A Sense of Balance

Saluce Tremblay · 06-28-2010, 09:47 PM

(ooc-Since Saluce isn't apart of this pact wasn't sure if I should break protocal and make it private. So I just tagged the two players I've involved in this plot.)

There he was standing on the western edge of the Whisper Beach just to the north of Dahlia Lands (although he just knows that he’s north of a pack land ic). With quiet resignation he studied the ocean quietly knowing he wasn’t seeing the pacific but it still didn’t mean he couldn’t imagine for a second that he had journeyed all the way across North America. The thought was pleasant as he considered the stories he would return back to England with. He could be thought of as a hero, the wolf equivalent of Marco Polo. But as was the case such dreams where shattered with the sudden realization that he had only traveled a very small percentage of the continent and was very aware that he was going to have to turn north into the lands called the wastes before too long to continue westward. With no boat this ocean inlet blocked a straight approach so he would have to take a detour.

With a resigned sigh he strapped his bag across his heavily muscled back, checked to see if his swords where nestled securely in their sheaths and started out. He was in a more care free mood today; the scenery brought back pleasant memories of Normandy. His nose inhaled deeply letting the salty ocean scent fill his nostrils all the while closing his eyes to take it all in. Loosing himself for a moment he took an awkward step forward his eyes only half open as the shock and realization of his folly hit him. The cliff wasn’t too high but the disturbed pebbles under his foot rocketed down the cliff. Franticly he fought to keep his balance under shifting ground before his massive frame teetered off balance toward the cliff. His form stood perfectly still as if resigning him to the coming fall before the loose footing he found himself on gave way sending him plummeting downward. His claws flayed around at the cliff wall trying to find something to grab a hold of, his legs franticly kicking for hold as he slid further downward picking up steam. Somewhere on the way to the bottom his leg caught a hold but he was going too fast and with no other hold to grab onto his shin turned in an awkward way as the bone broke outward and pierced through his fur. Pain seared through the wolfs mind as he for the first time let out an awkward yelp, the yelp though was quickly subdued as his form hit the sand with a thud. The force of which causing his head to fly backward against a sharp rock cutting open the back of his head.

The world faded to black as he laid there his body resetting itself. Some few moments later the rushing noise of the ocean flooded his ears causing him to awaken suddenly unsure of where he was. “Normandy?” his voice cracked as he tried to sit up but the pounding in his head told him to just wait a moment. For a minute he was content to sit there letting his senses come pounding to him. With a stubborn deep inhale his frame lifted up in a sitting posture and immediately his paw came up to hold his head, eyes finding his leg in horrible shape. The wolf was filled with a mixture of rage and pain, quickly blaming himself for his foolishness. “For the love Nature what in the world was I thinking” he repeated to himself. Soon his mind started working on how to fix his leg, being wounded was the worst possible scenario for him, especially a broken leg.

He slowly brought his leg to him in an Indian style jester his lips curling back in a snarl of pain as his eyes looked for anything to fashion a stint, and something to use as a bandage to help cull the bleeding.

Cwmfen nic Graine · 06-29-2010, 09:01 AM

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I’ll have Cwmfen call Conor in after we post for a bit, ^w^ And Cwmen is in lupus form right now.
700+

The heavens had calmed their weeping. The rarely seen sun had been allowed to shine his light upon the earth far below and feed and nourish that which the water had cultivated. The summer world flourished with the green life that gave homes to all creatures, that fed the leaf-eaters so that other creatures may feed upon them. Such was the power of nature. Such was the profundity of a simple and yet complex existence. It was not the power of the sun alone that allowed life to persist upon the mortal lands, nor was it simply the water or the earth. It was a combination of all entities, the individual, solitary workings of each entity lending its work to the others of the world. It was a web perhaps, though not the tangle webs that most minds associated with spiders but a sheet web, one with the weaving so fine and numerous that a simple mind may believe it to be a single textile. The Woaded female was a simple wolf, born only of that most natural shape. But she had learned many things that allowed her to understand the world. Perhaps such understanding was not the understanding of others, but it was not incorrect. And she was only permitted to know, she believed, what the Morrigan had fated for her. The Morrigan had fated for War to be known.

The black wolf moved fluidly through the woods, her fluid steps quiet. Despite moving swiftly, Cwmfen’s sharp eyes missed very little. Her nose worked as did her ears, and the sinew beneath her black, woad-painted coat worked with effortless power to allow her tenebrous form to move such that her existence seemed ethereal and ephemeral—not even a ghost. Simply a shadow.

