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Tranquil Springs. Tamerlane.
indent Fatherhood. He had never fully understood what this concept would entail until things had sunk in. The past two nights he had sat up in the dark, thinking. Thought and action were two very different things, of course, so he had gone away from the coast. It was a temporary escape, but it would serve for the time being. The hybrid had run along the mountain side, listening to his pounding heart and the ground under his feet. Wind tore past his ears, flakes of snow fell around his head, and he breathed in the cold air with elation.
indent Finally he slowed his pace, casting a sideways glance towards the river. Chock full of ice, debris, and a sickly brown-gray color, the water was unfriendly. Gabriel panted, moving north unaware of his exact destination. Eventually, he found himself staring at a collection of frozen and nearly-frozen waterfalls, struck by their beauty. It was a remarkable sight and, at least for a moment, he was content to sit in the cold and think of nothing at all.
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[html] Repressing a deep flinch, Tamerlane stumbled a few steps back and immediately reached up to remove the rest of offending branch from his shoulder. Thick splinters had dug into the flesh, and blood smattered over the muddy snow at his feet. One was not entirely inclined to look out for falling trees when the weather was not perilously windy in temperament, so the thick oak, weighed with snow, had caught him off guard when it had decided to end its life and attempt to take an innocent passer-by with it. Indeed, if his life of physical exertion and athleticism had been null and void, the young Storm loner would have been dead by now. All that had caught him had been a particularly nasty branch, and Tamerlane headed now to the nearest water source to wash the blood, splinters and mud from his sinewy arm.
A young hybrid, lissom and richly-coloured, loomed into view, but went unacknowledged by the tall Spaher. He was soon by a narrow waterfall, and, inhaling through his white teeth, he washed the wound on his shoulder. A second after which his muscles were numb and blood staunched, he glanced sidelong at the bright-eyed male. My apologies for ruining your view, he said, a dark humour so subtle that it might as well have been nothing but a cynical comment. |
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indent It was not the stranger that first tore him from his sightlines; it was the smell of blood. His eyes trailed the area and soon settled on the tall man with the strange tattoos. Sandy brown, with dark eyes, he was peculiar looking indeed. Under the thick salty-iron scent, he recognized Storm. While his eyes darkened slightly, he was in no mood to start any wars. The fellow was wounded as it was—it was simply unfair for him to even think about it. That didn’t stop him from calculating the percentage chance of doing so, but he would remain at a cease-fire as long as his children were still in utero.
indent “It’s no problem,” Gabriel said, not moving. His eyes studied the wound, curious as to the strangeness of its patterning. “What happened to you?”
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[html] | This was more or less the point in a meeting at which it was decided whether or not it would turn into a conversation. Tamerlane, being vaguely reclusive and rarely one to initiate conversation, wasn't entirely up for spending time with someone who -- as first impressions went -- was neither effortlessly talkative or philosophically fascinating. At best, he imagined any amount of words between them would be stilted and cool, identical to those between he and that blond male at St. Paul's Episcopal. Using one long hand to spread the water over his arm and shoulder where the blood was most prominent, Tamerlane replied to the stranger over the quiet sound of the cascade: I was assaulted by a rogue tree. |
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indent It wouldn’t have mattered one way or the other if the stranger were to up and leave. Gabriel was no socialite; he was very much an isolationist. The needed interactions happened though, with his clan members and figures that were important in his life. One more wolf, as out of the ordinary he appeared, was nothing special. Even the circumstances of his wound, while curious, wasn’t really that exceptional. “That’s different,” he said, though offered nothing more.
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[html] | Different, yeah; that was one way of putting it. Probably quite a good way of putting it, if indeed the tree had stood up and started trying to hit Tamerlane with its branches. Yes, but you should see the tree, he replied, referring of course to the fact that it lay mangled and broken in a pile of snow (not due to Tamerlane, obviously). Faint humour as always, that was always meant just for himself; most who insisted that they had a "sense of humour" needed childish jokes and blatant gags screamed in their faces to provoke even an arched brow of amusement. Tamerlane quietly pulled a thick splinter from his shoulder, and washed away the new hints of fresh blood that sparked as a result. |
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indent The stranger’s humor was dry, and Gabriel only offered him a thin, half-hearted smile in regards to the comment. While he had seen a thousand strange war wounds, none had ever made him consider smiling or laughing, no matter how much humor was involved. Injuries weren’t entertaining, no matter how the story went or how light hearted one tried to make it. At least, that was how Gabriel had been raised. “Do those mean anything?” He suddenly asked, eying the many tattoos on the tan stranger’s body.
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[html] | At the very least, Tamerlane's wound was clean now. He stepped back from the waterfall and let his sinuous arm drop to his side — remnants of water flew down it and trickled over his fingers. Do those mean anything? He tended to avoid answering questions like these with the original truth, because the original truth was in no way anyone else's business. They seem to mean different things wherever I go, he replied. He ran his finger over his right (uninjured) shoulder to follow the slim line of a marking that crawled round the back of his neck. A few months ago I was told that this line depicts the figure — from nose to tail — of a pygmy shrew, which is apparently in itself a symbol of self-determination. A few months before that I was told it stood for simplicity and inanity. And the previous year, an individual insisted that it was the emblem of a human Saint called William, who was renowned for his gallantry. |
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indent The wolf was very acute in his way of dealing with the question; he did not really avoid it, no, not exactly. It was not a lie he told, but something that gave several options. They were all right, all wrong, and all meant as little as the next. Gabriel followed the dark-eyed man’s finger, studying the line, seeing a thousand different things in those designs. Above all, though, he saw mere lines—lines that were as open to interpretation as the meaning to the wind between the tree branches. “Where have you been, if you don’t mind me asking?”
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[html] Where have you been? was a question with a thousand answers. As seemed to be determined already, Tamerlane was likely to either give an ambiguous variety of them, or none at all. Either that, or he could speak the adequate truth of the answer “everywhere”, but it would be an irritating answer to anyone who did not ask an irritation question. Just before I came to Bleeding Souls, I found the remnants of what I believe to be a once enormous city. The skyscrapers had sunk into the ground over the years — I entered one of them (foolishly, and at my own risk) to find that the seventh floor had become the ground floor. It was interesting, all very interesting. What about you, he asked, is travelling a ready hobby?
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