"But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura
t’s an all-consumingly terrifying feeling to know someone is chasing you. It’s a feeling that grips Wound tightly now and refuses to let go, especially when she hears their laughter and the sound of paws upon the sand. Her heart quickens in her chest, fueled by the energy sources of terror and panic and adrenaline. She doesn’t make it to the treeline, having to pivot herself to run along the shore when the wolf cuts her off, and hopelessness settles in her stomach like a heavy, smoking dragon.
Wound tries regardless of her waning chances. The wolf (he’d never given his name, as he’d stood upon the shore, and she realizes that was for a good reason on his part) snaps and nips and growls at her heels like a mother urging her child away from danger. It’s difficult for her to maneuver the beachfront as easily as the wolf; her damned leg doesn’t help as she struggles in the sand that clings clumsily to her feet. She’s breathing heavily already, swept away in the race for her life among the time-consuming struggle against the sand.
By the time he draws blood (it speckles against the ashen sand, freckles of red against dark gray) she is already exhausted. Wound’s muscles burn and her sides are slick with sweat, but now there is also a gash driven into the skin of her right gaskin. The shred of his teeth upon her silvery skin and the superficial layers of muscle brings a high, sharp cry from her mouth and she is stumbling directly into the waves while the pain overtakes her.
And just like that, she is taken under. Wound is weak under the force of the wolf and the grip of the waves and they drag her easily under the weight of the tides. Her thoughts are as swirling and wild as the bubbles that swirl around her (Wishbone and Warrick and Amorette and Tephra and Wishbone and Warrick and Amorette and Tephra) and it doesn’t take long before she is losing her breath beneath the southern waters that used to soothe her.
When she comes to, they are on Sylva’s shore. Water laps faintly at her heels, keeping her tied to the place where she rests but not as angry as Tephra’s waves had been. A groan slips roughly out of Wound’s mouth. Her body feels as if it has been beaten by a hundred warriors and then thrown into an ocean to swim back. Slick cuts and scrapes adorn her silvery body like freckles while deep purple and sickeningly blue bruises have blossomed on nearly every surface of her skin. Wound stretches her mouth as she raises her head and a deep cut spreads apart on her lower lip, forcing fresh blood to the surface.
She suspects a reef or some sort of sharp rocks, but her mind doesn’t recall the events that happen. The wolf and the water would know, she reflects, and while fatigue clings to every inch of Wound’s body like a weary skin, she rises slowly to her feet and glances around the shore. When her coffee-brown eyes find their bodies, a graveling and rough voice rides out to kiss their ears. “What have you two done?”
credit to nat of adoxography.
@[Crevan] / @[Maugrim] / plus anyone else who wants to join in! wound is now in sylva for anyone to torture, partially maim (no killing or critical injuries, though), emotionally torture, rape, etc etc. basically whatever your heart desires. i bent space a little bit because i'm lame and lazy and sylva has a shoreline :/ i guess it could be a lake or somethin' idek it's up to you guys <33
It has been too long since the darkness of the placid lake had kissed the damp skin of a newcomer. Maugrim stands knee deep, the muddied bottom giving way beneath his weight and allowing his hooves to sink into the muck. He watches over her with hungry, lifeless eyes that rove her figure curiously, meticulously looking at each wound that traverses her body. She is battered and bruised, left bleeding in the darkness of the Sylvan forest, with his eyes on her.
Always on her.
Taking her had been easy, once the wolf had forced her into the water. Maugrim created deep water where they had once been shallows, swallowing her up with one fluid sweep of an ocean wave, cradling her in his grasp. The rivers and streams led them back to Sylva, where his lake awaited her presence, welcoming and hungry.
He is patient as he awaits for her to come to, his face near hers when the deep brown of her irises are revealed. He does not move at the sight of her awakening, but merely snorts softly before slowly raising his head. He towers over her, and she would find that if she tried to stand, the water would persuasively tell her to remain on her side. Her voice is immediately accusing, raking through the silence of the forest and causing Maugrim’s ears to fall flat into his neck. His lips curl into a semblance of a snarl, displeased with her voice. He hated when they talked and part of him briefly thought to stifle her vocal cords with water. He tosses his head, black eyes flickering down to her as he reminds himself that there is a bigger reason he had taken her (though he still cannot fathom any other reason than to kill). He champs angrily, the sound of blunt teeth clicking together in response to her demand for answers.
