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Sun Jun 02, 2019 10:31 am
|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.|
[300+] • using the internet for french — HI AGAIN 'SOULS i have brought with me: a disaster! *pushes gunner forward*... the song has nothing to do with the thread besides having french. i just really like it
Wildlife scattered from Cape Enrage, ever so aptly named for a foul-mouthed foreigner's current predicament. The wrath boiled under the hybrid's skin as he got up and paced along back and forth, tried not to scream again, tried not to tear at his fur. For any onlooker, it would look as though this man had received some simply horrid news from somewhere, someplace. But this was not the case.
A normal morning for Gunner Wilds involved kicking and screaming. He scowled as he remembered nearly being thrown overboard on the ship to Canada. Turns out, most sailors didn't like someone swearing up and down the decks in the middle of the night. Who knew? Gunner could've guessed, but he still paid those fuckers well to keep that from happening. A few breaths in, a few breaths out, and he walked to grab his bag, stuffed still with his father's research and other such 'necessities'. He slung it over his shoulder.
Fucking shit fuck. C’est des conneries. Gunner swore quieter.
'Course I'm in a fucking place I don't even know about. I should've gotten a fucking map or something. Fuck. If this backwater place even has a damn mapmaker for miles. A pause between angry mutterings, a thought.
Mapmaker? That sounds fucking stupid. What's the fucking word for that? It didn't matter. It wasn't like he couldn't hunt, that shit was all instinct, and he'd bought some meat with the last of his stolen materials. Still, the unknown scared him.
Moving away from Portland and up north was the best way to avoid being found by anybody he used to know. That didn't mean he had to like it. For all intents and purposes, if his father simply vanished and didn't exist, he'd be perfectly happy to sit pretty back in Paris. But life wasn't all sunshine and rainbows. So he bitterly chewed on a piece of meat and stomped forward, positively seething as always.
Sun Jun 02, 2019 4:57 pm
Tamlin had allowed Iomair the use of his horse in an effort to allow for their exploration to move faster. Lirael was an easy ride, a kind soul that Iomair appreciated each time he asked her to carry him further than before. She had carried him and Vodeva further then he could have ever hoped for, and so he felt a kinship with the wartorn animal that he knew would be difficult to forge again.
They paused for water as they went, and the King drank deeply from his water skin – patting the buckskin with an easy smile before mounting up and carrying on.
Here the territory changed from the lush Miramichi Valley to the rocky foothills that butted up against mountains and long treeless plains. He allowed the horse her head and was content to inspect the landscape as they went. Iomair kept an eye out for traders or the trail of a horse to follow – for out here he could not afford to be frightened of strangers. They needed all the help they could garner to their cause.
Iomair wore his only cloak, the dirty pin displayed upon his shoulder hopefully. His sword dangled from a worn leather sheath against his hip – the length of it bouncing gently against the horse as she moved. Soon they would stop again to rest and gather their strength. His endurance was not what it used to be.
His ears flattened, and Iomair Nartholiel found himself turning the horse against his better judgement towards the sound.
”Hello?” He called, frowning slightly until he found the pacing form of a man who practically vibrated against the crags of stone, ”...Are you alright?”
He slipped from the horses back and rest one hand against the hilt of his weapon, as if prepared to help the man against a foe he could not see.
I wanted to steal this! :D
Sun Jun 02, 2019 5:56 pm
[300+] • HIII <3 omg, iomair is so cool i love him
Gunner's head whipped around at the sound of the call, body tensing and curling inward. As well-intentioned as the stranger seemed by his greeting, it was reflexive for all of the foreigner's hairs to raise, fur billowing out in fine strands. He did not growl, but the rudeness of his frown made it a near thing. Everything about his body language said simply: Stay away. That was, until he got a good look and an assessment of the situation.
He saw the King's hand go to the hilt of his weapon, and rather than tense further, Gunner's ears perked up in interest, his fur relaxing onto his body. If he was honest, he hadn't been expecting sophisticated Luperci in any format here, let alone such a regal appearance. A good sign, he thought. Maybe there was more trade to be found here, somehow.
I'm—fine. I just— Gunner couldn't think of a good excuse for a second, mouth agape.
I'm lost. Close enough. His tone was full of frustration, though that was normal for him in general, perhaps even more so now. He hated not knowing, if it meant having to rely on others for information like this.
It's not important. He didn't want a topic that was about him. More interesting was...
The foreigner dared to step closer, initiating and committing to the ever-so dreaded conversation.
Where the fu— Right. Manners.
Where the f—fils de pute, where did you get that? Your sword? Is there a forge nearby? Though he normally would not offer up any additional information about himself, he figured it would best in a new land.
I can—I used to help work one. But he couldn't do it by himself—something that would always frustrate him. It was what he had passion for, far more than all of the medical information tucked away in his bag, and yet, his mentor always beat it into his head that it was much more than a one-canine job.