A soft whispering came to her ears before it died. But the whisper rose up again, and died again, the cycle repeating rhythmically in the warm, quiet air. She knew that sound. It was a sound—a powerful sound— that had captivated many, and it was a sound that intrigued her. The sea was not far, nor was the edge of the woods. The light grew ahead of her, and just as she broke through the edge of the woods, she turned to trail its edge, remaining in the shadows, her body low in the tall grasses. Without pausing, without breaking rhythm, the wolf’s gait slowed to an easy amble. The woad-marked crania lifted, and she smelled the salt that had coated her fur upon her return to the flower pack. The tranquil mind greeted that powerful force, and she listened to the song it sang within her soul. It was a gentle song, a silver song that whispered with timeless tones, that stroked her soul and consciousness with a weathered and wise breath. A soft smile danced across those quiet lips, across those tranquil features, as the light of the sun danced over the calm waters of a pool. It was only the beauty of the world that could cause the enlightened Warrior to feel in such a way.

The woad banded ears lifted. A much harsher sound cut the air from a great distance. The calling of the pied Raven rose up, his empty voice harsh with mirthless laughter. The white orbs turned to the sky and found the black speck that marred its vastness. Suddenly, abruptly, the black wolf was running, the sinew of her body thrown forth with the knowing of a Warrior. There was a spark that lit up within her soul, and it sang with the fury of War.

Her pace slowed, and her fluid movements carried her forth before she allowed herself to pause. What she found at the base of the cliff was not entirely what the Dahlian had expected. The large male was injured. She could hear his sounds of pain and smell the familiar scent of blood within the air. The white eyes seemed to consider the fallen male, her gaze touching upon the quality of his body and the things he carried. A stranger so near the boarders was suspicious to the black fae, and the Warrior within her grew hungry. But that tranquility that so settled upon her soul allowed a calm to remain. She was always thinking clearly, her mind quick and ready to react and to not simply ‘anticipate’. For now, the Caledonian-Korean disregarded his injury. She knew how dangerous a wounded creature could be. “You wander dangerously near our boarders, loner,” the alto melody sang quietly, the silver tones dancing upon the air. It was a pleasant sound and not unkind. “Perhaps you can explain yourself.”

Saluce Tremblay · 06-29-2010, 04:12 PM

(Ooc- Beautiful post btw, enjoyed the read immensely)

“The crimson liquid so franticly spilled. Blood letting the stringent voice, to beckon my soul” (meshuggah’s-bleed)

Blue orbs studied his leg for a moment as his mind was having trouble putting thoughts together. The sea itself was retreating from high tide as if it was abandoning him. His paws searched his waist to untie his belt so he could free himself of the ornately decorated broad swords he never parted with. Lifting one out of its sheath his mind still flooded with pounding of blood through his ears as his heart continued to surge with the adrenaline coursing through his body. The sword could act as a sort of crutch for him to look for a long branch to use as a stint after setting the bone… his mind hadn’t completely failed him as his hand brushed against something wet on the back of his head. Passing it off as water he continued to sit and rest for the moment, willing his body to calm down so he could get a handle on his breathing. For awhile he sat eyes closed as he tried to overcome his sense of panic and pain so he could think clearly.

The pounding in his head never ceased and if his mind hadn’t failed him, his nose and ears certainly did because the voice that spoke to him caused his eyes to flash open. His left arm was quick as it always was in these situations, and its movement to grasp for his dagger was all he had ever hoped it to be. But when his paw reached for it he grasped nothing but air. Sometime during the fall it must have been stripped off and so thus ended his only real close quarter’s weapon except his teeth and claws. The wolf was a she and didn’t have an all unpleasant voice, it was rather sweet and inviting but yet the words spoke volumes. The wolf sat there his eyes following the voice. The she wolf was marked oddly for his foreign eyes but it wasn’t unpleasing to his soft blue orbs. The pounding in his ears returned as did the headache which caused him to shut his eyes once again. The wolf just didn’t care if she was friend or foe his head was forcing him to react to it and not her as a paw came up to steady his head and rub his temple.

