Sailing the breeze
#1
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Regan now stood in the middle of camp where Laurel had left her, content with placing her pack on the ground to have a look around for now. Wandering amongst lean-tos, tents, and spotting a nearby cabin that she dared not venture in just yet, Regan wondered where she might sleep when night came. Even though sleeping under the stars could be pleasant from time to time, Regan was accustomed to having a roof over her head, whether it be cloth or wood. Making her way back to where she left her pack she began poking up the embers of a nearby fire, hiking up her dress so she could crouch and blow at the beginnings of a flame, adding a small branch or two that had been placed beside the small pit.

She remained crouched there for a time, warming her hands on the small flames, and wondering if there might be someone nearby for her to meet. She was never used to being alone for long, and loved having long, drawn out conversations with complete strangers. A small wind had started to stir in the distance, causing leaves to flit past and dreamy, almost surreal sounds to issue from the flapping of tent fabric and the creak and moaning of wood from the cabin. To Regan the now overcast day was turning out to be a beautiful one.

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#2
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Hello! Big Grin



It was like another set of chains in a way. Another place of mystery and fog that he could not leave, though the things that held him back were easier to understand than the things that had tied him in place in the past. "The winter would kill you," he'd been told. "You wouldn't survive." He couldn't pretend that he could still stand on his own anymore, but it was less a pride issue and more of that old self-disgust and self-hatred. Why should anyone else burden themselves with his existence there? This pack had no obligation. These trees were not his family. This fog was still not familiar. And he didn't want to be there.



Laruku was on four legs because it was easier to balance that way. It had been weeks since he had last seen anything, but he still felt unaccustomed and stupid. Vulnerable and weak. Staying unshifted in a pack full of humanized werewolves did not help and the voices all towered over him, but he found it preferable to feeling along tree trunks to find his way through unfamiliar territory. Honestly, he had never felt so goddamn self-conscious in all his life. It was too much irony for him to handle. The coyotewolf made his way back towards the sickly cabin because he had no where else to be. He didn't know where Ahren was, or where Rachias was, or where anyone else was, but it wasn't like he could offer much aside from bleak conversation anyway. He could not help build a house, and he could not help hunt or cook. The breeze was against him and he heard no noise, so he sat by the fire none the wiser of someone else's presence. He was a blind man that was not used to being blind.
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#3
Hey! Smile
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The fire had started to crackle as it grew in intensity, Regan adding the last small pieces of wood as she moved to sit, crossing her legs and leaning her back against her rucksack, which she had placed behind her. The afternoon had already started to fade into evening, the sun starting its slow descent causing the trees to cast shadows all about the camp. It wasn't until a noise caught her attention that Regan looked up from the fire, green eyes following the path of quite a bruised and battered looking fellow. When he sat by the fire in front of her she found it odd that he hadn't even acknowledged her with a greeting, let alone not bother to look her way, though it soon became apparent he was blind when she caught sight of the pink of his eyes. Feeling awkward, but thinking fast she moved with a rustle of her skirts to stand, before plopping right back down on her bag noisily — careful to avoid her violin and other precious belongings — smiling kindly even though she knew he wouldn't see it.

“Hello,” she greeted him in her lightly french accented purr, stretching and laying across the pack on her side with her elbow on the ground, and her hand propping up the side of her head. “My name is Regan,” she said in way of introduction, positive that he might have guessed already from her light accent, and the fact that this was her first day in Esper Hollow, that she was new here without having to say it aloud. Making small, swirling designs in the ash and dirt in front of her with her index finger she asked, “do you live here?” Before looking back up with her kind green eyes to await his response.

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#4
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Both his tattered ears flicked forward when she stood, and he immediately understood that she had been there all along. In his head, there was laughter again, but he expected that. Vaguely, he found it disturbing to realize that he was more wary when the laughter was gone and there was only silence. The politeness of the stranger in notifying him of her presence bothered him more than it probably should have, and even knowing full well why that was didn't shake the feeling. It was a cliche sort of feeling, but he didn't want their kindness, their manners, their ill-invested obligation, their pity. His ears swooped back again when she spoke, and he found himself shrugging.



