[m] the color of your eyes turns to gray

POSTED: Wed Oct 02, 2019 9:07 pm

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.

all welcome (more than one preferred, post order is open) and encouraged to help fennore haul amon back and heal him! <3 (first couple of paragraphs can be skipped, just exposition lmao) [+800]

There were many strange goings-on in New Caledonia as of late.

The blood in the Endewaith was the first instance. Admittedly there could have been a myriad of reasons why it was there, but somehow paired with the mists rolling in during the evening time, her mind only jumped to the most extreme of reasons. She figured by morning time it would be cleared out, but alas, the thick gray vapor still hung low over the earth, the rays of sun not even strong enough to dissipate it. Perhaps by midday it would disappear, but for now, well into the morning, it remained staunchly in place.

No matter. In the safety of the sunlight the Moonwraith was not afraid to venture out from the city square; in the uncertainty of the night, however, she would have to be more cautious. Nevertheless, she decided to not go out unarmed any longer, just in case. The simple bow and quiver were strung across her back, and she was unadorned save for the braided crown upon her skull. Fog would definitely impede on her archery practice, but it would certainly not deter her.

Macha, her spotter, was seated nearby, watching with the same childlike and renewed interest as the woman nocked an arrow and aimed for a trunk, farther away than any target she had hit before. In small increments she had increased her range, going at a pace similar to what she assumed the golden scout would set for her — though maybe a bit slower to account for the lack of a proper instructor. But she powered through his absence anyway.


The mist began to thin out as the morning wore on, and just as she walked over to retrieve a stray arrow, she froze when she heard the snapping of twigs. Whipping around, she squinted, still unable to make out shapes too far out, wrapped in gray fog —

Movement. Sound. And then the distinct, coppery smell of blood wafted through her nostrils.

"Who goes there?" she demanded, her voice sharp and booming as she quickly got to her feet. Her pale hands gripped the bow uneasily as she was met with silence, but soon the figure began to slowly inch closer, limping with each labored step.

She could see his eyes pierce through the smog, and an arrow aimed right for him in her shaking palms. "Do not come any closer or I will shoot," she warned, instinct begging her to let loose the arrow into this unknown threat, but she remained still — she remained calm, or as calm as she could muster.

He came to a halt, grunting. The man was a behemoth, easily dwarfing her twice over; his hand clutched over his side as red beadlets dripped down. Fennore's grip on the bow faltered, and her eyes widened at the sight. "Are... Are you bleeding?"

The male didn't speak. Instead he sunk to his knees, eyes rolling back as he slumped to the ground with a loud thunk. The clattering of metal fell with him, and the axe strapped to his back lay abandoned beside him.

At first the wolfess didn't move, her arrow still pointed toward his still body, but from the corner of her eye she could see Macha staring at him, surprised and concerned and scared. "F-Fen?" she meowed quietly, her usual curiosity all but absent.

Fennore moved to him painfully slowly, whitened knuckles still gripping the bow as she hovered over him, lips pulled into a taut line. His blood pooled on the ground below him, and the color drained from her face as she forced herself to kneel down beside him. She struggled to roll him over, and the red stained her scarred palms, and her eyes were numbly drawn to the raven tattoo on his chest.

He was still breathing, he was alive. But the gaping wound at his side suggested not for long, not without medical attention — something the woman was entirely unfamiliar with. From the smell of it, he had lost quite a lot of blood, and the thought of it made her swoon.

Her mouth opened and closed as she tried to find words to say. He was awake, albeit barely, and his glazed over eyes could barely focus on her as he groaned, trying to get up. "Stop moving," she hissed, gaze hardened as she pushed his hands back by his sides.

Macha was against her side, rubbing into her fur, mewling softly. "Call for help," she said in a voice Fennore had never heard before. Never had Macha seemed so... scared. Nothing had phased her before, nothing until now.

Fennore remained motionless for a moment, but then her head tipped back to let loose a summoning call, one tinged with urgency and worry.

Last edited by Fennore on Thu Oct 03, 2019 11:26 am, edited 1 time in total.