Saluce forced out a reply hoping for the time being it would be enough to not spur her into attack. “Traveling west” was his reply, simple but it was all he could force himself to come up with. His normal soft and velvety voice was ragged and rough, laced with a little bit of fear. He was being stubborn as well “I will not be causing your “pack” trouble” he said with an inflection that hinted that he was asking if it was her pack that he had sensed earlier to the south. “Just passing through” where his words full of stubborn male ego as if saying that he would be alright if she just where to move along.

Cwmfen nic Graine · 06-29-2010, 05:39 PM

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Thank you!
500+

When she had spoken, the male moved swiftly. The Warrior within her approved of such speed despite his wounds, but the Warrior also called for her caution. She did not seem to tense, but instead relax. A relaxed body could move easily where a tense body would be too slow. Alas, there was emptiness where his hand moved. She recognized the movement despite her natural shape and despite the fact that she never bore her weapons upon leather wrapped about the body. She had seen many others do it, and she knew the aggression behind it. He was startled, however, and so the Woaded female brushed the action off as mere second nature. It was not her intention, either, to provoke aggression within the wounded loner. Her intention was to discover his reason for wandering so near Dahlia. She intended to learn this, and, she supposed, if he required anything. The black wolf thought that he would require aid, for the smell of his blood was hot and thick in the air. A wolf without control may have been moved to attack another in such a state, but Cwmfen knew better. Although she was no politician, she knew how to behave for she had helped once to lead the flower pack. That had been nearly a revolution ago.

“West,” the soft alto repeated. It was a label of direction, and her mind sought to recall the specific label that was of the most human of habits. “The Sea is West,” she mused, “and then you will find Land again.” Perhaps the tranquil creature desired to know where he was going, or perhaps not. It was uncertain, as her features were calm and impassive. Slowly, carefully, the black wolf moved closer, creating a distance that was perhaps naught but an arm’s length. It was a dangerous position, but the Dahlian was certain that he was not there to kill her. She was determined to show him that she was not there to kill him either. It was a more subtle way of displaying such hospitality, but the wolf-born female was accustom to such subtleties.

The woad-banded ears had caught the inflection of his voice, and she answered that unspoken question. “Dahlia give me a den,” the quiet voice replied. “She is led by an Alpha Male.” Even when she had held the rank of Adonis, a rank that no longer existed, Dahlia had never been her own. She could not say that the pack belonged to her but that she belonged to the pack. And indeed that was where her loyalties were, with the flower pack and her leader. With the wolves behind the boarders. That was why the Warrior so easily could place her life between a danger and the pack. That was simply her purpose. It was a Warrior’s purpose.

The blue-eyed male spoke again, his rough voice lost within the melody of the sea. She was silent for a few moments before lowering herself to a sitting position, the sinew beneath her coat moving smoothly. The pied Raven had taken purchase upon a stone at the head of the cliff, and he called his mockery down upon the fallen male below. The white orbs did not regard her Dream, however, and remained upon the fallen soldier. The quiet eyes were contemplative as she considered him. “How far can you make it in that condition?” It was not said mockingly. Instead, it was said as if she were truly curious, although the motive behind such a question, or the open to the reply, was quite clear.

Saluce Tremblay · 06-29-2010, 06:42 PM

The male’s eyes didn’t miss her movements, even his dulled senses where still working on scenarios of quickly changing circumstances. With a grunt he let his injured left leg straighten out as if to study it while she approached closer. The bone was clearly broken, the evidence of it staring him in the face. The thought of changing to his feral lupus form crossed his mind, four feet instead of two, well three instead of one. With a quiet resignation as the she wolf talked his head nodding from time to time in response but giving no answer yet he stretched forward letting both his arms take a hold of his leg. One quick jerk and the wolf forced the bone into submission as the blood came forth unsettled by the change. He showed nothing on the outside no hint of pain but his mind continued to thump harder now. The warrior’s eyes closed once again obviously unable to fight all the pain. Her presence though was starting to have a positive effect on him. At least he wasn’t alone.

“I came from England, I was trained to be a Knight but never let myself take the name… They turn out to be mostly talk” his lips curled back in a subdued laugh, but as was the case it wasn’t because he wasn’t deserving of it. “No I am from across the ocean, born of dual loyalties to two countries; neither one fitting me. I am English but name given to me by my French father.” Talking helped take his mind off everything for the moment. The she wolfs actions hinted that she wasn’t a threat to him. “I came here to find my own life; I wanted to travel west to the Pacific Ocean. I’ve heard that it’s as beautiful as the Normandy coast line” His eyes lifted open again at her, the fear that had swirled in them earlier gone as he looked over the female. Her marks where of interest to him, they were much different from anything he had seen. He himself had no marks, only the darker gray patches of fur that he was given from his father. Other then that the grey wolf was nothing more than a hulking frame offset by his soft voice and brilliant blue eyes that never hinted at malice, which gave him a sense of a great contradiction.