I suppose I live here, he answered, not sure if she really cared to know why he only supposed so. At least for the while. At least for the winter, at least until they let him leave, which very well may be never, but he could still tell himself otherwise. Perhaps in the spring, he could go back to his own damn cabin, wherever that was. If Rachias wanted to come, then she would come. If Ahren wanted to come, then he would as well. If they wanted to bother with him, then there wasn't much he could do about that, but Esper Hollow had nothing to do with him. It was all just circumstance. Laruku, he introduced plainly. He thought for a moment that she sounded familiar, but the feeling was gone as soon as he realized it. Why cross an ocean? He had never been a wanderer himself.
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#5
You replied already, oops! O_O Ignore me. I was gonna re-write my post, but screw it haha.
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Regan titled her head to the side at his reply. Suppose. She hated words like that; if, and, buts and maybes. They were never close enough to the point for her, just aimlessly beating around the bush until someone jumped out of it and shook a straight answer out of them. She didn't even bother to reply, going back to drawing designs in the sand with a frown, waiting until he spoke again or she could think of something else to ask him. Finally he introduced himself and her face lit up again, ears moving forward to meet with his question, which instantly made her dead silent, a frown starting to work its way back into the corners of her mouth as she thought it over. “Its a long story,” she quietly offered, looking back down at her completed work of a ship in stormy weather, before wiping away the image in a slow, deliberate movement.

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#6
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Sorry, he said automatically, though it might have sounded emptier than it should have. He was sorry, but by now he had apologized enough times for the word not to mean much whether this woman knew that or not. It was his automatic response to everything, and it was true, but even true things stopped meaning anything when overused. Too-frequent "I love yous" were just as worthless as the things that were never said, perhaps. He could hear the scratching in the sand and could only wonder what was there. I always did like short stories better, the scarred man told her, They read faster and only leave the most important things in. Oh, how quaint and metaphoric. Weren't shorter lives the better ones after all?



She sounded young, or at least, younger than himself, though Laruku felt a thousand years old and probably sounded like it too. Long stories have too much opportunity to mess up somehow.
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#7
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“Sorry.” Regan shook her head, about to say “don't be” when she paused and thought about it. If he was kind enough to apologize, even half-heartedly, why bother getting him to take it back? Instead she stretched out her now cramped arm and sat cross legged once more, listening to him with her eyes on the fire. A smile started to appear on her lips as he spoke; Regan couldn't help it, she was glad he wasn't trying to act concerned, and pry into her life by asking further into it, or saying something along the lines of “I've got all night”.

“Yeah, I suppose your right,” she said with a hint of amusement in her voice, looking back up at Laruku with a smile. “I'd probably mess a lot of things up with this story.” She took a moment then to look Laruku over, mesmerized by the many scars on his body, amazed at how he could have so many and still be walking. “How long have you lived here?” She asked, even though what she really wanted to ask was how he had gotten so many injuries.

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#8
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It was easy to understand why pity and concern were unwanted most of the time. People liked to deny that anything had ever been wrong to begin with; they liked to think that they were fine, that they were taking care of themselves, and that they didn't need any help. But long lives were like long stories; tragedies were inevitable for anything that lasted longer than a few chapters, a few months. Eventually, something bad would happen, and they would never forget. That was life. And that was why scars criss-crossed his forearms though most were faded and worn now, half-hidden in rust-colored fur, but never invisible, never gone. Laruku ceded his own almost-a-smile. I'm not good at telling stories either, he said, and even the explanation of why was a long story in itself. He'd lived too long. He'd been there too long.



I don't know, was his truthful answer. A month maybe. Month and a half. I was sick, so close to dying. A friend, a lover, brought me here. And I don't really have anywhere else to be. His first lie of the evening, though that was subjective. He had a place to be -- a graveyard surrounded by a different fog in a different forest. A cabin further east where no one would disturb him (and where he would disturb no one else). He had a lot of places to be: any place that wasn't there, he could be.
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