Re: don't weep for me

for i deserve no sorrow

POSTED: Wed Jun 26, 2019 4:47 pm

FennORe

It was easy in her youth to push away the unpleasant memories of home; with so many adventures taking place in these new lands, their more positive influence easily outweighed her troubled history. And yet when Tamlin asked of these things, they seemed to rush in like a flood and drag her back out to sea once more.

She blinked and she was in a dark place, the only light being that of a kindling fire in the middle of the tent. Her wrists ached and rubbed against the rope bindings, panic seizing her as she watched the figure move about the crackling center, chanting lowly in the ancient tongue. She couldn't see them but she could smell them; in the corner of the room, her parents, her sister watching, eager, proud. She had complied with their wishes; this was what they wanted. But when she had second-thoughts, the priest was bound by the gods to continue the ritual.

"There is no going back," he said. "This is how the gods will protect you," he said. She spat at him as he drew away, unaffected by her acidic words and rebuttals. No gods would ask of this, no gods should be used for pleasure and subjugation in such a way. "You are the hand of dead gods," she screamed at him, and yet he again ignored her.

Cloaked arms brought a piece of iron from the flames, red hot and alight with the heat, and she had screamed and fought as he lowered the branding tool closer and closer to her side

Tamlin's voice brought her back, but even after the memory passed her tattoo burned. His words were meant to please her, and yet somehow to were received remarkably hollowly by Fennore. She met his easy grin with a distant frown, her eyes returning to the terrain ahead of Lirael. There was much she could have said, as before she had given her clan far too much credit, but the Anor was wise to keep the conversation moving. If she had gotten bogged down in their backwards practices, he could not very easily pull her out of that self-dug hole.

"Oh, I would kill for a bed." Her tone was odd now, tainted by those surreal flashbacks. She shook her body as though seized by a chill and it seemed to remedy her countenance, and she added with a bit more liveliness: "Or a house with a room, for that matter. While I am committed to Caledonia's restructuring, I rather miss having privacy." There was only so much a small tent could provide, after all.

She looked to him again, squeezing Lirael's sides again as she slowed to keep her moving. "There is much we've yet to do, isn't there?" It was rhetorical; even as naive as she was to the things that went into establishing great empires, she was wise enough to know they didn't sprout overnight. Caledonia had only a few possessions as it was, though with time, that was sure to change.

ooc → <3
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• moonwraith •

POSTED: Sun Jul 07, 2019 11:14 am

The reverie of her past always twisted her up: he saw then that it had been foolish to bring it up, for whatever it was that needled her consciousness was still too fresh.Maybe in a few years, I will know. He was a patient man, like his father. When she was finally ready to tell him what had happened, he would be waiting. It was good fortune that she continued to speak at all—but he couldn’t take credit for that one, as it was mostly luck that he’d done it at all. In all manners of talking, it was Fennore who was the graceful one, who navigated dark waters with ease; perhaps when the Moonwraith saw fit to disclose her history, he would have learned her talents and could actually help her…

Whatever plague memory had assaulted her, she seemed to overcome it. The Sunwarden tilted his golden head, considering her words. He was a man who valued privacy as well, but he had always found it in the trees. When Caledonia sprouted walls to guard herself, would he find them liberating? It would be nice, to have a place to store what treasures he came across… and Lirael would benefit from the safety. Maybe she might even feel secure enough that they could consider a foal or two. His gold-ringed pupils shot back to the elegant Moonwraith, her wrapped hands holding the reins. She might feel more comfortable astride a horse that she had raised and loved since birth.

“And all the time there is left to do it in,” he replied, and thought he did truly mean it with a sense of optimism. Despite all the horrors there were, in both of their pasts and presents, he did truly believe in the resurrection of his home. It would be different, and the work would be hard, but that had never scared him off before. With as good of company as he had, he did not find the idea insurmountable.