On the other hand the she wolf was stunningly beautiful to him but again he fought the urge to be suspicious. After all he was in no condition to outright challenge someone. “I think if I can fashion a splint for my leg I’ll be able to continue after a few days” he was being over ambitious and he was well aware of it. It would be weeks before his leg would be in any shape to travel let alone count on it to hunt and fight with. He let his paw reach back to again hold the back of his head out of nervous tension feeling the same wet feeling as the last time this time realizing that he had another injury to contend with.

Cwmfen nic Graine · 06-30-2010, 09:13 AM

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500+

White orbs contemplated the large, blue-eyed male as he set the bone. The blood flowed suddenly from his leg. The blood’s scent was tempting, and it was healthy. That much she could tell. But his health was quickly fading. Perhaps the wolf should end it for him. The thought caused the simple mind to be tickled with mild mirth, as if she laughed warmly from a joke. (Indeed, the Warrior’s humor was not humor at all, for she was unable to truly understand the comedic aspect of social life.) She knew that such behaviour was not becoming of a pack wolf, especially when faced with a non-threatening, wounded loner. No, she would allow him to live for as long as he chose.

The woad-banded ears pricked forward. England? He had come from a land near her own. While she knew the name Ablion, she had learned that its name, labeled by all others, was indeed this England. A mild curiosity seemed to move through her tranquil gaze, and she listened silently as the wounded wolf spoke. “I know nothing of ‘the Pacific’ or the lands West of here,” the soft melody sang, “But the beauty of these lands are near to the beauty of Caledonia.” The black wolf had traveled the lands of her birth and Hibernia, and she had traveled upon the cold ice before descending ultimately to the lands upon which both wolves now stood. But she knew nothing of what lay beyond, and she had no great interest herself. Her place was within ‘Souls now, her purpose to protect the wolves of the flower pack. “I know your lands,” the silver tones sang at length. Indeed, she had recognized the look of the male for one who originated from that area. Perhaps he would not have recognized her, for the blood of Koreans were mixed within her as well. “I hail from Caledonia in the north.” Not all packs wore woad. In fact, she had seen very few wearing it in her travels. But Graine had given to her the plant that painted her fur in that ethereal blue, and the Warrior, as a symbol of her purpose, for the favor of the Morrigan, wore them.

The soldier was defiant and did not admit his need. Stubbornness was a dangerous thing, especially in his predicament. If the Raven Dreamer were not curious of him, she may have allowed him to continue and die as he surely wished to will such a fate upon himself. Yet, the Warrior would humor him until he realized that help was required. She could only offer her services if he himself saw that he needed them. A faint yet warm smile touched the corners of her quiet lips. “Perhaps with some driftwood and the weed of the sea, a splint may be fashioned,” the soft alto suggested. In a single, fluid movement, the woaded fae had risen and turned to find the two ingredients. It was not difficult, nor was it long before she returned. Such things were most definitely not strong enough to last a good length of time, but perhaps for a few hours they would suffice—if he used them.

The blood was thick in the air as she deposited the wood and weeds nearby. Carefully, she approached him, her paws stepping carefully upon the lose rocks. Her nose moved just above his fur as she scented the blood. It was hot and still flowing from his head. He had lost a lot already. He would be weak. “You should take care of these,” the voice sang softly as she pulled back slightly. “Unattended, they will infect quickly.” Or perhaps he would just bleed out. The black wolf believed the former to be more realistic, however, as animals often survived upon receiving such wounds—but not for long.

Saluce Tremblay · 06-30-2010, 07:06 PM

The truth of his injuries was clouded from him as he was stuck in an uneasy peace. Stubborn and proud the fog in his mind filled before he was really able to contemplate the position he was in. Forcing him to take mental stock and reassess his injuries after discovering the blow to his head. He found that he was in much worse shape than he had realized. The world around him had somewhat dulled before he knew it and suddenly he felt cold. Was this death he thought? What a cruel joke to be played out for him if this was indeed dying. Victim to a false sense of balance; the thought infuriated his sense of pride.

