they whisper words into my ears.

[Shakadyn]

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and who's to blame; i could assume Ah, thank you! I worry that Shakadyn's voice is too rambly and messy to tolerate, sometimes, and this post is even worse than usual in that regard due to my being strung out. Sorry about that. the loneliness of my white room He raised an eyebrow delicately. Give up? On what exactly? Did he have a suicide case on his paws, here? He hoped not. Excessively empathetic though he might be, Shakadyn was unaccustomed to dealing with anyone's self-loathing but his own, and he hadn't felt that way in some time. Of course, not all suicides had to do with self-loathing, but — no. He'd stop that train of thought before it made its way to the station. He was enough of a space case as it stood today, and such problems never do deserve exacerbation. Luckily, all signs pointed not to a desire to off herself, but rather give up on walking for the moment, which was decidedly easier to handle. Disturbingly, he realized he still wanted to help, and, sighing privately, he headed for her rucksack, intent on rearranging the fallen herbs. Such uncalled for situational messiness was an intolerable provocation to the obsessive-compulsive personality. "Well, now you do," he quipped. And she was quite lucky to have him as an audience rather than someone more... immediately vicious. It worried at a corner of his brain that, in a metaphorical sense (he did so love metaphors), looked as though it had been butchered by the teeth of rats for being worried so often. Should he have been aggressive? Would it have made the scene more interesting? Laughter resonating from the chambers of his mind alerted him, once again, to the fact that such an insecurity was terribly neanderthal. If he had been vicious, it would only have been giving in to his instincts spurned into action by suspicion, nothing more. After all, life was brutal. Nature was brutal. Nature was the beast whose fiendish designs had dictated that enormous wasps laid eggs in living tarantulas, in order for their larvae to have fresh food when hatched. The she-wolf had hurt her leg, but from a detached and coldly rational point of view, that was life. Unfortunately, today he was feeling more like a character in a Shakespearean play than he was feeling detached and coldly rational. While that might have allowed some raw punches delivered with a poison kiss by Mother Nature herself, they would end up delivered in lilting rhyme with very little of the mandatory reason, and would thus be ultimately harmless. Unless of course you were one of those people who just could not stand poetry, in which case Shakadyn's melodrama capabilities would annihilate you. That reassured him a touch. He hadn't lost ALL of his wolfishness, it was just... uniquely encapsulated. Getting back to the task at hand, it would have been far easier to obsessively compulse about things if he had had hands to do it with, so perhaps "at hand" was more of a self-aggrandizing pun than he was entirely comfortable with. "Might I ask where you are, or rather were, headed?" It slipped out before he could remind himself that nerve-riddled small talk did not become him.

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