A glance towards the sun informed him that they had been about their trial for quite some time. Her legs would surely be sore in the morning. “Do you feel ready to head back, Fennore? You’ve come quite far since we started.” The forest was headstrong with a summer’s afternoon, tilting over to become a summer’s evening. And they still had a ways to go to return home.

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Becky
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POSTED: Sun Jul 07, 2019 8:49 pm

FennORe

He saw the pain wrinkle her features and sting her side, and yet he remained quiet out of respect for her privacy — and he was wise to, for there was no guarantee if they discussed it at all she would remain civil and decent with him. Even with Tamlin, the trauma of her tattoo outweighed her fondness for him, as much as she loathed to admit it.

She felt guilty as she realized this, but it too was swept away beneath her sprawling, distancing words.

The scout carried on the conversation as best as he could, though his usual quietness served just as well to distract her mind. They continued for a time, talking idly, praising Lirael for behaving so nicely, and of course entertaining Macha as the kitten demanded tribute from her bipedal companions. Soon the day dragged into early evening, having flown by as they practiced her jockeying skills and ate from her stores. He gently suggested they turn back for camp, and she saw no reason to object. Besides, they had two bottles waiting eagerly for their return...

"Of course." And so they did, again making pleasant conversation when called for and sharing more hopes for the future, and before the sun completely dipped behind the horizon, they made it to New Caledonia once more. They relieved Lirael of her tack and secured her thusly, and Fennore suggested lightly to Macha that she remain with Sabriel and the mare to keep them company (and get out of her hair); none the wiser, the kitten was more than happy to hop onto the buckskin's back and make herself at home, much to the probable dismay of the steed. When Tamlin was pleased with the state of things in his small piece of the camp, the Moonwraith took his hands gently and led him back to her little tent, and they settled into the cramped space as well as two (just) friends could.

She tried to ignore the dull ache of her wrapped palms; perhaps the alcohol could soothe them or otherwise distract her. Reaching into the bag, she retrieved one of the bottles of amber, turning it over in her anxious hands. Finally, the moment had arrived, a moment she hadn't entirely anticipated but nonetheless was curious to see how it would go. Hopefully not terribly or awkwardly, but... it was a risk she was willing to take, and a risk Tamlin had no choice but to accompany her with.

"Tamlin Anor," she breathed, passing the bottle to her partner. "You are a man of many years. Show me how it is done." She grinned thinly at him, knowing full well she had drank more recently than he, but such was the nature of their interactions: always on her terms.

ooc → some time skipping here :D
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POSTED: Mon Jul 08, 2019 1:10 pm

The transition back to camp went smoothly enough. Fennore had clearly put her lessons to good use, steering Lirael with as much ease as a fresh student could. It didn’t take long to relieve her of her burdens, brushing the horse down. In his customary way, Tamlin rubbed his face on the mare’s, telling her how much he loved her and what a good job she had done. For her part, the buckskin had nibbled at him with her velveteen lips, shaking her broad head with a snort as she had prepared to spend the evening eating foliage at a leisurely pace. Unfortunately for her, the lessons in riding were not over: her new rider meowed plaintively for attention. As it stood, Lirael had become accustomed to much stranger things since the fall of Caledonia—she went for the green leaves nearby regardless as Macha tangled in her mane.

Tamlin did his best to ignore the feel of her wound wrappings in his hand as they went entwined to Fennore’s tent, ducking inside for a pale imitation of the privacy the Moonwraith had been longing for. Though he had been forewarned about their intentions to spend the night drinking, he still appeared surprised when the bottle of liquor ended up in his hands, staring at it as though it was a mystery to unravel. “Many years?” He asked, mock offense on his countenance as he nevertheless uncorked their bottle with the blade of his dagger. When the scent of the booze hit him, he almost wished he hadn’t been successful. With furrowed brow he stared down the glass neck of it at the liquid swishing about within, but Fennore’s expectant face was a request he didn’t dare refuse; he stiffened his resolve and took a swig.