“Oxford… Just south of...” he realized she had left for the moment, he hadn’t even realized she had said anything. The odd sensation to give in slowly crept into his mind. But he forced himself to try and continue fighting it. Trying to shift his position his muscles didn’t respond as well as he expected, he almost gave up but she had arrived once again to stir his mind. Then like a light switch being flipped the fear came back and the stubbornness gone. His head turned to look at her, his eyes somewhat glossed over, the onset of shock coursing through his veins. The wolf’s heart thumped with a vigor that was sure to cause it to bounce out of his chest.
“This is… Not the way… I wanted it to end!” he blurted out unable to filter the shakiness in his voice. The great forearms of the wolf flexed as his claws dug into the earth as if he was fighting himself. His eyes closed for a moment as his breathing and forearms relaxed still straining to gather together the strength to ask for help. It was not in his nature! He was the one who gave help not received it, but here the proud warrior was in a situation which if no help was given he wouldn’t survive. “I” he fumbled with the words obviously never having had to speak them in such a long time. The thoughts of a soft nuzzle pushing his eyes open to see his mother before him. The last time he had asked he was a mere whelping and of course he had run to his mother. Her soft and reassuring voice coed at him and calmed him the last time. The victim of being picked on because of his name. Then it was more of an emotional toll then it was physical but the emotions still played out like fireworks in his mind. “I need help” the words escaped his lips before he realized they had been spoken. So soft they were spoken as if he was that child again, the child that had so long ago been replaced by the behemoth he had become. Size had afforded him the protection of being picked on. Size and cunning where his trade, much more cunning at times then size, practiced to intimidate or extricate him from any situation he found himself in.

“If I am too much of a burden at least do me the favor of fetching my knife so I can die at least with some honor. I am not very fond of bleeding out due to foolish wounds received while letting the ocean unearth long forgotten memories. I’d much rather die, a warriors death” Again his voice was soft with a quiet strength to it. For such a big wolf he didn’t let his voice over power his words. “If I am beyond saving”

Cwmfen nic Graine · 07-01-2010, 03:00 PM

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You can post again after this or wait for Libri to post with Conor, ^=^
500+

Her voice had been lost upon him.

The white orbs contemplated the loner, knowing what he must be feeling. There had been three instances in her short life where Death had clutched at her heart. She had recognized that feeling immediately, that icy hand with claws that pierced her heart with certainty and doom. Yet it had never pierced her heart with fear. She had always been willing to accept her Death, for she believed that the Goddess would choose the proper time in which to take her life. A mild curiosity stirred within her as she watched the workings of Death’s hand. The Raven Warrior was often in the midst of fighting and had already killed an opponent. In such instances, Death moved too quickly for her to see. But the Dahlian could see it now, and the fascination that so was befitting one of her purpose was lit up, imperceptibly touching the white, impassive eyes. She could hear his dissatisfaction clearly in his voice and words, but with such emotions she could not identify with him.

It was also not the first time that she had crossed a dying creature’s path. Her mind briefly fell upon the masked coyote before returning to the task at hand. This male, nameless still, was much larger than Onus, but she did not think that is weight would be an impossibility. But her quick mind new that he had already lost too much, his lifeblood already darkening the rocks beneath him. The corners of the Warrior’s mouth twitched, perhaps in a frown. She would not be able to move him without causing more harm, especially if he lost consciousness. With a shattered leg, things became less simple. His words grew quiet as she contemplate the next move. A warrior’s death, he said. A soft sound, warm and mirthful like the bubbling of a creek, stroked the warm air. “You will have that Death,” the alto song promised. For those that traveled the path of War, such a Death may have been inevitable. Very few simply died of old age. Often, the inexperienced died of simple mistakes, but a mistake could kill even the most experienced. “But you are not beyond saving yet.” His request for help pleased the Caledonian-Korean's mind, and the blue-eyed loner won favor. The woaded female knew the performing of simple medicinal tasks, but she knew who it was that she could rely on now.

