A stitch in Time

Dollar Lake

POSTED: Mon Jun 19, 2017 6:14 pm

The lake stretched out before him in unspeakable beauty, the waters seeming to glow an unearthly blue that rippled with ghostly memories of long-forgotten revelry. Lush vegetation crowned the shores in a veritable fortress of greenery, providing homes for a bounty of prey that scurried through the brush. Deer could be seen, serenely grazing without fear in their forest abode, and danced under dapple sunlight. Floral perfume drifted on lazy breezes that swept between the ironwood trees, dispersing a heady mixture of honeysuckle. Art strove to imitate the landscape, its visage of beauty incarnate capable of moving the hardest of hearts to weeping puddles. So it was only natural that Xōchitl completely ignored his surroundings, choosing to focus on a rip in his shirt instead.

Tranquility was violently shattered by booming swearing, as the wolf ran through every curse he knew in the three languages available to him. Rucksack having been slung roughly off to one side, Xōchitl tugged his shirt to the side, examining the tear. It was an ugly one, with a poor prognosis. Callused fingers gently probed the weak links in the fiber, and when he gave a little tug, his left sleeve decided to make a break for it.

Time dilated in that instant, the linen tube slowly drifting away, highlighted by the dark green contrast of grass on the lakeshore. Lone threads extended outward, waving their farewell salutes to the wolf who had given them such a loving home. Seconds ticked by as Xōchitl reached out with both hands, silently mouthing a desperate plea to nameless deities for this nightmare to end. It did not, the thin fabric of the sleeve escaping his clenching grasp by mere millimeters. Time stopped as Xōchitl’s faded green eyes widened in abject terror.

The sleeve fell to the ground, a small cloud of dust announcing its arrival to Mictlan, realm of monsters and death. Slowly, his arms fell like lead weights to his sides, and the wolf’s spirits not far behind. He. Liked. That. Shirt. He had to trade gemstones for it, which were not easy to come by. He’d had to behead a bison as part of the process of acquiring them! Which was much less easy than it sounded, especially when the bison in question was charging towards one’s self! Muttering dark and disturbing threats to nobody in particular, Xōchitl bent down to retrieve his shorn sleeve. Standing once more, he glanced further down the shore with a quick duck of the head, noticing the rotten shells of vacationer homes on the waterfront.

Maybe he could find a tailor somewhere around here?

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Shin

POSTED: Wed Jun 21, 2017 4:44 am

Word Count → 000 :: Hello! That was a super pretty post about a ripped sleeve xD

He had been simply riding by – the drone of hooves in his ears set a calming melody that was enough to lull the vodou priest to a very calm state. He loved long rides. He loved, and he hated them. For after a while, when his horse needed rest and the trip seemed to draw out much more than it had when they started it, he became antsy.

A sudden boom of curses caused Narcisse to slow his stallion, turning it around to find the source. He was a naturally curious creature, and to hear someone cursing like that, it must have been bad. Maybe it was something he could help with. Maybe he could offer his services for a bit of payment. Maybe he could return to his shack rich with herbs…

What he came upon was slightly confusing. He pulled on the horse’s reins, but the stallion did not respond right away and instead they trotted past the cursing explorer. At that point, there was a scowl on his face that could’ve suggested someone peed in his water skin. He turned his stallion around once more, and stopped just short of the man.

”You hurt?” he asked, noticeably checking the man for injury. He eyed the sleeve weirdly, clutched in the man's hands. ”Don't seem like it. What’s wrong wit ya?”

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Luperci

POSTED: Wed Jun 21, 2017 4:09 pm

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thudding hoofbeats of a horse were unmistakable, and the wolf had heard the lone stallion from a while off, its rider no doubt drawn in by the veritable storm of swearing he had emitted. A wolf sat perched upon the horse’s back, and Xōchitl took the opportunity to examine the stranger as his irate steed trotted past in the equine equivalent of a middle finger. Piercings glinted in the sunbeams striking the side of the stranger's face face, and a bandanna swaddled most of the top of the stranger’s face. Although he wasn’t entirely confident, Xōchitl felt the smart money was on the rider being a red wolf. He’d been down in the Southeast a fair few times, and could hopefully play the familiarity card during this encounter. In theory.