Though his countenance was plainly written with a mild distaste, he at least didn’t cough or gag. “So that is the whiskey of ‘Soulsland,” the Sunwarden murmured, eyebrows raised. “I think I prefer mead.” Playfully he added, looking at the bracelet on her wrist, “But the company cannot be improved!” With a cheeky grin, he passed the bottle back to the beautiful Luperci seated beside him. How easily they fell to banter, the moon and sun in a continuous dance. He waited for her to drink her ill-gotten gains, skull tilted curiously. “What do you think?”

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Becky
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POSTED: Tue Jul 09, 2019 6:26 pm

FennORe

Was he not at least a year or so her senior? His exaggerated surprise caused her wiry grin to widen if even the slightest bit, but nonetheless he was forever faithful to her instruction. She watched his reactions and motions with an analytical eye, seeing the slight hesitation in his hands before he unscrewed the top and went for the tentative first sip. Slight displeasure blossomed on his pale face, but otherwise he did not protest. Perhaps despite his maturity he did not choose to indulge in alcohol much back in Old Caledonia. A wise decision, she mused with some interest.

Fennore gave a small shrug at his words, lightly taking the spirit from his hands. "Mead was my clan's drink of choice also," she commented offhandedly, though there were no hidden meanings or criticisms to her words — well, not explicitly, anyway. There were always harsh words she could voice, but she had grown tired of reminiscing for one day as it was.

"Oh, yes, I can say with confidence I much prefer your decency to Athras's... normalcy." The odd phrasing gave her pause for only a moment before she halted any further comment with the bottle of sin shared between them. She drank from the bottle a bit more eagerly, though the jolt of bitterness and disgust wrinkled her features much more easily, the liquid burning all the way down her throat as it always did. Only this time, she had no watered-down drink from Biff's; this was a strong, stout whiskey, much more potent than anything she had ever ordered at the bar.

And yet it did go down, and she looked at him from half-glazed eyes, her body tingling from the initial shock. "It will do," she answered hoarsely, unwilling to go back on her decision now. With more vigor, she pushed aside her anxieties and downed another three gulps of the poison, sighing deeply as she licked her lips.

"You will have to do better than that, Caledonian," she chided him softly, passing the bottle to him easily. No drunkenness had seized her yet, but the strength of the drink was indeed beginning to settle sourly in her stomach, warming her body far beyond what any fire could manage.

Despite the flame kindling within her, her face was picturesque and placid as ever, even as her cheeks softly glowed with a pink flush.

ooc → *sssslides M tag on thread* >:)))
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POSTED: Fri Jul 12, 2019 2:44 pm

ooc: 50% done!!! get hype yo!!

He heard her statement, filing it away into that part of his brain that was reserved for all things Fennore. It seemed every day he filled it more—but he did not respond to it, except to keep his placid smile. Not after how she had succumbed to the tug of history on their horseback ride… he wouldn’t risk it again. When the next words came, however, he could not resist the gravity of a retort, though his eyes glittered when he did so. “Athras on your mind again, Fennore?” The tease was laced with merriment, though he no longer felt the burden of anxiety in his gut. Such was the dog in him, to trust everything she said—even as he hung on every word.

Fennore tilted her head back to better drink the beverage that seemed more akin to venom, exposing the slender curve of her white throat. He suppressed a laugh at the expression it struck upon her face, and he wondered if his own had mirrored that disgust. It didn’t seem nearly as funny, however, when the bottle made its way back into his own golden fingers, and he realized it was his turn again to punish himself with the liquor. Mournfully he lifted the smooth glass of it, and then his throat was afire again as the devil water splashed its way down into his belly. The Sunwarden lowered the bottle, only to meet the expectant gaze of his company. He groaned, lifting it once more, grateful they had eaten dinner before deciding on this pursuit. Without it, surely he would have felt nauseous.