Her song was sent upon the wind, that dolorous melody, bittersweet in the summertime sky, tinged with the urgency and the blood of the situation. There was much blood, the song sang, and Death was near. It was a song similar to the mourning calls of the wolf, but the black female did not morn for a life. The pied Raven clicked his broken beak and laughed harshly in the air, desiring and calling for Death so that he may lead the souls across the River that divided the Worlds of the Living and the Dead. She called long, her powerful voice dancing in the air to reach far and wide. The whereabouts of the Alpha Male was unknown to her, but she hoped that he was nearby. At length, her voice fell silent, the silver-toned song fading from the air. The woad-banded maw lowered, and she returned to the wounded loner. The black she-wolf leaned in, her jaws near his ear as she stepped carefully upon the stones. “Help is coming,” the quiet voice informed. She spoke simply, so that he could understand through the thick fog that covered his mind. Cwmfen could do little to help. Once Conor arrived, she would leave and let the young leader work. Unless Conor required her services, the Warrior had little else to offer. She must continue upon her own duty and keep the boarders safe.

Conor Soul · 07-02-2010, 06:42 AM

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Let me know if I've completely misunderstood something here XD 700+

Conor’s path stood clear and concrete before him as he heeded her song a second time. The soft melody was not the same, however, and the male’s long limbs would know haste well before he was to reach the location of the former Adonis. Slung around his neck and left shoulder danced the gift from Susquehanna noisily against his coin speckled fur. While the official rank of the healer stood empty, Conor was one of those closest to a doctor in these lands. His grand-aunt had taught him well, and useful acquaintances and friendships all across ‘Souls was teaching him this beautiful art of mending the flesh and healing the mind. Out from a burning desire to turn from his father’s path of death and suffering, Conor had chosen to find new ways to embrace life, and to help others hold on to it still when heavy obstacles wanted to tear them away.

The trek from Wolfville to the whispering shores of the beach was not as quick as what was ideal, but the four legged predator moved swiftly through the well known territory, heading north-east. Past time or no, his soft paws travelled from lush forest to finely corned sand and finally on to the rockier floor that indicated that the best part of the beach lay behind. A red, invisible cloud of injury invaded his nose in a wave of heavy fragrances. His snout tickled excitedly, but lavender eyes saw a scene different from the instinctively ideal setting. Eyebrows did not care to rise. Loners were frequently found by the borders. Some sought a place to call home. While many of them turned away and severed the loose bond of fealty to Dahlia, there seemed to be a lazy, continuous stream of fresh blood to the pack. That was life, always pulsing and changing, impossible to control.

There was blood, but the strong, vibrant colour often fooled spectators. Then again, Conor was not one to judge in such an arrogant, all-knowing way, and he quickly killed off the little amount of distance left between him and the two canines. While he felt the natural need to frown, his face could almost match the tranquillity of Cwmfen’s, but of course not quite. The stormish gray male’s sapphire hued eyes were blurry, and the amount of red beneath his broken limb spoke well enough without words. It was not before now that Conor’s face knew emotion – and he was puzzled. The blood on the male’s hands was the quiet proof he needed. It was impressive if the man had managed to set the broken bone straight on his own. It was plain to see that it had been an open fracture. The lavender eyed male shook the medical purse off swiftly as his own bones started to bend and pop to allow his body to take a less natural shape.

It was a pity that the man still held on to some consciousness. Pain was great, and though it could be soothed, there was not a lot of time left to be wasted. Comfort was important if it was possible, but Conor’s first priority was to maintain that life that was slowly pulsing out together with the thick blood. ”If necessary, Cwmfen, please try to keep him down.” The moment his shift into optime was more or less done, cream painted fingers pressed eagerly around the injured area where the bone had gone through. Within moments his hands were slick with blood. Unfortunately, due to Conor’s travelling time, the leg was quickly swelling and it was hard for him to determine whether or not the bone had been set back right. The thought of having to re-break it was not appealing, but his mind quickly moved on to limit the damage now when he finally was here. He gave Cwmfen a sharp nod to prepare her before he skilfully pulled the entire leg upwards, lifting it from the ground and placing it on his knee.

Blood was still pouring out, but the main blood stream would not travel so forcefully out of his injury if it had to travel up and against gravity. Holding the leg firmly in case of a kick from the loner, the young male let his other blood soaked hand reach down into his bag and fetch a most precious bottle of alcohol. Now frowning, he turned the cap open with his teeth and let the fiery liquid splash down into the wound without mercy. His muscles trembled with the effort of keeping absolute hold of the other man’s leg. He was uncertain how much good it did with the red stream so strong, but the only downfall about this move was the male’s pain. A splinter of wood was already nearby, but he did not take time to wonder if it was mere luck or the efficiency of his fellow Dahlian. Fingers seemed stiff with inexperience in this urgent situation, but the male did his best as the occupied hand attempted with a few flexible fingers to position the piece of wood as the other hand started dealing with the yellowy white cloth bandage retrieved from the bag of wonders.