Mon Jun 03, 2019 6:02 pm
There were few who would hear the idle cursing of a misfit and rise to help them, but somethime about the boy bade Iomair pause – his scarred hands loosening around the hilt of his sword. Everything about the King was warm; the honey-dapple of his eyes, the twitching tawny that was caught up in the scruff that surrounded his lips. When he finally smiled it was with all of the warmth in the world, and a chuckle trickled through his lips as he smoothed the guard hairs that had for a moment before stood on end.
There was no threat here. Just a nervous boy with eyes that blazed like roses, his expression fraying around the edges as his mouth fought to gather words together into sentences.
Iomair felt his brows rise, ”Lost?” He rumbled softly and stepped closer, dropping the reigns of Lirael so that she could graze freely. ”I am not from here either.” At what point would he be? How many seasons would he have to go through before he felt as much a part of this place as he had his home? Old Caledonia was a benchmark, a comparison that was always floating through his mind. The others brought pieces of themselves to the camp; Fennore brought her celtic background, Anh her Vietnamese – each of them wove together to make a patchwork that was New Caledonia, and Iomair needed to respect that their benchmark would change.
He hummed softly, ”My sword?” He glanced at it and offered another smile, ”I made it a long time ago.” He tugged on his chin hair asked curiously, ”You are an ironpaw?” Dúr seemed to be pulling strings somewhere far away, ensuring that Iomair met someone who understood the craft as passionately as he did. He wondered if the man would notice the scars on his hands, the marks left by a toothy forge that had snapped at him in his youth.
Tue Jun 04, 2019 12:52 am
[300+] • —
I kinda—fuckin', well, I had to leave home. It's complicated. He wouldn't tell his story, not unless explicitly asked... Perhaps not even then. Despite his involuntary swearing, the young man was an reactive one, taking in the impression and energy that he was given, and calming down—thanks to the stranger doing nothing to rile him up. If anything, he looked at the High King, and saw the perfect ideal, the vision of the future that he wanted so badly for himself. Peace and quiet, warmth and dignity.
But Gunner was no fool. He knew that it was simple projection, an illusion his mind made. The scars along the elder were cracks in the looking glass, and while one could not deny the man looked wise, he had no doubt the King had paid dearly for such wisdom, once upon a time.
Ironpaw? He tested out the foreign title, trying to understand the meaning behind it, guessing if it had deeper significance. Likely not.
You—could say that. I'm not as good as I could be, but I can make a blade. He sounded frustrated with his lack of progress; restricted by his circumstance.
The question, the answers, brought a spark of hope.
Could I see it? He used the most polite tone he could become capable of. He held a sort of reverence about the craft that he didn't apply to anything else that made it possible. An odd meeting of the minds, to be sure, though Gunner was not the type to believe in any fate or destiny all on his own, so the feeling it left he couldn't put a name to. A dramatic, poetic soul might describe it as a dream-like encounter, but he only knew how to have nightmares.
Tue Jun 04, 2019 10:58 pm
The sigh that left Iomair was longer than he had intended – but there was something about the boy with the pale tuft of fur that settled deep down, like the calm that came before a spring storm, or the quiet curl of a sleeping bloom. ”That I can understand.” His story was one that had been repeated countless times now, to traders and would be allies. The twitching lips of the boy danced as Iomair stepped ever closer, canting his head curiously. ”I had no choice but to leave.” He snorted through his nostrils sadly and winced, ”War is a terrible, terrible thing.”
He brightened, ears pricking forward as the boy mentioned making blades. The sound that the sword made as he pulled it from its sheathe was a song that set the King to practically bursting – and as the metal gleamed beneath the cloud covered sky, he found himself humming proudly. It was one of the first things that he’d ever made beneath the careful watch of his father – and he had carried it with him even when it had hung too lowly on his hip. ”It is a craft that takes time – I was always so impatient.” The burns on his hand were suddenly more obvious as he handed the boy his sword to heft in his hands. ”Yes, of course.”
”You can see where I made mistakes – here,” He pointed, ”And here. But it is a good blade and has served me well.”
She had claimed many lives before he had been elected as Caledonia King – a man forced to resign his position as a soldier in order to save what few traditions they had left. He had considered carving her name into the hilt, but instead he kept it hidden away – a gift to pass down to his children who would give the Aegas weapon a new name; and so on, and so on.
He smiled at the thought. It meant that there was a future, here.
"My name is Iomair Nartholiel." He smiled again, allowing it to ignite in the warmth of his eyes, "High King of New Caledonia."
Tue Jun 04, 2019 11:58 pm
[300+] • —
He nodded his head at the explanation, a frown on his face that might've read as sympathetic if it weren't for his angry brows. Gunner had no experience with large scale forces nor interaction, the biggest group he'd ever been apart of was the sailing crew that took him to Portland. His father had isolated him, in part to keep him from seeking help. The mention of war reminded him of why he chose so frequently chose independence, though. He could take or leave being a part of something grander than him. It had the same likelihood as crashing and burning as he, alone, did. The battles he had fought were smaller, but they left him scarred just the same.
So the strong ring of the metal instilled awe in Gunner, watching it shine before him. He took the sword from the other ever so carefully, handling it with a keen eye to its strengths—and the flaws as they were pointed out to him.
