[m] [p] little bird, don't stifle your song
#1
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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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#2
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Sparrow


I rise to meet you as your trust dissolves to shame
oh, this innocence has turned and lost its way
retrace the footprints off the path from which I came
I'm the beast in you, the beast in me

The ruckus seemed to have consumed all but the tiny, forgotten home and the one who rested within it. The crowd outside was like white static to her as she laid curled in a corner, nothing but a meaningless sound, but it somehow eased her into peace. It helped keep thoughts away--she disliked to think. Whenever she thought, she would always think about something bad, eventually. One would think memories would fade away at one point in time, lose strength, like a wound would scar. No, her thoughts never did erode over time, not even when so many moons had passed. She counted the cycles, and noted that it had been more than twelve complete rebirths of the lunar orb since the day Winter left her. Taken away, she softly chided. In any case, it had been over a year since she had not been with her, and that last day plagued her as if it was only yesterday.

The mental shield that kept her from thinking was beginning to crumble with the door opened. A glow that had once emanated from the crack now engulfed the room in dancing firelight, the sudden light reflecting off of wide, doe eyes. The warm scent of cooking meat softly grabbed at her stomach, tempting with its soft tendrils to move towards it's source--but the stench of alcohol lingered. He had been drinking again. She shied away from the fiery light that shined upon her and the owner's voice as it called her name, sickly sweet, and she momentarily wondered if she could feign slumber. It then came to her that he would probably find her in a few seconds and "wake" her, anyway, so what was the point of pretending?

She peered out from where she ducked her head at when the day shut off into night again, staring at the shadowy figure outlined by the faint glow. "...I'm not hungry." She was not the best liar, but maybe if she sounded soft and if he was drunk enough, he wouldn't catch on. She knew this could only be a ruse; it was hard to tell when he drinks, but there was always a reason why he came to her. And it always usually ended the same. She learned this quick, and yet she would always be fooled by one thing: hope. The only thing more powerful than her fear was her hope, and it betrayed her almost every day. It was small--small enough to fit into an hand, easily crushed with the flick of the wrist. Yet, she coveted it still. It was the only thing she had left.

bite my nails right down to the skin
where one trust ends another lie begins
patch over holes in my weakened heart
which angels hold & devils pull apart


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#3
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Sad sad sad sad sad. D:

Sometimes Marcel wondered how he could have fathered such a scared little scrap of fur such as Sparrow; his sons, after all, were growing into strong men if a bit too soft around the edges yet. He might have been shocked to see that his other daughter, the disowned, the ugly whelp whose face he scarred, had been the one to truly inherent his pride and his violence. He considered her useless, though, out of reach, not as malleable as the brown-furred little girl who’d taken shelter in this tiny house. He had learned that even the weak and the dumb had their uses, though; Renard had taught him that, ushering along Wisp, feeding her, asking her questions that she always answered with the same simple, hollow, stupid smile. She had been more than useless, but she had become his father’s pet, just as he made a pet out of Sparrow. She was little more than a timid little caged bird, but a bird he could train to sing for him and that he could let perch on his finger as he showed her off to the world.

The darkness of the house gave him pause, and his snuffling was nearly audible as he stepped forward. He caught her sweet ’yotish scent in a corner and turned his attention there, seconds before she deflected his question with a soft little excuse. He paused, head tilted after the manner of a dog, and then broke into a tender smile marred by the gruesome scar ravaging his face.

“Oh, come now, girl,” Marcel crooned, kneeling down where she was. “Even if you don’t want to eat, you can at least come outside and celebrate with the others.” His orange gaze darted to different points of her face: a wolfish muzzle and soft cheekbones, the subtle mottling and the round, broom-yellow eyes. “And what of this sweet face, hidden in shadow?” he asked, reaching out with a hand to trace her jawline with his finger, affectionate, even gentle. “I want to show my daughter off to the world, you know.” Not that the raiders knew he was her daughter, of course; the looks he passed her crossed over into something far from paternal, and he was not too stupid as to think they’d turn a blind eye to something like that.