Quickly, yet too slowly for his liking, the bandage was wrapped around the leg. He was not oblivious of the seaweed brought fresh from the wet shores, but he had no knowledge of its uses in this situation. Therefore he continued, wrapping the cloth tight around the wound oozing with red. There were many things he should have done better, but at the moment his mind believed this to be the fastest way to stop the bleeding.

Table by Veronica
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Saluce Tremblay · 07-02-2010, 09:56 PM

The oddly marked female’s worlds rang in his head like church bells. Would the death he spoke of come? His mind wasn’t given much time before the truth of her words became apparent. Her long elegant howl spoke volumes to his headache filled mind. The temptation to lift his muzzle and join was absolutely tempting but the answer came as he had to close his eyes once again to shut out the light that magnified pain. The head wound itself was more of a distraction for anyone trained to deal with such wounds. It was a cut and had swollen but as with all head wounds it bled profusely, looked horrible but wasn’t much worry as it was already starting to clot. The leg itself was a compound fracture (fracture of Tibia-the shin bone) the top half of the fracture had pushed through the skin while the lower half of the shin bone had slid underneath. His actions earlier of setting the bone had been just that, he had pushed the bone up at first extended then set it. But none of those actions had done anything to help with the bleeding.

As they sat and waited for help to arrive his senses would come and go matching the level of fight he still had within him. Saluce had slowly started to wonder if help would arrive at all and as the minutes passed the doubt crept into his mind. As the doubt continued to fill the male he quietly started to drift in and out of consciousness loosing track of time. It was during one of his more drowsy states when his mind suddenly decided to wake up as pain wracked him. The new arrival had just lifted his leg and as he did alarm bells suddenly began to shake him. A low grunt like growl left his lips, not without a subtle tone of anger. His eyes flashed open to see the male who had rudely awakened him. Then as he was just beginning to accept this new wave of pain the wolf had pulled out a bottle of foul liquid. His nose picked up the scent immediately and his lips curled up in a preemptive snarl knowing this was not going to feel well.

White fire gripped him and as much as the wolf tried to accept the pain his left leg betrayed him as it dug into the ground in reflex, muscles and sinew already beginning to push with leverage. “GOD DAMN” he growled furiously, not prone to use profane language but at this juncture it was all he could growl out. His paws clutched into fists as the burn deepened, his biceps straining to cope with the input declared necessary by his pain stricken brain. “MY GOD WARN SOMEONE” he growled instantly alert as if he had never been hurt. He didn’t however fight long the blood pressure spike had caused his headache to come rushing back to make him suddenly rethink his reaction. His voice was lacking any sort of threat more just filled with anxious pain. Then the pain subsided for the warrior, the alcohol numbing the wound. This new male was working quick as he started to splint and wrap the wound. Saluce was slightly impressed by his ability to work so quickly. His voice cracked as he uttered response to this new action “Make sure the splint is tight, the bone will want to break out until it’s started to mind”. The alcohol had waked him up and now he was able to assess and be an ass offering out advice like a dolt.

Cwmfen nic Graine · 07-07-2010, 09:54 AM

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I’m so sorry about the wait! (I don’t make IC posts on the weekend, and it was Independence Day, so it was a 3-day weekend… OnO) I was going to post yesterday, but it got up to 99 degrees (F) and I didn’t have the AC on to save money and it was just too hot to do anything!
700+

The Woaded Warrior was patient as she waited for the Alpha Male to arrive. She knew that time was very tight, but there was no way to cut the distance between the coming wolf and the two awaiting him. The unnerving calm was unmoved as she created a distance between herself and the loner, but the she-wolf did not sit, instead remaining upon her four paws. The black fae stood there, an unmoving stone within the vastness of the world, defending a wounded creature whose life or death seemed to hold no consequence to her own. But the woaded wolf could not know that. She was not privy to the thoughts of the gods. Had she been a wolf without a pack, she may have not given the weakened male this chance at life. But she was of a pack, and Dahlia’s laws were much kinder than the laws of the purely wild. That was the gift of packs. That was how wolves were able to survive in times of weakness. Even she, having arrived at Dahlia’s boarders as a much younger Cwmfen, had been offered the strength of a pack so that she may fight another day. Perhaps this male, should he survive, would offer Dahlia something of use in return for her kindness to him.

