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A lot of shit went on in the world, on a very regular basis. As a kid, Poe hadn't really understood this, and without a grand context of what could or would be, the ordeals of her youth had seemed all-consuming. There was a strange sense when looking back on her former self; a mesh of a pained understanding and a dark, patronizing humour was the best she could nail it down as, but that wasn't quite right. Whatever it was, the reflection certainly slanted her experience in later-life, she could be sure of that.
Regardless, religion was one of the remaining sore subject for the darkling girl, and its presence threw up walls around her that would normally be no more powerful than a stack of lego blocks. She preferred not to question it for fear of that teenage angst, and her steps always simply veered away from this neighborhood for that sake. But with half a bottle's wine in her and the recent breath of childish emotion, she made a point to confront the whole matter, at least in this very small, mundane way.
In the deep reaches of the night, closer to morning than evening now, the dark girl made her way across the human remains to the most glorious place of worship. And dressed half-appropriately, she might have known if she'd taken more interest in Christian customs. A whimsical white dress that cut her dark limbs and head up like floating pieces in the snowy landscape, adorned with a number of ribbons and sparkly things for entertainment value. She could have been a virgin sacrifice in another criss-crossed lifetime, obedient to a God that had given her life wrapped in too much sin to survive. There, at the foot of this God-blessed building she paused, expecting a conflicting lot. A bolt of lightning to strike her down, a beautiful white wolf to beckon her in, absolutely nothing but the whistle of wind through barren branches. It was only the latter that she received before her mind cast away the exaggerations and her body reanimated, reaching for the groaning old doors.
[html] and who's to blame; i could assume
I apologize for the wait and the silliness that follows. It IS five in the morning, and I made the mistake of putting my head down to tempt sleep.
the loneliness of my white room
Shakadyn was in simultaneously high and dour spirits this morning. He'd finally taken the time to hide in some dark copse and shift, enjoying the personal agony of transformation in a way so reverent that it was quite appropriate to the place he had done it — this sweet little old church in the middle of the aforementioned dark copse. If God was watching and not paying more attention to the football game on television, as he so often suspected (because he did indeed know what a television was), then he certainly would have been entertained. Maybe more for the fact that a five-year-old werewolf still took such time to shift than for all the physical contortions it involved. Then again, this bestowed upon him an appreciation for the power unmatched by few others' — he definitely didn't take it for granted like so many of them did. He'd taken a few moments to pace back and forth then, slowly, trying to improve his chronically awful posture while at the same time readjusting to two legs after days or maybe weeks of being on four. He resembled a pirate captain getting a feel for real earth beneath his feet again after years of a ship's lulling sway; in other words, not what anyone would think to call "graceful", unless perhaps they were a smartass. Recovery was relatively quick, though, and after pulling on and adjusting his favoritest long black coat, fingerless gloves, and black-and-white striped scarf, he took a seat on the steps and leaned back against the preacher's pedestal with a yawn. His thick, plush fur coupled with the accomodating coat trapped the warmth of his shift, and anyway it was taxing to mind and body both.
Apparently, though, it was not quite yet time to be restive, because he picked up on soft sounds outside of the church. Nothing too alarming, just walking — for now. He hadn't bothered with trying to lock it, because really, he might have been paranoid, but precisely whom would come knocking at the doors of an old church at five in the morning? Especially because he'd heard of very few wolves in his entire life who would have had a spiritual reason for being there. Precisely whom. Well, he was about to find out. He lifted himself up with what he hoped was feline grace and slunk forward to peek out of a wormhole in the great wooden doors. What he found there... well, "startled" isn't the right word, nor is "surprised". Either way, it was certainly interesting. A small black female wolf dressed all in white and frills like a lolita bride, looking apprehensive but determined, and so familiar, to boot. He hadn't disturbed her sleep, had he? He tried to mind his voice when he turned. (He really hardly made a sound during, but he had no way of knowing that, as he was always preoccupied with matters much more pressing than fauxes-pas, like the slow burn in his arms and legs.) Well, she looked even braver after a moment. Had she been expecting something? How horrible of him it would be to disappoint. Grinning a little, he backed away from the doors but an inch or two, crouching on one knee, poised to pounce if the situation called (or begged) for it.