A crooked grey finger ran back against her cheek, and he fondled one of Sparrow’s oversized ears in a manner reminiscent of a human stroking their pet. The difference between their forms—or, rather, her lack of an upright body like he carried himself in presently—only strengthened that illusion. His smile faded away thoughtfully, and he withdrew his hand for a moment, still kneeling close. Born non-luperci himself, he hadn’t minded that the girl lived on four legs—but it was getting a bit burdensome, now. He wanted to see what she looked like in optime, although he could imagine it and had imagined it well enough before.

“Are you sure you don’t want to go out?” Marcel asked, his voice falling quieter than ever—although his grin, if an auditory adjective could suit a facial expression, was very loud.

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#4
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Sparrow


I rise to meet you as your trust dissolves to shame
oh, this innocence has turned and lost its way
retrace the footprints off the path from which I came
I'm the beast in you, the beast in me

Sparrow knew there was nothing to celebrate. Anything in his honor was a folly, a cruel lie. His power he now possessed was a crown wrought with disloyalty. She did not allow herself to be entertained with the thought of walking out of the house while the chaos continued outside, not when other drunks and low lives stumbled and feasted. At least she had an ounce of stubbornness still left in her. If anything, she disliked this pack as much as Marcel--no, she could not hold vivid emotions for strangers like she had with the man, but they came close. They were disgusting, pleasure and greed being their life, from what she saw. They had no purpose but to hurt others, tarnish the world with their blackness. Innocence never survived long--maybe she herself wasn't as pure as she was when she first came here. She was broken, after all, and could be easily shaped into anything with a firm hand.

Her heart sped as he inched closer to her, and she did not press closer into the corner--no matter how small she could make herself, she knew she would never escape the fire that gazed over her once she had their attention. A smile played across his scarred face. The first time she ever saw it, she was comforted by it. Now, it only chilled her. She trembled as she felt a finger brush softly against her face, but did not dare flinch away--she'd rather be caressed than slapped and clawed after all, but the lingering touch was unsettling as the hits were painful. Already she was trying to distant herself from the situation, at the least her mind able to escape the physical part of his prescene. But, words always kept her at attention. He softly told her about her pretty face, and how he should flaunt it. Fatherly words reached her, twisted themselves around her. Maybe tonight could be a calm night, and all she needed to do was comply, and not fight it.

She allowed his hand to move from her face to her ear, where he rubbed it gently as she stared blankly into the ground, seeing noting of it. Better than hits, she reminded herself, being lulled into his quiet voice. But, part of her remained tensed. Ruse, she faintly thought. Always something, never nothing. This thought only strengthened when she felt his loving hand leave her, yet his body did not back away. She did not dare look up at the eyes she knew that were watching her. A question was asked. Should she answer? Maybe she hadn't much a choice, in the end. She never did. She glanced up from her low spot to see the wide grin on his face. It was screaming at her. "Y-yes, I want to stay..." Honesty may reward her. Maybe a calm night, a more restful sleep that wasn't racked with pain.

bite my nails right down to the skin
where one trust ends another lie begins
patch over holes in my weakened heart
which angels hold & devils pull apart


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#5
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The timid little thing was really trembling, and though they were far from the cooking fires he doubted that it was wholly because of the cold of early autumn nights. He wanted to tsk softly and call her out on it, but instead he allowed himself a moment of reflection, gazing upon her face, the corner of his mouth turned up slightly. Once upon a time she had worshipped him like the others—and why wouldn’t she? He was her daddy, and he fed her where once meals had been hard to come by, if he understood the wilderness right. She’d been compliant and sweet, everything a little girl should be, but he knew now that things were changing. They saw each other differently, though he could not fathom who had begun the transformation. She was growing into a young woman, while he was fully aware of that fact, and Marcel almost thought she feared him.

