken gaps of his sneer. The wolf roared, rosary abandoned into the dirt, as he lunged for the silvery coyote, closing the gap between them quickly. His heart thundered suddenly, ears folding flat against his head as he turned and darted back into the dark of the trees, and he could practically feel the wolf's breath at his heels as the chase ensued. Santiago's feet were light, they were quick, fueled with the innate need to be faster than the lumbering man behind him. He yapped, trilling, up through the dusk's indifferent air, before it was cut short, a meaty hand hooking his ankle. His adrenaline spiked as he careened, off-balance, forward, the air knocking form his lungs on impact and teeth rattling as his chin bashed the ground.


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#5
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He was getting old.

He was getting out of shape.

His hip twinged and flared with each racing step as he chased down the smaller coyote, his lungs great bellows that heaved his breath as he struggled to outpace the wily beast that was, frankly, had speed, and some semblance of youth on his side. His muscles screamed as he forced his stride to extend, and covered more ground. He grabbed out, until he could manage to grab something, and he finally felled the vermin.

Solomon nearly tripped over the other man, and his hands moved blind, gripping, clawing, while the coyote, dazed and alarmed, flipped about and writhed to right himself. The snarling bark of laughter Solomon made was hoarse, his sneer twisting into the mockery of a grin as he wrapped his fingers about the scrawny neck of the coyote wretch beneath him, and shook him.

"I don't got a noose, you'll haf--ta, forgive me," he huffed out, feeling knees sprawl and kick against his gut, claws snagging at clothes. The coyote grabbed onto one of Solomon's forearms. "I'll enjoy this all the same."

Glee rushed through him, that ugly grimace merely fueling the malice. The coyote's eyes were wide, and his teeth were snapping while he loosed all manner of uncivilized sounds - keens and yaps - as they were all so wont to do. He could smell the copper, where he had scored marks down silvery arms where they'd connected in the scramble, in the tangle. He pinned that throat beneath the meat of his palm, and raised a fist.

"Beg!"


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#6
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And the stars will be your eyes, And the wind will be my hands

The weight against his throat was making him see spots, and his ceaseless calling made it all the more raw. A fist was raised, and that hand pinning him to the dirt gave him a shake with emphasis as the command was given.

Beg.

Throttled, his muzzle twitched, and he croaked out.

"Fuck - you -" he answered, solid, caustic. A blow rained down on his head, and his vision blanked a moment, deafened to the growl the wolf gave and the sounds of his own breathing. Santiago's head lolled back to face the wolf, watching the slobber drip from those graying jowls down towards his face. His ears rang, and he watched that arm cock back again, preparing for another wallop.

"Beg for your life," he repeated, cooler now, the rage steeling his composure into something frigid. The silvery coyote did not answer, and his head snapped back into the earth as another meaty blow connected. The world was spinning now, and Santiago blinked, owlishly, his fingers flexing about that wrist. His other hand fished about on his own body, seeking.

"I said beg, dammit." Oil-slicked, his eyes swam back to that fist as it came back to connect another another blow. His eye stung, skin splitting on that face. He could feel his flesh pucker and swell, and felt his teeth clip the edges of his tongue. He tasted copper. He gasped down a breath, and it rattled audibly. He felt his fingers brush against the solid shape, nestled against his hip and tucked into his belt.

Santiago moved his ruined lips, and spat pink saliva to try and clear his airways. The wolf sneered, leaning down.

"I can't hear you, filth."


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#7
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This is now open to a handful of folks who wanna just *REALLY LET THIS GUY HAVE IT* >Shy

The coyote still did not answer, and made a soft and nigh-pathetic wheeze. Solomon's fist, bloodied from split knuckles, and his quarry's battered skin, rained down more blows. The vermin couldn't open one of his eyes, and the other was a thin sliver, unfocused and glassy while it slipped about in his skull. Something hoarse whispered out past those lips.

"Perhaps I'll just have t' send you back to your pals, like I did your other friend."

The coyote coughed, and another wry, rasping whisper hissed past his battered teeth. He was conceding. Solomon leaned in better to hear, and tipped his ear towards the hush of the silver coyote's mouth.

"Nos vemos en el infierno, pendejo."

White hot, yet cold all the same, he felt the kiss of a knife plunge into his belly. The air hissed from the wolf, and the coyote gave the blade a twist with a jerk of his body, before letting his hands fall limp, the breath rattling through his parted lips. Solomon's brow furrowed, deep, and with shock he released the coyote, and sat back to look at his wound, the hilt still sticking out of him. His hands moved to hold around the base of where his skin had swallowed up the weapon, the darkening light staining his fingers black. It bloomed through his shirt. With a wince, and a rumbling, he wrenched the knife from his guts and threw it aside, still indignant, his expression wounded and perplexed. A palm fanned out against the seeping, and dark amber eyes looked back to the outlaw, his chest still rising and falling, however shallowly.