It was with a smooth turn that Xōchitl came to face the horse as it came back towards him. Rather than standing around with one sleeve clenched in his hand like an utter loon, he opted to sling the fabric over his shoulder with a sort of casual flair. His other hand made its way to his hip, the wolf’s body language carefully constructed to give a sort of relaxed, yet assertive feel as he regarded the man on horseback.

Hah! I knew it! Bandanna-Man spoke with an unmistakable Cajun patios, and he would have bet his other sleeve that the stranger had crawled directly of of some bayou. Normally that would have been an insult, but New Orleans and the surrounding areas had actually been very kind to Xōchitl. The thriving trade in Gris-Gris alone had been more than enough to keep him afloat for weeks. And, more importantly, it meant his red wolf assumption was as good as gold.

First impressions were very important, and although this one was less than preferable, it wasn’t the worst. Cocking his head slightly towards the other wolf, he began to speak in a voice that was pitched deliberately to be pleasing to the ear. Silk would have been jealous. ”You wouldn’t happen to know someone who can sew, Monsieur? This shirt is very precious to me.” To illustrate this point, Xōchitl waved the severed sleeve. His accent left something to be desired, the hispanicized pronunciation still coming through in his words, but at least it signaled his familiarity with the red wolf’s culture. People liked people who were like them, as it turned out. Hopefully the traveler would pick up on the unstated promise of reward, earning a forged bit of jewelry for his effort.

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Shin

POSTED: Thu Jul 06, 2017 5:44 am

Word Count → 000 :: ooc text here

The wolf had asked him about his sleeve, and Narcisse found himself in a bit of a dilemma. He didn’t sew, nor did he know anyone that did. And there wasn't anyone around them for miles, it would seem. Here was a man, his sleeve, and the wilderness. He was left to wonder...

”Mmm... Non,” he replied honestly. He had no reason to trick the man into believing that he could. Even if he tried, he might as well have told the man beforehand. He couldn’t sew. There was no faking it because he would likely embarrass himself anyway.

”Ya might have a betta’ time tryin’ dem packs in da area. I hear dey do business wit’ passin’ tradas. If ya have somedin’ ta offa', dat is.” He took up the sleeve - if it was offered - in his hands and examined the stitching where it had come undone. Nothing ran through his mind at that moment, just curiosity.

”How'd ya rip dis off?”

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Luperci

POSTED: Thu Jul 06, 2017 10:17 pm

Well. That was disappointing. Xōchitl let out a long hiss, deflating noticeably. It seemed he was back at square one, again. Bandanna-Man’s courtesy aside, there was seemingly no way out of his predicament. Except killing the other wolf, and claiming his bandanna as substitute sleeve. But he found that course of action just a tad too extreme, given the innocuous circumstances. Aside from professing no knowledge of the tailoring arts, Xōchitl’s new acquaintance seemed amicable enough.

He perked up slightly when local packs were brought up, given his current ignorance of local affairs. Bringing a hand up to his chin, the wolf stroked the hairs there, considering Bandanna-Man’s statement. Trade goods weren’t much of an issue, he had plenty. Nor were the people skills, although an overly ambitious approach to commerce had cost him his sleeve in the first place. It seemed a reasonable enough option to pursue. Looking back over at the red wolf, Xōchitl inquired into the matter. ”You have any suggestions who I should go to? I kinda’ like not havin’ my face ripped off, Viajante.” He’d been having a less than exemplary run of luck with his fellow canines lately, and walking up to the den of skull-crackers with a fruit basket was the absolute last thing he wanted to do right now.

He freely gave the sleeve over to the strange wolf, as there was only so much you could ruin something already broken. Xōchitl neglected to answer the probe into how the shirt had been torn. Instead, he simply gave a thousand yard stare that spoke of sufficiently horrible circumstances.

It was easier that way.

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Shin

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