[ P ] Do You Remember the Rain?

The Tainted Victory

For most, the bloom of night brought a familiar feeling of comfort over the bodies of Rionnach. The soothing flutter of moth wings and crickets joining alongside each alluring sonnet, orchestrated by Księżyc in their somber crescendo. Often, in Perth, the moon never eclipsed over the thick crown of forestry that marked the wildlands but, that hadn't stopped her father and her. "I want to show you something" the huntsman had awaken her one evening, and the two set out to the edges of Perth. Sylvain could still remember the sound of his laughter, looking down to his daughter's gasping mouth of awe as he jested, "If I hadn't married your mother," Kalen would then gesture toward the celestial body, " I would've traveled through every mountain, walked into every ocean, to propose to the Moon."

Perhaps she was a scorned lover, then. Whereas, in Sylvain's youth, she found the melody of night to be a pleasant one, now she'd grown into the habits of an insomniac; Working late on paperwork, cleaning out her office for the eighth time in a week, ungodly amounts of training. It was stress, the nurses and medics had diagnosed oh-so intelligently, and deduced a lighter work load would've done her just the trick. That's what had led the Colonel into the Lowlands - to Melrose.

Her pelt was as wet as a newborn fawn, thunder striking as trumpets to the musical of evening - the rain lacked any threatening level of severity though just enough to fog over the meadows, deep puddles splashed up in Sylvain's quickened pace. In truth, she hadn't expected the incoming of a storm - the sky was bright one minute and cloudy the next, but wasn't that just the motto of life? To expect inevitable defeat after a moment of clarity?

The brooding soldier stopped under a thick branch, black nostrils stinging of misty petrichor as she watched the chaos just beyond. I'm not making it home in this weather her thoughts plagued as Sylvain sat along the cold grass. She'd been forced to remain seated, Redwood would've been too far a trek and there'd be no telling how harsh the storm would grow to be - iridescent eyes scanned the drenched fields for a moment before sighing to herself, a grit in frustration until... until something. Tufted ears perked one by one, attempting to trace the sound of-

Was that...?

Sylvain's broad head raised once more from it's lowered position, squinting past the opaque haze toward a silhouette about one click away from herself. Her fur was bold as sunsets, paled with swan-soft accepts of white. Her muzzle darkened at the tip, kiss of death along her chin with gradient flecks trailing along the mysterious stranger's nape. The Colonel had unknowingly stood to her paws once more, toes at the branch shade's edge as she stared at the dancer who'd swayed and spun to a song only she could hear past the madness of wind and thrashing water. It was unlike the stiff waltz Sylvain had been forced to partake in, cold of any passion or life; this oozed of serenity and existence. Blue, nacreous orbs narrowed on the solo performer, unreadable as she watched joyful, olive eyes glow whimsically in the storm.

She must've been a madwoman. Crazy to dance with no harps guiding her steps, but, for a time, there'd been nothing that could sprout from the militant's jaws - no words to cut through the joy. She stared, watched silently until her lips could form words past the rushing atmosphere, "You shouldn't be out here," Sylvain inquired, "Go home, it's dangerous." However, unlike most times, it lacked the blunt strength of an order - this wasn't one of her soldiers, and she wasn't a commander.

Notes
Księżyc - the moon.

"God doesn't hear deadmen."
But, I do...

D

arkness had prevailed in the passing time since she had arrived in Melrose. Her thoughts were trapped in tumult and confusion as she tried to make sense of what had transpired. Aryth is dead. One tragedy after another. It was surreal as a bad dream that returns night after night. Except this darkness didn’t fade away with the rising sun.


As the abyss of grief and loss and utter darkness threatened to consume her, Willow found excuses for solitude. The wolfess had only been in Melrose for one night; it had not been her intention to remain there a second. But her daughter was fast asleep now, safely in the care of her Uncle Sundstol, as Willow found her way to one of her most favorite places, one she had gone to a thousand times – in all seasons, with friends now long gone.