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POSTED: Wed Oct 02, 2019 10:42 pm

Word Count → +500 :: OOC Here

Nkechi found herself settled outside her home, her gaze fixated on the sky above her. Back in Bedaya, the stars in the sky were meant as a path to ones own fate. It was common to see many of her tribe watching the phase of the moon, watching for the signs of good omens. A shooting star was the best sign anyone could ask for, to the desert that rain was coming to their land. From the green that covered these lands, such harsh conditions were not experienced here.

She wondered then what these omens could bring to her new home if not rain. What fortunes could rain down on them?

The jackal turned her head to the sound of the door opening. Sigríður's silhouette appeared, outlined by the candles lit inside their home. There was not much between them, but a pelt was wrapped around her shoulders. Shutting the door, she came to join the other woman, looking at her, "It's gettin' late."

"I know. It's the perfect time to be out here. My people would walk under the cover of night, guided by the stars."

A grin seemed to curl along the hound's muzzle, "Oh? That so? And here I thought you weren't for sneaking around and looking suspicious."

The words managed a small giggle from the jackal, "My tribe is not the only one in Bedaya. They know of our culture, as do those in Cairo. It is something we have done since the desert brought us all here."

The fall winds brought a small gust, Nkechi's thobe and the pelt brushing along behind them as it passed. The two sat there, together, looking up at the sky, hours seeming to pass them by, and losing track of time. The reddish woman soon fell asleep out there, pelt wrapped around her small body, yet the jackal looked onto into the night sky.

It was morning when the mist began to roll in on them. It seemed like she had been up all night, watching for the signs of a good omen, none of which ever came. Tiredness hung in her eyes, ready to get some rest herself. The hound stirred, soon waking up with a stretch as well as a yawn. Her green eyes fluttered on her companion, "Oh please don't tell me you've been out here all night." The jackal opened her mouth to speak, but her attention shifted to a gray cat that appeared in the square. Its green eyes darted back and forth, looking frantic. Something was wrong.

That's when the call went out. Nkechi and Sigríður exchanged a glance with one another before getting onto their feet. With everything that was going on, they couldn't be too sure that something was or wasn't wrong. If there was a call going out, it had to be something. They moved to their feet, padding towards the sound.

When they came across the pale woman, there was a darker man there with her, towering over both the short females. The smell hit them instantly, "He's hurt."

NKechi Ndaiye

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POSTED: Wed Oct 09, 2019 9:35 pm

Sometimes the morning sunlight managed to burn through a section of the mist that coated New Caledonia so thickly, and in those pretty golden moments Iomair found himself transported to times of olde. They were always short lived however, as soon the fog rolled in to clot its way across the sky. The King watched quietly from his post; his hands clasped behind his back – his sword hanging like a quiet promise from his hip.

It had been difficult to stay in the Bastion alone. Vodeva eluded him like a ghost, waking him with memories of the sounds she made when she twisted and turned in bed – forcing him to consciousness only to realize that she was not there. He had arranged her furs perfectly, smoothing the blankets so that there was not even a wrinkle – and still it lay undisturbed, the blood stains covered and hidden so that he was not reminded of the morning she had been taken.

Even the thought of it made the muscles in his jaw twitch, and he forced himself to attempt to gaze out into the din – his features cast with shadows of iron and steel.

When the call went out he pitched his ears forward, wishing for all of the world that he had a horse to gallop after the sound. Instead he made the journey on foot, slinging the sword up over his shoulder so that it was out of the way while he ran. It was in moments like this that he was reminded that he was not a particularly young man, and though he was in good shape for his age he could feel the creak of his knees as he ran up a hill – the tell tale ache that told him that the prime of his life was now.

When he found Fennore he rumbled a greeting, but was surprised at the hulking form that lay like a heap of stones against the ground. He could see the gentle rise and fall of his shoulder blades as he shuddered, and Iomair felt a snarl building in his chest – rumbling against the cloud which rose around them on all sides.

Nkechi was there too with her companion, Sigríður, and he greeted them with a silent look – one hand raised as if he was prepared to defend him.

”Where did he come from?” His voice was as sharp as a blade, the usually warm expression that so often graced his features cold and calm as the sea.

These were strange times.

And this man was an unknown.



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