Somewhere nearby, he could hear the high howls of coyotes ring out.


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#8
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There were howls and yaps and screams that tore across the still, inky waters of Moosehead Lake and rent the atmosphere all around them. They were sounds that only distressed creatures make, in those moments when fighting has failed and they have been so consumed by fear that the only thing left is pure, adrenaline-driven flight. It was a sound that she had heard much too often, and out of the mouths of familiar coyotes.


She knew the coyote who emitted those horrible sounds.


"Evelyn?" Paninya was at her side, scarcely visible in the surrounding dark but for the white fear in her eyes.


It took several beats more for the Vicar to recognize the burning in her chest was for lack of oxygen. She took in a shaky breath and pulled her shawl tightly around her shoulders, then tilted back her head and released a wavering howl of her own: a call to arms; a rallying cry; a plea for help.


And then she ran, neither knowing nor caring that the small coydog was behind her. There was only one thing she cared about, and Evelyn was consumed with the worry that those sound would be the last she would hear from him.


The cries of their companions were ringing out all around when she found the them: coyote and wolf; friend and foe. "Goddammit, no!" she breathed, anxiety lifting the pitch of her voice when her eyes found Santiago's body. Evelyn was distantly aware that something was wrong with the wolf, but she found she didn't care if he posed a threat. If Santiago died, it didn't matter what happened to her.


So she knelt down next to her friend; her companion; her lover, and laid her bandaged hands over his body.


Paninya, meanwhile, had her pale, cold eyes fixed dangerously on the bleeding, dying wolf, her lips pulled back and her hackles raised. A strong drive to attack and to kill filled her as the howls rang out and filled her with that dangerous pack mentality...


[WC — 343]


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#9
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(000)

ooc





The bandages came off, and his skin was dark and gnarled, and fur refused to sprout there in a wicked, twisting scar, sprouting like some grotesque tree across his left forearm. The back of his right hand was similarly damaged, the burns stretching down do his first knuckles, forever altered and changed. Morbidly, he considered that the ugliness inside of him was finally pouring out to reflect outwardly.

He didn't want to look at it, yet forced himself to do so, this was the price of his sins. Just as the scars on his back that tugged his skin when he bent too far. Four-legged, it was easier to just look forwards, and not focus on behind himself. So this he did, stalking in the gloom, an ember in the darkness.

Calls, screams, howls; they erupted without warning. John was already moving. All of them, they were wound so tightly, waiting for the next attack.

It was Evelyn's breath he heard, whispering desperation, Santiago's limp form, and that fucker, stunned and blood blossoming from his side, a red flower.

He didn't stop, nor even slow his forward charge. John's maw gaped wide, and eyes blazing, chips of green fire. He might have bumped into Paninya, or Evelyn, and when it was over he wouldn't remember if he had or not.

His roar lit up their clearing, and cut off abruptly, yellowing teeth clamping down onto something, anything, he didn't care what.

All of it, the wolf would suffer for every wrong he had wrought upon their band. For Calhoun's headless corpse, for Larka's terrified face and cowering fear, for his burned arms, and his burned possessions. Those precious few physical memories he'd had. Gone now.

As a dog shakes a caught rat, John ripped and tore, dragging his head from side to side, pulling the aging wolf this way and that -- terrible, vicious snarls bubbling from between his flesh filled teeth. There were others here now, they gathered, a Gang; Thieves and rustlers and cowboys, all eager to taste the sweet retribution.


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<div class="title">Johnathan Winthrop</div>
<div class="lyrics">I'm a dead man walkin'</div>

<div class="bottom">
<div class="sigicons" id="signature-icons">
<a href="http://wiki.soulsrpg.com/index.php?n=Players.Jace" target="_blank" title="PLAYER WIKI" class="player-wiki"></a>

<a href="#" class="reply-medium" title="REPLY SPEED: MEDIUM - Up to 2 weeks"></a>


<a href="http://wiki.soulsrpg.com/index.php?n=Characters.JohnathanWinthrop" target="_blank" title="CHARACTER WIKI" class="character-wiki"></a>
<a href="LINK" title="OPEN FOR THREADS!" class="open-for-threads"></a>
<a href="#" class="optime-preference" title="OPTIME unless otherwise stated."></a>
<a href="#" class="character-typical-location" title="North of Moosehead Lake"></a>
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#10
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She had never before possessed the desire to kill another canine before, but as she stood there with her pale eyes sharp and dangerous as flint and her dark lips pulled away from glinting fangs, it appeared as though there was nothing more that Paninya wanted to do than to tear the wounded wolf apart. A rumble, deep and throaty, buzzed in the air around her as she inched stiffly forwards on four legs, her head low and her hackles raised.