“Hush,” he commands, the water brewing with a threatening boil around her. Perhaps Crevan could interest her in a conversation; Maugrim could barely handle it right now, needing to focus merely on keeping her breathing and restraining himself from attacking her again.
The bitch could take a beating and come back for more, he’ll give her that. Sylva’s Hellraiser hadn’t been privy to the captive’s journey home, though he’d stuck as close to the rivers and waterways as he could should someone attempt to follow or intervene, so when they arrive on cue and in good time he’s already pacing by the water lord’s small haven in anticipation of their arrival.
He’s surprised she’s not dead yet, what with the amount of blood she’s lost and the time she’s spent without air. The Finisher was a talented creature indeed, and the shifter is nearly close to a compliment as the two touch dry land, but Muagrim seems to be in no real mood for things like compliments as Wound slowly comes to. The mottled green-and-lavender tinted stallion just watches her, torn from some internal debate that Crevan’s not interested in interrupting.
Whatever. They’ve each got their own quirks.
Wound’s sputtering, shaky return to consciousness takes time, enough that the wolf has settled onto his belly with both ears perked towards the sound of her shallow, ragged breaths. He can't help but admit that he enjoys the initial confusion in her glassy eyes, and he especially enjoys her attempt at rising while Maugrim forces her down again. The two would make a lovely couple, really. It’s only when realization hits her full-force that the wolf rises again, every ounce of wicked mirth or curiosity wiped clean from his face when at last, their prisoner speaks.
Hush. Maugrim’s voice answers first, clipped and tumultuous as the boiling water that suddenly springs to life around her. Being a predator himself, Crevan understands (perhaps not fully, but partially) the unsatisfied nagging of having bagged a successful kill and then being restricted from, well, killing it. Inhumane, a bit twisted, and no doubt infuriating. He lets the answer slide, and then he gives his own.
“We did exactly as we were requested to do. That’s all you need to know.” He tells her in a low voice. With a flick of his curled tail the shifter moves forward, wide paws silent through years of practise until he’s close enough to distinguish every angle and bruise on her lovely, sad face. “You’re not special, girl. No one heard your cry, no one came running after you. But if you start to forget that, start to think perhaps you might even be valued …” He says, slowing to a pause that sends his body into perfect stillness.
In the split second of a moment he lunges, letting his ragged teeth sink into a section of her exposed shoulder so that they might rip away a sizeable piece of her flesh. It happens without warning, and when he retracts his lips are rimmed with her warm blood and his cheeks are full of her body. The wolf spits Wound onto Sylvian earth, and then lifts his head once more to eye her pointedly.
“I’ll send this straight to Tephra so they’re reminded of just how expendable you are.”
tay down.” It’s a strong thought and it keeps her grounded to the lake’s shore. The water seems to tighten around her heels and, though she does struggle for a moment, Wound finds herself ultimately in the same position she had awoken in. They are both nearby, this snapping wolf and water-wielder, and the silver bay tosses her head in Maugrim’s direction. Her teeth snatch toward him — though they land on empty air — while her ears lace back into the mass of her mane.
The water begins to jump and spit, causing fragments of panic to dance in her coffee-brown eyes. He could easily burn her and she knows how that feels; she’s spent enough time in Tephra to occasionally singe a heel on an unseen lava-stream. Wound’s stomach grips together in cramps of apprehension, which flows into a tight clench in her jaw, and she finds her legs moving themselves in an attempt to rid her ankles of the restraints.
But Wound stills — as frozen as a deer sensing danger — as the wolf slides closer. His sharp canine teeth flash with every word that he speaks and the silver bay wonders for a delirious moment if there’s anything more unintentionally threatening. His words penetrate a piece of her she’s kept hidden for too many years, something she’s only ever confessed to Warrick. Even then it had only been a small puzzle piece of the big picture.