I can take the heat. The Wilds boy told him, stern and proud. Burns didn't scare him, neither did fire. There were things much more terrible, and if a war-torn country was what the King was running from, then he knew that just as well. He grinned at the sentimentality, offering the sword back.
It's good because it has served you, right? The question might've read a little rhetorical, a quip from his sharp mouth.
A classic difference between youth and elder; he focused only on making something newer, better, every time he took to the forge. He couldn't understand why people like this man, like the Silent Dragon of Paris, always had a weapon that they named, a weapon that they sharpened again and again, and never let go of. Not yet, anyway. Gunner's ears twitched forward, at attention as the King introduced himself. He had no reason to believe the stranger was lying about his identity, just as Iomair must know that a foreigner had no reason to respect his title. But there were other reasons to respect the High King, and perhaps that was why he was a ruler.
Gunner Wilds. I'm from across the sea, I grew up in Paris—my mother was English, though. 'S why I don't sound so damn pretentious.
Wed Jun 05, 2019 1:17 am
”You could say that, yes.” For a moment he was transported to a time where the sword had been too big in his hands, his fingers unscarred. Tairnean Nartholiel had dedicated himself to his children despite the duties that had been bestowed upon him as the head of their household. Grainne worked alongside him, stoking flames with arms that Iomair had always thought could encompass the world.
”She has a name you know,” He smiled as Gunner turned the blade in his hands, ”My father always said that I was gifted by Dúr himself. Her name is Durandal in his honor.”
He hummed softly, ”Did you name the blade you made?”
Iomair had wondered what it would be like introducing himself to Luperci that were not from the old Caledonia – wolves that did not understand the title that so often seeped from his tongue. The man couldn’t help the smile that crept onto his features at the boys introduction, ”A pleasure to meet you Gunner Wilds.” He took the sword as it was offered, and carefully placed it back in its sheath.
"What is Paris?" He felt himself grow curious, "I travelled very far to get here... but I have never crossed the sea."
Wed Jun 05, 2019 2:16 am
[300+] • —
He quirked his brow, questioned him languidly.
Dúr? Is that your God? He'd heard of a lot of Gods. His father thought knowledge as powerful as one, while some of the sailors mentioned Poseidon. Or was it Neptune? Hard to keep track of how many there were now. Such large pantheons like they worshiped in Rome were not appealing to him; it only meant more room for error.
Gunner looked to his sheath at the question, grunted at the Iomair's pleasantries, withdrawing his battle sword to offer it to Iomair in turn.
'Dragon, my mentor, said I 'ought to'. I'm not any damn good at names, so I just call it Début. I wanna make another, it's kinda shitty. At least by a dedicated worker's standards. To the untrained eye, it was a sharp blade and that was more than enough, but Gunner didn't like using that as an excuse for sloppy work.
The hybrid didn't have to think hard on the question of Paris.
A shitty melting pot. Gunner told him bluntly, clearly not too fond of his hometown. But it wasn't really his home. It was Griffon's. His birth took place there, however his mother had traveled him and his siblings all over, before Griffon came to take him back.
You've got a lot of rich fucks there who think they're better than anyone else, spending their days sipping wine. The food's good, though. Not sure if it's worth the trip. He thought back to the of the green pastures of the farms, remembered a time he once tried to steal an easy snack as a pup; only to be caught and lectured for an hour. It had seemed an eternity of time spent hanging his head, in his youth.
In his illusions, he was envious of Iomair, thinking he must've had the fairy-tale life before the war, he could already picture a pretty little castle and everything, a Prince's crown on his head as soon as he learned to shift. But in the reality, he realized that Old Caledonia might not differ so much from Paris after all.
Fri Jun 07, 2019 12:28 am
Iomair made a soft chuffing sound and gathered his hands against the folds of his cloak. ”Yes, one of many.” He smiled again and recited the names – and for a moment he felt as if he was in one of his Mothers lessons. ”The Clans of my homeland each worship a different God. There is Valleui and Valleuar, Nanin and Nín. Each represent an important piece of our history – though of course I hold Dúr in high esteem.” He thought of Vodeva and hummed softly, ”My wife, Vodeva – she is from a different Clan than I. She follows the rivers and forests of old.”
He brightened, ”You would like her, I think.”
Iomair glanced at the boys sword, ”A good name. Début.” He imitated the boys inflection and wondered what the language was that every so often peppered his words. As travelled as the man was now, he had rarely left Caledonia – and it left him ignorant of the other cultures that lingered just out of reach. The man was useless with languages – though words from an ancient people had been passed down to him through his family line.
”I hope to not have to travel so far for a long time. His brows peeked, ”I have a camp, not far from here –“ He smiled, ”If you need a warm bed or some food we would be more than happy to have you. We are not rich by any means, but we have the basics. There are others too – healers and scouts, even a shepherd.” He resisted the urge to clap the boy on the shoulder and instead rested a scarred fist against the pummel of his sword. ”That is if you would like to join us. We could use another Ironpaw in our midst.” He winked, "For when we find a forge to light."