"Hello, Clarice." It was slightly classier than "boo", at least. Slightly. |
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[html] ooc: Aha, so late here. :x But man, I missed reading your posts. So good. But to find a new Shakadyn drawing/avatar ontop of it? Shiznat, you are awesome! xD
Oh, it really should be expected to never find what one may expect by now. It was the way that this girl’s life had panned out—fallen hopes and expectations matched by arisen beauties and adventure. That had been generally counted on until more recent months, when she found herself uncertainly stagnant in the city she had once dreamt of, sewing the same old patterns of romanticised lust that she knew so well, but with a frayed and uneven edge this time. To recognize a cycle should have meant to be released from it, but this seemed not the case, and was perhaps one more reason why she found her palms parting the heavy doors in her demeaned definition of a challenge. Her eyes were ready-cast upwards to the carved decore, the heavenly sky-god in man-made abstract, leaving the grinning fellow before her unnoticed for only a split second—but sometimes a split second is all that’s needed to catch one entirely off guard.
“Hello, Clarice,” a voice chimed, a slinky, frightful tease that caught her breath and then released it in a burst. A shout of alarm, a flailing, graceless step backwards, the D’Angelo’s melodramatics burst, and her eyes looked like they’d nearly go with them for a second before taking a firm hold on the wolf before her. And just like that, her absolute shock turned into an eruption of laughter, for the absurdity of her shed expectations, the show of their fall, and at least 50% the absolute unlikelihood of coming across this distinctive face from her memory. A long time ago, when this city had been no less than a dreamscape, he had dazzled her with absurdities of dress and character, an enchanting figure that her mind clamoured to retrieve details for.
“You!” was all that she managed, perhaps still a little shaken from her initial surprise, while a sturdying smile could assure that it was in the most pleasant way possible. But ah, he wouldn’t get off so easily, she decided as her bearings were set straightened. One hand pushed against her round hip and, conjuring the most diva that she could, she reached out to give him a light slap across the cheek with the other.
[html] He laughed. Melodic or not, it was a welcoming and welcomed sound, and nevertheless he just couldn't resist. She was as pretty as ever, and such a pretty face struck so surprised could play a chord in anyone, whether from simple appreciation or vindication from having walked a path paved by ridicule from those very faces. And of course, when she began to laugh too, he knew she found him as familiar as he had found her. Off to a good start this morning, then. "To recognize a cycle should have meant to be released from it" — oh, how he knew the feeling, how it loved to torment him — but some cycles, like the turning of the moon and the turning of one's shape, could not be helped. So it was that he recognized his emotional cages and, though it was unhealthy of him, remained complacent: the chronic spiraling of his mind (up or down? An unknowable thing!) and the purple haze over his eyes were so very not condusive to sorting out such problems. Even worse, despite himself, he'd almost let contemplation take hold, but the tiny girl's interruption had proven timely and soothing both. A distraction was what he needed, and, if the way she'd kept gazing upwards was any indication, that's what she needed, too.
The night, if you could still call this night, was frightfully but pleasantly calm, especially for January. No wind stinging his nose or ruffling his fur — he took care of that last himself, thick fluff on his neck and tail puffing out, full of all the joviality and excitement of a fat cat presented with fine wild-caught salmon. "Me," he replied, grandiose, feigning dramatic pride as always, just barely looking down his nose at her for all their similarities in dimunitive stature. Birds of a feather had to stick together, after all. "Poe," he had to pause only a moment to recall her name, simple and poetic (no pun intended), "darling, good evening!" Er — "Or rather, good morning." He brushed strong black claws through his fringe (which hung, atypically, over his unscarred eye), strong black claws that came in handy more for toying with wires in old human compounds than they did for hunting. Electric being more interesting to him than food — hmph! Some wolf he was. Some wolf, indeed. |
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