As unaccustomed as he was to drinking, especially to the end goal of drunkenness, he found himself almost nervous in his self-reflection. Did he feel as though his fingers were vibrating? Was that the coursing of the alcohol throughout his bloodstream? It was a bit uncomfortable, worried that he was that he had been spontaneously inebriated, though he thought his mind was still clear. Gold-encircled pupils snapped up to the lovely countenance before him, and he thought himself even more anxious. He drank again before returning the bottle to its owner.

“Well,” he stated perfunctorily, wondering if his tenor voice sounded different after his throat had been so scalded by booze. Perhaps it was his imagination. “How much are we supposed to drink?” There was a genuine curiosity to the words, as it all seemed a bit mysterious to him. He and Katoa had secreted away mead to drink under the starlight in the past, but they’d been severely limited by their atrocious ability to lie. Not to mention, Sabriel had always been all too eager to tattle on them to their mother, whose narrowed eyes were something to be truly feared. “The whole thing?” It seemed they had made barely a dent in the height of the liquid, though tendrils of heat still seemed to ebb through his flesh. His eyes met Fennore’s, waiting for the decree.

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Becky
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POSTED: Sat Jul 13, 2019 6:17 pm

FennORe

Oh, it seemed that Tamlin was rather taken by her apparent fondness for Lord Eryn, was that it? "Are you jealous, scout?" she threw back, meeting his sparkling eyes with a small sneer. But no malice hid there, and Tamlin seemed alright with the teasing now that he knew she was not at all being serious. "Fear not, Tamlin Anor. He resides only in the darkest corner of my mind, reserved for other Luperci I find painful to deal with." She felt her eyes squint in fondness for him from her widening grin. "If you are not careful, you may also find yourself there." While it wasn't exactly an empty threat, the man would have to try exceptionally hard to fall so far from her affections.

It proved to be a chore for the both of them, this alcohol business. But Tamlin was in for a very big surprise if he thought he could skirt by, not indulging fully as Fennore had. Luckily, the man had enough sense to know to entertain her whims and continue to swallow down more of the whiskey, even he choked out a groan and shuttered from the bite of the liquor. He spoke again, his words tinged with bitterness and heat, and it sounded almost more of a growl than his usual tone. Fennore seemed to shiver at the sound of it, an uninvited and unexpected reaction to something so minuscule and insignificant, but nonetheless she pushed past these weird reactions and earnestly received the bottle from his uncertain hands.

"We will see how far we make it." Perhaps he would find her answer inadequate, but she did not particularly care. She smiled at him more easily now, her face strangely warm and her heart giddier than it had ever been in the days since she made the refugees' camp her home. Another chug of the bottle, less grace in her motions this time — the burn... almost seemed to be receding now, and subsequent intakes from the bottle came easier than before.

She passed it to her friend again, moving to settle in by his side instead of in front of him, and she folded her legs criss-cross as she watched him with growing eagerness. "Did Caledonia indulge in this... poison water much?" she asked him, her words feeling heavy in her mouth. "Surely with all the courts, the parties, the revelry... Surely there was an abundance of mead, no?" She chuckled softly at the image of hundreds of drunk, happy Luperci all dressed up and dancing.

Why was that image so familiar to her?

Oh... yes... my clan did... the exact same thing. But, of course, if Old Caledonia had drank to drunkenness, if she and Tamlin would drink to drunkenness, it was a different situation entirely. Her biases would always let her get away with the same sins of her family, even if she denied it. Such was the nature of hypocrisy, she supposed.

ooc → :D
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• moonwraith •

POSTED: Sat Jul 13, 2019 6:42 pm

Try as she might to strike him with malice in her threats, Tamlin had already been inoculated against her at worse times; her intimidation only roused a more broad grin. Nevertheless, he knew his part to play, and raised his palms to her in obsequiousness. “By Valleui’s light, let such a thing never occur,” he responded solemnly, as though he were some Menel priest. The affect fell away quickly enough, for it wasn’t Valleui’s light which had bewitched him tonight, but Valleuar’s: for surely a Moonwraith fell under her domain.