She was drawn from her gloomy mind by the soft rhythm of rain as it splashes the verdant treetops overhead. Soon, these gentle sounds were accompanied by the distant sound of thunder, and the scent of wet earth and plants further filled her senses. There was nothing like a rainstorm to ease a troubled mind and aching soul.


Of course, simply being in Melrose was treacherous. Danger lurked in all the familiar places, every nook she had explored, every tree she had known… It was a precarious situation, and she felt no different than a wolf on a tall precipice, looking over an impossibly high ledge to the earth below. She was no longer a student. But Melrose would always feel like home, no matter how long the Imperial guards searched for her. Then again… Didn’t they have better things to do now, anyway? The plans of attack, the plotting for murder, those wouldn’t write themselves.


But tonight, she had pushed all of this away, with the help of the song of the storm as it crawled closer to the valleys of the Lowlands – if only for a few precious moments, to recapture all that had been lost. Her childhood, the family that had once been close, scattered like seeds into the wind. For once, she wanted to feel some semblance of peace beneath the dark sky, where clouds rose up like castles reaching toward the firmament.


Tonight, she would dance alone beneath the cover of clouds, there in the mist as it rose up into the nighttime. For the past was over, the future far away. If only for a little while. She needed no other song than the rain, the thunder, and the sound of her own breath as it entered and escaped her lungs. The coolness of the night was inviting as she swayed and twirled slowly. The dark corners of her lips curled upward in a smile that was not feigned, for in this moment, there was freedom.


An unexpected, unfamiliar voice called to her. She stopped where she was, movement ceasing as Willow turned swiftly to find a massive brute of a she-wolf standing near. The sandy shades of her pelt were nearly indistinguishable in the mist. "Go home, it's dangerous." Only a mad wolf would stay and engage with this imposing stranger. Willow stared back at the giant, her facade betraying no other emotion than curiosity, though a hint of a smile still lingered upon ebony lips. "You shouldn't be out here.”


A peal of thunder far away caused a dark-rimmed ear to flick, but her attention did not waver. ”This is home,” she offered, intentionally vague as she regarded the stranger with peridot-hued sights. ”This is where we all live – beneath the clouds and the sky. It’s the same moon whether you’re in the Lowlands, or…” Her musing faded into silence.


There was no escaping the ever-looming threat of war. Soon, even the trace of that grin vanished as she added in a thoughtful voice, ”And lately,” in quieter tones that could easily be lost to the gales, ”Everywhere can be dangerous.” Unless, of course, one was a behemoth of a wolf, like the one who stood close by…


Part of her brain screamed at her to run. But Willow remained where she had been dancing, regarding the stranger, anticipating the giant’s next move.



@Sylvain

art and code by Yahtzee-Penguiduck

MATURE RATING: MENTIONS OF CHILD DEATH, THE AFTERMATHS OF WAR CONFLICT

The Tainted Victory

In truth, Sylvain had expected resistance of sort. It wasn't her first time catching an act between roaming glances, calling attention to a disturbance only to be met with curses and shouts. Drunkards were the worst, throwing their beers at the woman's head before blowing into street-wide brawls - piss flavored mead stuck to her fur for days. However, despite her preparedness of the inevitable scorn, there'd been none of it - hardened gaze falling to the nameless lady's upturned lips as she'd stopped to turn to her.

"This is home-" Her voice was filled with daisies and crushed mint leaves, contrasting starkly against the interruption of lightning. But, Sylvain could hear it, clued in with its soft wavers and clarity. Melrose, of course was in question but, the Colonel had enough intuition to understand there was more than that, more than just residence of the land. She was young, and yet spoke in the language of Atlas; as if the world hung at her shoulders, and the soldier was just another chain.

She knew the dialect well, spoke it as fluent as her paternal tongue... A death sentence to some.

”This is where we all live – beneath the clouds and the sky..." The larger of the two faes glanced toward the tumultuous skies before meeting the lush, earthy bloom rested upon ember cheeks, "It’s the same moon whether you’re in the Lowlands, or…" the gentle voice faded, leaving room for Sylvain to answer it's wisps. Instead, the militant took a moment to contemplate the stranger, silent as water leaked across each individual leaf overhead. "...It doesn't seem that way," a mellowed tone flowed from the Highlander, but perhaps she'd been the only one to sense it. "It seems like we're all fighting for claim over who the moon belongs to, sometimes which of us the sun favors more or would rather leave to burn."