Evelyn glanced briefly in the little coydog's direction, simply to make sure the wolf had not advanced upon her, before returning her attention on Santiago. Where her hands brushed over his wounds blossoms of crimson bloomed upon her bandages. She cursed, the tone an angry growl laden with fear. "Open your damn eyes, Mr. Tejada. Santiago. Open them. Now!" she demanded, patting his cheek less than gently.


The roar that erupted in the absence of her frantic demands seemed to make all other sounds fall still.


The Vicar turned her head and saw carnage. Jonathan, a whirlwind of copper with eyes burning an emerald flame, was upon Solomon James and, smaller but no less fierce, Paninya tore and tugged at the wolf alongside him. When Johnathan had charged forward, bumping into the small coydog as he went, it had been just the thing she had needed to make her attack. Evelyn watched, unable to pull her eyes away, as their enemy was reduced to ribbons.


It wasn't until she felt a gentle warmth over her hand that the spell of the ensuing bloodbath was broken and the burned woman returned her attention to her wounded companion. His grip was weak but he was alive. Evelyn took his hand in her own and squeezed it, unable to keep her emotions contained. A tear slipped out of her good eye and fell upon the man's face. "You got some nerve," she growled, her voice a tangle of emotions. "Makin' me worry after you in this manner, Santiago." But as she held him, there was only care and relief in her touch.


With the sounds of brutality ripping through the air around them, help was sure to come soon.


OOC: lots of assumptions here! D: Lmk if either of you would like me to change anything! <3

[WC — 370]


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#11
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And the stars will be your eyes, And the wind will be my hands

There was a thundering. The sound was slow, encompassing - the wash of waves on some briny, stone-littered beach, rushing and loud yet comforting all the same. The tide of the blood in his ears did not bade so kindly to the words it so chose to swallow back up, and drag out to sea.

Through the salt and dark, he could hear something more savage afoot, than anything. Ripping, snarling, howling, roaring, the sounds of animals fighting; Solomon James was putting up a fight, but it was a weak one. Outside Santiago's scope, the wolf was losing beneath sinking teeth and shaking jaws. Dimly, he realized there was a shape above him. A voice cut through the fog, and her hand was on him, patting, prodding, gauging him for life outside of the tepid rise and fall, the push and pull of air in his lungs.

Santiago- It was Evelyn, and with considerable effort, he moved to blindly cover the warm patch on his chest with a hand, sticky with that copper-red of blood; It was hard to discern who's it was. An eternity later (or perhaps mere seconds, time was a slow hemorrhage), her own touch, delicate, small, welcoming, and the coyote could hear her a little more clearly now while she relayed her worry, and her ire. Despite himself, and the pain his face felt, his ruined lips managed to twitch upwards, breath pulling in more deep and rattling in his throat before he wheezed out a laugh that rapidly took to coughing.

"Th' line-" he slurred. "Between brave and stupid, is very thin."


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| [wc — --] template by hilli, image from Wayne Stadler
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#12
The minutes stretched on like hours, but the dusky sunset hadn't yet stolen the last tendrils of light that slithered into the sky. Trap, set, and the bodies of coyote's were riddled in the growing obscurity of the trees. It was all only a matter of time before the call, and Wayne's skin crawled with the static energy of expectation, an anxiety for closure that only they could provide in the only way it was deserved.

Lupus form paced wildly as he waited for the trigger, free of clothing, his hat, or his weapons. He knew he could pick up more speed as Lupus. The fight was too clandestine for his horse, Cochise's sounds and smells potentially ruining the surprise. Tall tawny ears poised atop a sooty face as blue eyes darted in all directions.

Bodies that dangled in the trees wasn't an image that Wayne could forget. The Reverend's head in his hands. The stampede and the fires. Lives were not so expendable. Wayne could only make up for who he had been, but even as a rope was tied around his own throat, he could excuse the injuries inflicted on himself, but his friends? The men and women that quickly became his family? Unforgivable.

Sudden and encroaching, the call was made. Just as suddenly, it was stolen. Wayne's body took flight, kicking up the earth beneath him as he ate away the ground. There was only so much time he had to eat away the space between them, and from the sound of it, Santiago hadn't made it too far before his call was cut short. Lunging from the brush, Wayne's darker form sailed just as John's first bite sunk into Solomon. The image of Evelyn over Santiago flashed in his eye, while Paninya was the second to taste their enemies flesh. The icey-eyed coydog with long legs and rectangular body stretched out in a leap to join into the fray of feral tearing and furious payback. The price to pay for his deeds and his debt.

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