He had prayed for sympathy, but Fennore saw no fun in that. We will see how far we make it, indeed! Tamlin had seen Katoa headsick after a night like this, and he mourned inwardly for his health in the morning. Each drink that Fennore took, Tamlin took in turn: she passed her moonshine back to him, and with it came closer, their shoulders pressing together in the close quarters of the tent. The alcohol had taken root in his brain, like an invasive moss in fertile ground—for a second he almost entertained a thought…

Tamlin shook his head, hoping he could pass it off as a shudder from the whiskey. “Of course! Not just mead, but all variety.” He looked at her sheepishly, sharing more than he had intended to. “I didn’t usually go…” Carnation pink tongue ran over his teeth, and he thought of happier days. “Katoa was normally the one to attend on behalf of our family. Once in a while he could convince me to come with. He was usually attending with Lord Eryn, if that tells you something.” His canines flashed white in a smile, rolling his eyes as he suffered himself another draw of the booze. It was longer this time, and he felt it worm its way down into his belly, tainting his insides. Queerly, everything seemed so much funnier—and his tongue looser, apparently.

He turned to look at his companion, wondering at how their faces had come so abruptly close. Without being able to stop it, he remembered the time he had come to the lake, when she had seen what he had been about to say and halted him before he could embarrass himself. As humiliating as it was to be rejected, the Sunwarden could not deny that she had done so in as kind a way as possible, and it only served to make him all the more affectionate of her. Isn’t that counter-productive to think of? A rational thought, not yet drowned in alcohol, was swiftly shushed.

“You would have done well at a Caledonian party,” he mused. “Do you enjoy that sort of thing? Dancing… or politics,” he shrugged his shoulders, as though he could live without either. Tamlin had never been an ambitious man, and he’d certainly never had anyone to dance with.

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Becky
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POSTED: Sat Jul 13, 2019 7:46 pm

FennORe

He treated her threat with the upmost reverence, even calling upon his God to protect him from her wrath; she laughed easily at the jest, offering him a little wink as she warned, "Oh yes, you will need all the grace you can garner from your gods, hunter."

She was mostly unaware of how their bodies had drawn closer and convened at the shoulders, but whenever she felt his larger frame shift against her, she felt it appropriate to lean into him explicitly. She liked his presence, after all, as he was such a good friend. So loyal and true was her scout, his heart only beating for her, his eyes softening even at her most ungraceful gestures, his words fond and gentle even in her spitefulness and ugliness...

Had she been sober she would have swatted these thoughts away, but in her buzzed state they were merely tolerated. Entertaining such fantasies was dangerous, but they felt almost... natural. And she liked them were they stood, distant from her mind but still ever present.

"Oh, how boring," she chided, pushing his shoulder when he gave an unsatisfactory reply. "As rowdy and exciting as such events were, you chose to stay at home? How shameful of you, Tamlin Anor!" She didn't notice how she was getting louder in her voice, and subtly, there was a different change to her voice as well; it was faint, but with each gulp of the whiskey, her horrid, hated, forgotten dialect began to shine through. "With Athras, ey? Your brother must have been a charmer like you," she mewled, trying to emphasize the compliment more so than the memory of his late brother. She drew closer to him with the comment, her muzzle nearing his for a brief moment before she receded, returning to lean on his shoulder for support.

She snorted, moving to sip at the bottle pensively. "Oh, I am sure I would have fared very well," she agreed. But his next question gave her pause. "Dancing?" she parroted, incredulous. "I... Hmm. Well, I know... group dances, I suppose." There were all sorts of jigs the clan had prepared for Beltane and the other lesser festivals, though Fennore served much better as a pretty face than a pretty dancer. "I wouldn't know much of politics; I fled the clan before being thrust in their... their senseless courts." She waved a dismissive hand, face still upturned in a fixed grin. Again she drank, and again she passed the truth serum.