Soon, there would be a crestfallen expression upon the dancer, speaking of the latest of times. All in the region knew of the cruelties in war, now more than ever, and not one wolf could shy from it. Sylvain thought to the homes they'd found burned, the dead yearlings casted upon dirt ways as she'd advanced her forces onward to the slaughter. So few came back, and the ones who did were never truly the same. "Everywhere can be dangerous.” A sobering, truthful statement.

"Then why be out there?" Sylvain asked, the concealment of thick shadows acted as a barrier from stepping too close into the unknown - her body frozen in place. An outsider looking in had the best answers, Why search for a light when there's nothing but the abyss staring at you? Why show your face when no one bothers to look at it? So many question... "Why, in the glare of danger where nowhere is safe, would you dance?"

She hadn't meant for it to, but a thought had crossed the Colonel's mind and it was enough to send a slight venom through her veins, Are the bodies of my fallen men and women a good cushion for your toes? But no, no it wasn't that. Opalescent eyes scanned over the bright-pelt again, down to her sunken eyes and nervous gait - she looked... tired.

As if Sylvain was staring into a twisted mirror of her own flaws.

Notes


"God doesn't hear deadmen."
But, I do...

The stranger seemed perplexed by Willow’s behaviors. Well, Willow was just as puzzled by the other’s reactions. Why had she bothered to approach a random wolf dancing in the rain? Just to boss someone around, or…? When the amazon spoke again, her deep voice seemed more mellow now, maybe sensing that Willow was not whatever threat she may have assumed. Not everyone had to be an enemy.

The stranger mused aloud about the moon and sun and that which destroys. ”We mustn’t forget that the moon and the stars and the sky are no wolf’s property… But how, then, is the earth below for the taking?” She added the last bit with an ironic chuckle and the shake of her head, sending drops of water in each direction. Her entire form was soaked now, from snout to tail, revealing a lithe frame beneath her drenched coat. ”Not all of us are fighting,” she offered without further comment.

The scent of the storm served to obscure the stranger’s smell, hiding hints that she was from a forbidden land. Instead of soldier’s barracks and the musk of the army life, Willow could scarcely detect the woman’s scent, like smoke and other things Willow couldn’t quite place, much less the lands in which she resided. Perhaps without the mask of the rain, Willow would have been more frightened, more cautious in the presence of the hulking she-wolf. Or perhaps she could sense that this stranger was not a threat – and if she was, Willow’s friends were not far. But the tri-color femme hoped she would not need that.

"Then why be out there?" The giantess questioned as she stood still as a stone monolith beneath the dreary skies, save for the rising and falling of her wide chest. Her pelt was a mixture of earthen tones, with a physique that was strong, imposing. "Why, in the glare of danger where nowhere is safe, would you dance?" Peridot sights sought the gemstone eyes of the stranger, shades of pale blue and olive green mixed together, as if her irises couldn’t quite make up their mind as to which color they should be.

Willow was thoughtful for a second as she peered into the unusual orbs of the unknown woman. The stranger couldn’t know how many tears Willow had shed in the course of a few short weeks, nor could Willow herself begin to guess how much time she had spent in despair. And that grief would be waiting for her return, it was never far off. But for now, her shoulders raised in a sort of shrug as she offered, ”What else should we do? Wait around patiently as the world burns down all around us?”

Feminine vocals continued: ”Both sides have taken so much. But they can’t take this,” she stated her challenge to the clouds above, to the heavens some believed beyond the sky, far past what they could see. As the words parted ebony lips, the she-wolf would lower herself into a bow – not a gesture of subservience or submission, but rather, a sign of playfulness. Verdant sights remained fixed upon the other’s stoic facade as she issued a challenge: ”How long has it been since you just… let yourself be?”