Pah, he guessed she should. He was like a god, and you feared gods as terribly as you loved them. So long as the two went hand-in-hand, he wouldn’t mind a touch of fear; it made him feel all the more powerful, an omnipotent presence that loomed over his raiders and his blood. No, the day she did not fear him was the day that he lost all control over her, and then he’d have to hurt her, and that always made him terribly sad. He tried to be kind to her, he really did, but he had a heavy hand; that was how he raised his sons and his daughter was no exception, though perhaps he was quicker to comfort her and kiss wherever his hand or teeth fell.

Sparrow confirmed that she wanted to say, and his smile broadened. “Just as well,” he said as he settled down on the floor before her. The bloodbeat of the party outside sent a burning longing through him, but he had to ignore it. There would be other celebrations, made for any excuse possible even if it was just to celebrate particularly pleasant weather; and sometimes the alcohol and drugs and instruments were broken out without any pretense of reason. He listened for a moment, hearing here a cacophony of barking and snarling, there a howl that shivered with something much different than anger.

Marcel frowned momentarily, his ember eyes falling onto his daughter’s yellow ones. “You do know that I love you,” he half-stated half-questioned, brows lifting. “I love you very much, Sparrow, and all I want is for you to be warm and fed and happy. You’d be much happier outside with the others, I think, but if you don’t want to bother with those morons, just as well.” His words slurred as he repeated them, reaching back to scratch behind one of his own ears for a moment. He let a silence fall, his expression contemplative, though there was a dangerous current under the smooth surface.

The man stretched lazily, his long limbs falling sloppily where they may. He shot her a drowsy smile, though it flashed with the strength of any of his grins. “You are okay here, right? Much better than where I found you. You were skin and bones then, my little bird.”

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#6
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Sparrow


I rise to meet you as your trust dissolves to shame
oh, this innocence has turned and lost its way
retrace the footprints off the path from which I came
I'm the beast in you, the beast in me

She felt her chest expanded as a silent huff of relief escaped her as Marcel approved what she wanted. She allowed her coiled body to smooth over, but yet she could not reach a level of comfortableness--she never could when she was in his presence, it seemed. She watched as he settled himself near her, and she began to wonder when he was going to return to the festivities. By the way he was positioning himself, though, it did not seem he was going anywhere anytime soon. No matter, she thought with an edge of desperate hopefulness, maybe he is just tired.

Ears momentarily flicked upwards at the sound of a howl, but as fast as they lifted, they were downcast once more. Just another drone in the awful static that surrounded her. Sparrow watched as her father grimaced, and in that moment she felt her heart flinch, and listened attentively at what he said. She was confused by his words. Love? Was he capable of it? The way he treated her, was that love? Maybe... Maybe he did, and she just could not see it. She did not see a lot of things the way Marcel did, and maybe she was just... stupid? She was not sure. Maybe she was, being born wild; they sometimes say that canines like her, the ones without two legs, they were slower.

She made a soft, whispering noise to show that she indeed wanted to stay, away from the others. Sparrow was glad when a silence enveloped them, but she saw the thoughtful look upon his face. Even distorted with the liquid haze, his mind was no less sharp, but the coywolf had her hope that he was not thinking of anything bad. She blinked as the man spread his legs out luxuriously, and found that she was looking at the ground again when he asked his question.

Lie. "Y-yes... I like little ha-house." She'd rather be in the ground, in a den, but she had to admit the building was better than nothing, even when it creaked when it was windy. "A-and the food... i-it's nice, too. Good." Yes, she did not go without, she softly realized. She didn't have to hunt for her food, it was given to her promptly. Maybe that was what he meant. "Y-yeah... like it h-here." But not better.

bite my nails right down to the skin
where one trust ends another lie begins
patch over holes in my weakened heart
which angels hold & devils pull apart


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