Her brothers had provided her with protection in her childhood and the words ‘I love you’ were always on their mouths. But to be discarded like a broken plaything by your own mother does have some impact on how you view yourself in the world. Wound has been wrestling with this idea of herself (“You’re not special, girl”) since the moment her mother abandoned her the very same night she tasted grass for the first time.
A sob slips from her mouth, aching at her sore throat in the process, and Wound’s eyelids slide shut in a moment of heartache. If she had kept her eyes open, she might’ve spotted the flash of his teeth before they pierced her shoulder. Searing pain rips across her shoulder and for a single second she is unable to scream from the sheer agony of it. Then it rides on her mouth like an unhinged demon-screech, a high, rough sound with that same tune that hundreds of the tormented have suffered through before. A delicious sound to evil’s listening ears.
“Oh, God.” She’s moaning, feeling the burn as nerves end where they should not and thus simmer in intense pain. There is blood already splattered against her side and more of it is beginning to gush down her chest and over her withers and along her barrel. “Dammit, you took my good shoulder!” Wound’s pissed, an emotion that fits well with the fire of pain engulfing her shoulder, but she’s also growing weaker with every moment. Darkness creeps into the edges of her vision, threatening to drag the fatigued woman down into its cool depths. She nearly obliges, but instinct tells her that they could do so, so much more if she slept.
“Oh, please do tell them.” Her voice is thin, despite her aim to seem strong. “At least then they’ll know exactly where to find me.”Fuck, this really hurts.“And then they’ll wipe your sorry, twisted behinds so far off Beqanna you’ll die before you make it back.” She’s fading, bruised and battered and bleeding, but she manages to finish her threat before she’s too weak to say much else.
credit to nat of adoxography.
@[Crevan] / @[Maugrim] / just to clarify, she's still conscious at the end of this post, just super drained haha
Crevan’s advances cause the Finisher’s nostrils to flutter interestedly. The algae and pearl stallion treks a bit closer to their captive - somehow feeling almost protective over her wellbeing (in the most unkind sense of the word) - but at the same time, curious to see what the wolf is capable of. He had already seen the agility and skill the predator has when it came to the chase and is rather pleased that Crevan is more than capable of making Sylva’s thoughts known in such an eloquent way. Maugrim had always been bad with words, feigning charm and wit when needed and abandoning those traits the moment they became useless to him. Like now, when the victim is powerless and with no plausible way to escape, and the deepest darkness within his soul trickles to the surface, manifesting itself in the blackness of his roving eyes and the delectable twitching of his damp, two-toned flesh.
The flash of teeth and the immediate scent of blood on the air pulls a smile onto the stallion’s pale lips, the skin cracking from the sudden movement. Her screams riddle the forest, luscious and sweet as they give way to moans of burning pain, her blood trickling like water into the now completely still lake that keeps her pinned to the ground, the water level rising slightly to kiss at her shoulder and flank, lipping generously at the now visible muscle and tendon that Crevan so maliciously exposed. Maugrim doesn’t make them bleed - he doesn’t enjoy getting their blood on him, but watching it unfold before him was a truly succulent spectacle. A shiver runs down his spine as he steps forward, his forelegs dragging across the water as his dark gaze roving the wound with a hungry and sadistic smile.
Of course, she ruins it. They always ruin it.
Her voice comes slippery from her throat, somehow still full of pride and arrogance with each sound. Maugrim grimaces, his lips rippling unpleasantly as the smile fades, ears falling against the smooth curve of his muscled neck. Her threats are empty (rubbish, useless - can’t she see?) and even with a chunk of her shoulder missing she is still in complete denial of her current situation. It’s pathetic and Maugrim had no sympathy for those who cannot understand the reality of their circumstances. He closes his eyes as they roll upwards in exasperation, inhaling deeply to command the water to rise ever higher, reaching her neck and throat to pin her to the bank even more. The water progresses across the part of her face that is in the mud, lapping teasingly at the part of her mouth that is still exposed. “Such confidence - ” he manages with a terrible voice, dark and slow as it leaves his mouth in vexation, “such confidence will not matter if you are dead.”
When you are dead.
“Perhaps you should take the tongue next, Crevan?” Maugrim’s head tilts at his own question, a quizzical snort leaving his nostrils.