A queer thought suddenly passed her mind, and her purple eyes widened as she gasped. "Tamlin!" she exclaimed, looking to him as if he had committed a grave sin. "Ah almost forgot. You simply must see this dress ah acquired joehst a few days ago." Instantly the wolfess was hunched over her bag, tail waving idly in Tamlin's face as she dug around for the desired garb. As she located it, she sat back on her knees and fitted the dress over her body, struggling only momentarily with the leather bodice before she was satisfied with the dress; how lucky she was that it matched her eyes almost perfectly in color!

Coyly, she glanced over her shoulder at the male, one thoughtful finger placed at her muzzle. "What d'ye tink?" she purred, her words more audibly saturated than before. Was she really trying to shy away from acting on instinct?

ooc → :D
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POSTED: Sat Jul 13, 2019 8:33 pm

Her hands went to punish him even as she admonished him, her volume self-righteous, and he found himself laughing, bringing a hand to his forehead. “It’s… it’s true!” He stuttered out between peals of laughter, the hand sliding down his steadily more intoxicated face to fall beneath his chin. When she complimented him, it only sent him spiraling down another fit of giggles until tears meet the corners of his emerald eyes. It was halted—just for a moment—when mouth came nearer to his own, but whatever he’d been thinking was dissolved in his whimsy. “Oh yes, there was nothing any Caledonian loved more than the perfume of horse, he countered self-deprecatingly, taking his hand and performing a gesture that might have been elegant if booze hadn’t permeated all the motions.

His chuckles finally abated, he turned heavily-lidded eyes upon her again, eyebrows lifting when she mentioned group dances. “Is that all?” The words were incredulous, and his smile mischievous. “Despite my lack of affinity for parties, I will have you know, I can dance.” He affirmed it proudly, swallowing down the tincture when offered. Had he thought it foul? It seemed quite pleasant, now—a few more sips, and it was positively delightful. It made him forget that what he said next was something he would never have told her had he been thinking straight. “My mother loved dancing. She taught me all the types she knew.” The Anor would regret that detail in the morning, true though that it was. After his father had passed away, Tamlin had spent many an evening dancing with his mother in their ranch house until she had succumbed her broken heart. “And who needs politics?” The scout agreed with Fennore excitedly, but she was already off on a separate tangent.

His ears flickered to and fro at the sudden emergence of her native accent, but once he had puzzled through what it was she meant to convey, he replied simply: “Oh!” In truth, he hardly cared for fashion, but if it was what Fennore enjoyed than surely he could enjoy it too. He sat back on his legs, cradling their moonshine like it was a treasure, drinking intermittently. When she found what it was she had been seeking in her bag, he realized quite suddenly that perhaps it was a bit inappropriate to be staring at her while she got dressed, and his face flashed crimson as he stared awkwardly down at his bottle. Whatever battle she fought with the garment, she quickly won, and her voice rang out in an inviting way that he had never quite heard before,

Tamlin looked up, and gulped.

She was a vision in amethyst, her lips pursed at her finger like a smoking gun. “Um, yeah,” he fumbled with his words, all of a sudden feeling all too much of the effects from the alcohol, wishing it had managed to blur his vision instead to give him some sort of defense. “That’s… beautiful…” The dress or the woman, you star-crossed fool? Whatever voice it was that reprimanded him was abandoned. With liquored-up courage, he felt as though he was seeing her with new eyes. “I mean, you’re beautiful.” Again, he swallowed; following it was a helpful drink from the bottle before passing it back to Fennore where she sat. Looking altogether drunk, he leaned back on his hands smiling. “Where did you manage to get something like that?” If he tailed the compliment with a question, perhaps she might forget that he’d said it.

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