[m] [p] little bird, don't stifle your song

Marcel Moineau · 09-15-2012, 02:47 PM

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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.

Lalalala, I don't like how I'm writing Marcel but he'll turn better/creepier/whatever with actual interaction hopefully. ;;

Marcel Moineau was drunk again.

Honestly, it was not that rare of an occurrence, and the behavior of the other raiders hardly changed when he swaggered through the street on two clumsy legs. Perhaps they were a little bit quicker to get out of his way, a little bit quicker to offer a smile or bow of greeting, but the moods of the new Chef were volatile even when he was stone cold sober—though, admittedly, few of them could remember a Marcel who wasn’t influenced by some sort of substance or heavy emotion.

Tonight, the tall wolf wore a broad smile on his face as he walked through the reasonably crowded streets. Almost the entire population of the pack was outside, most of them circled around a large fire where a wild boar was roasting. The light flickered under the drops of flat on the flesh, and Marcel sniffed the air with another dizzied grin before slapping the back of one wolf he recognized as a hunter. The hunter flinched but allowed himself a smile when Marcel congratulated him, his praise oozing out easily and genuinely. Tonight, so soon after he’d climbed to the top of the pack, had overthrown the old raider king and become their boss, their god—tonight was not a time for him to make enemies.
He walked among them, drunk on their spirits just as much as the spirits he’d drank. He did not mind their various activities as the old Chef had; he left them to do as they wished, whether it was kill each other or fuck each other, and had asked but little else so far. They seemed to know this, but mostly they were just happy because it was very, very warm for a September night and there was enough of the boar for everyone to get at least a bite of the spiced meat.

Marcel paused only enough to say a few words, and at one point he stooped to rub his son Brumaire’s ears before sending him off to his half-sibling Dartmouth to make sure he didn’t miss the festivities. It looked like, otherwise, everyone else was here. The few missing had been supporters of the old boss, and he’d given them a clear time frame to get the fuck out of his territory before he made them wish they had. Those were the only individuals not out enjoying the warm night, except—

Ember eyes narrowed, and the dark wolf wheeled around, his hand shooting out to grace against a fellow luperci before he got his bearings. No, he couldn’t see her; her sweet scent would be soaked with that of the roasting pig even if she was here. He smiled regretfully; this wouldn’t do at all. The poor, sweet girl was so shy, but she should be out here, with her pack, her family. Another place might have looked down on her for being half-coyote and a non-luperci at that, but Volés Ailes had been non-luperci at heart, once, not so very long ago. He’d find a bowl for his precious little bird to lap wine from, and feed her bits of charred meat by hand, just like a father should in taking care of his unshifted daughter.

But first Marcel needed to find her, and so he pushed through the gathered raiders slowly, stumbling and giggling with those he bumped into, most of them very drunk themselves. He swapped a few crude jokes until he reached the edge of the street, his orange eyes landing on the cozy little house where the girl was sure to be. He strutted up to the door, opening it with a creak and letting the meat-scented night air reach out into the main room with gentle fingers.

“Sparrow?” the dark wolf called, his eyes tender but none the less wild. “My little songbird, why are you hiding your pretty face away at a wonderful time like this?” He nudged the door shut again, eyes adjusting to the dimness as he sniffed the air.

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