In the silence, the synesthete could almost feel his consciousness slip in and out, pulling her own mind back and forth between the threshold of wakefulness and limbo. It was probably better for the wounded soldier, she thought, to fall into sleep where pain would be minimized. It would allow him to last longer, at least until the sleep became permanent as he slipped into Death. But the Warrior did not think that such a thing would be allowed to pass.

When the golden male arrived, the black wolf stepped aside. But the violet eyes of the leader were already studying the wounded male. Conor had come neither early nor late, but just on time. It was as the gods had intended, as all things were. It was this thought that allowed the Warrior to keep such an open and accepting mind, a mind that often did not mix with the culture of these lands. She had learned to live with the conflicting cultures, however, just as she had learned to live with both War and Peace.

The simple Warrior was ready to take her leave, but Conor, it seemed, required her help. Silently, the wolf nodded before she, too, shifted to that most unnatural shape. It was much easier, however, for an optime to subdue an optime, and in this time of need, the Warrior was not willing to waste either male’s time. Immediately the Caledonian-Korean moved, crossing the border of courtesy by making contact with the other. He was strong—she could feel the sinew beneath his fur—but she was strong as well. Although he was weakened by his loss of blood, the new wave of adrenaline brought on by the pain allowed his strength to return, if only for a short time. The Dahlian did her part, however, and restrained him for both the loner and the Alpha’s sake.

The smell of the alcohol came to her nose. It was sharp and acrid to her, and it was a substance that she never consumed. It was thick in the air, almost as thick as the blood, but the Raven Dreamer ignored it. As the loner growled and snarled, the Warrior instinctively responded in like kind. She could not see what it was that Conor did, as she was faced toward the prone man, but she trusted that the Alpha did what was required. The profanities, regardless of pain, was not respectful in the black fae’s mind, and so the snarls were permitted to cut through the tranquility, to distort of plain features. The white orbs held the blue gaze, but she knew that he must see things beyond the realm of Wakefulness.

As Conor completed his work, the tranquil features returned, the aggression smoothed away like the natural calming of water. When it was safe, the Dahlian pulled away from the loner, who was now fully conscious and speaking. White orbs considered the loner, contemplating him through that serene façade. What it was that she thought could not be ascertained; perhaps it was a mild displeasure that touched her soul, for arrogance was a crippling and disfiguring thing. After a long moment of silence, the lunar gaze turned toward the healer. “You have learned much,” was all that the alto melody sang, a compliment and one not lightly given. A faint smile seemed to touch her quiet lips, but imperceptibly. Conor had grown much since she had last seen him, and in a way that was beneficial to the pack. The older female approved, as if it were her place to do so. Despite her erected posture, the woman stood modestly before the golden male. She wondered if he would require her services once more or if she would be permitted to leave. Whatever he commanded, the Warrior was willing to do.

Conor Soul · 07-13-2010, 01:37 AM

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300+

The man was forced out of his dreamlike state as Conor’s firm hands went to work, butt his was a good sign. He would have been more worried had the male not responded to the striking pain that with certainty jolted through his broken limb as the alpha put on the temporary bandage. The injured loner’s head seemed to clear enough for him to tell the unofficial apothecary to make it tight, and so he did, though not as tight as he could have made it. The leg would continue to swell, and he risked making things worse if he finished up with a bandage too tight. It was all temporary anyway, but this was needed before they were to move him.

The experienced woman by his side offered her short compliment, and despite the severity of the situation, warm relief washed through him at her soft tones. She always spoke truthfully to those that chose to listen, and he understood that she meant what she said. It would be something to revel in the future, but not now. When the leg was wrapped in crimson, pinks and yellow, the young leader turned to his member, and he knew that she knew that everything would sort itself out. Conor was no longer the little runt he once had been. His build was indeed similar to that of his father, but colours were brighter, smoother and his heart was not painted black.

”Thank you, Cwmfen, you may return to your duties.” She had done what had been expected of her and more. He would remain here for a little while, see when and if the bandage would do its job before picking up the task of carrying the injured loner back to Wolfville and the home where Conor had everything he needed to make sure the wound would mend well. If he survived, of course.

Table by Veronica
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