As if on cue, the rain began to fall with gusto from the laden grayscale clouds. The downpour would send most wolves scrambling for shelter, but not Willow. Not today. Instead, a laugh burst forth as the heavy drops fell all around, and the earth was illuminated by flashes of lightning, dazzling. She cast the stranger one final glance, a silent challenge, before she began her previous activities again. Her soaked body would sway to the sound of the storm again, and she twirled, rising to her back legs, jumping – and it was liberation.

She would keep dancing, no matter who was there to watch. This was her remedy.


@Sylvain

art + code: clae

MATURE RATING: MENTIONS OF CHILD DEATH, THE AFTERMATHS OF WAR CONFLICT

The Tainted Victory

Pools dripped from the dancer's chin, Sylvain's ears stiffening high along her temples at the monarch-flutter of laughter. "We mustn’t forget that the moon and the stars and the sky are no wolf’s property… But how, then, is the earth below for the taking?" She mused prophetically, brassy colors turned silky smooth as the wavy texture sloshed through in giant waves. She lulled out, then, "Not all of us are fighting..." though the larger of the two remained quiet toward that. It felt unreal to believe that some wolves would wake up in the sunrise, smell the dew on ferns and carry out their day in modesty. They picked berries from bushes and broke bread with their families whilst she'd been forced to pick the bodies off battlefields and broke the earth in the wake of war.

It was written in the stranger's stance, nervous yet unfrightened in Sylvain's presence. She had thin limbs like that of birch trees, a doe-like build of grace and lithe that the soldier couldn't attain with her own physique - an avatar of Sol at her back with sunkissed gold and milky alabaster. Madness must be contagious, the earthen wolf wanted to laugh. "I cannot remember a time where that wasn't reality but..." her voice faded to the though succumbed, "It feels like I should - suppose it a lingering dream... Do you?"

She smelled the petrichor, mixed with herbal rosemary as if the soldier had been transported into a garden. Imagination peaked at the visual image of softly sprouting buds, pale valley lilies and verdant shops hung with dried ferns. Nothing of nations, nor alignment and something within the Highlander steadied at that just as much as it tensed. The ringed gaze found charming green once more, breaking the contact to stare at her own toes in the shade, "What else should we do? Wait around patiently as the world burns down all around us?"

... A fair point. In fact, it'd been enough for Sylvain to chuckle past the rain's volume. It rested at her barrel chest and reached up from her throat, raising her head at the jab of sudden sarcasm, pleasantly surprised at her own amusement. "That's a dreadful thought for a dancer," Sylvain spoke after composing herself, "What would you elect we do about it then? The summer grows hotter by the day, we could be too late." An equally dark joke, flattening Bartosz's blackened lips once more in a light cringe. Though, it was quick to stop as the woman then spoke of the one reward that would remain inaccessible as both of the wolves looked toward each other, silent for some sort of argument or attesting from the skies above.

"Both sides have taken so much. But they can’t take this."

"I-" In the face of Jacobians, criminal terrors, and the worst of her own ranks, Sylvain Bartosz remained a figure of words so carefully chose. Yet, as she lived and breath, the militant had opened her mouth before being able to think of anything; after six years on their earth, she'd been left speechless. For any who knew the Colonel, it was a humiliating sight how her lips fell lightly ajar and her eyes scanning the invisible words presented to her as if they'd carried answers. Sun-gold bowed to her in challenge, taunting her with the fated question as storms filled their ambience.

And she danced, violins full of laughter in the nightly musical once more. Sylvain watched again, eyes narrowing downward to the shadows before one paw stepped out. Then the next. Dirt and rocks were magma with how much caution the Colonel paced with, slow to advance toward the woman - how could she look like that in the rain? Unknowing dread at her back, just like everyone else, Trailing thoughts swarmed before the accented, husky voice chimed one more with its gathered intelligence, "Too long. Before this life... probably long before that one."

Rain began to coat through the woman's pelt, rendering it as drenched as the nameless canary's infront of her. "Would you remind me?" She asked, whispering under the veil casted upon them of thundering clouds above with face full of genuine intent and unabashed curiosity.
Notes


"God doesn't hear deadmen."
But, I do...