you're the beacon / any sylvans

[wound]

I 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