i'm not always uptight

ooc; @Verity
 

The Lake wasn't as far as he thought. 

True, he had left Elkshire to scout and bring back news of some kind. Meet another pack wolf, be nice and discuss the happenings of the north. Now that he left the plains, or rather given space and tried not to feel awkward around his former pack, Bran explored a bit away from that location. The chill remained, fresh and frosty. It was almost winter, but not quite.

Of course, the water would make it colder. He approached to stop and rest. Dipping his head to the surface, he lapped at the refreshing waves before looking up. He licked his dark lips a bit, spotting a woman a few paces away. Someone he had not met. She was not blessed as the High Elk was told to have with him... But it did not stop him.

Dark. Light. Brown or lack of brown. He didn't really see color in a biased way. "Greetings." He remarked to her, his voice drifting but his legs gave her space. So yes. The Lake wasn't far, but Elkshire was far behind him. He kept caution up.

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she comes upon the lake one dark evening, when the moon is shrouded by clouds which look heavy with the threat of rain. she's feeling - well, she's not sure how she's feeling.

sharp. like shards of razor-edged ice scattered across the ground, or the dew-tipped thorns of a rose.

the clench of teeth against skin.

the taste of blood and gritted dirt in her mouth, her jaw aching from holding in the screams. she shudders and shakes and so too does the body against her, but neither for the same reasons.

she imagines:

the glint of pearled fangs in the low light of the cavern -

she remembers:

standing within the same cave, a line of warriors, of men, leering and waiting to get their filthy paws against her -

imagines:

teeth against the soft, vulnerable skin of his throat, sinking in fast and holding tight -

the flash of red against monochrome pelt, the widening of silver eyes -

dead, dead, she wishes he were dead,

breathe.

she blinks her eyes open, and finds skin and fur gripped within her maw. pulls back, and finds a rabbit: still seizing in death's throes, blood weeping from its neck in thick rivulets. she'd certainly done a number to it - it's jugular was ripped clear open, exposing slick, shiny sinew and bone to the world outside. the meat of it nearly steamed against the cold air, and for a few, quiet moments, verity found herself simply watching it.

soon enough, its struggles ceased, and the glint of life faded from the poor lagomorph's eyes.

verity wishes that was her.

wishes she could tear herself open and bleed out all of the bad blood inside her veins; weep crimson darkness in thick drops, release every ugly, evil thing inside of her. wishes she could press her nails against the surface of her skull and dig in, past the cracking of her cranium, past the mush of brain matter; deep into the center of her, where the rot sits, where the rot spreads. wishes she could pull out the core of her own being, present it steaming and bloody to the air and hope, hope beyond hope, that the clean snow might wash away her darkness.

she blinks, and the rabbit shifts, taking the shape of blood and bone and fur and flesh, and suddenly there's not one, not two, but four pups before her, pink and wet with blood and afterbirth, and she feels sick, so sick: these are her pups, those who'd fallen dead in her womb, those her body had forced out in some desperate attempt to save herself - 

(she doesn't know, yet, that one survived. that she bore a living, breathing daughter, and not these stillborn things.)

homunculus, she thought, staring at the vision of the four withering things she'd born. each one bears limbs twisted at odd angles, patched fur and bulging eyes and too many teeth - 

se blinks, and the rabbit's back, torn to shreds amongst the snow; torn so that she can hardly recognize it. strips of thin flesh and fur lay against her bloody paws, her bloody maw; blood - so much blood - 

she heaves against the ground, bile rising in her throat to spew out from between clenched teeth. verity hacks and wheezes and spits, her stomach and head roiling, ears ringing to the beat of her own heart - 

help me. please, gods, help me.

---

note: uhhh. yeah. this one took my brain and ran with it. sorry it sucks, and if it's too triggering, lmk and i can redo it!

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"Ma'am."

His tone was neutral, and his body language was as stiff as ever. The only thing that crept into his usual behavior was a stern tone, but not directed really at the woman. She failed to acknowledge him, and that was fine, but she yacked up bile so suddenly and without warning that he hadn't known really what to do. Was she sick? A diseased wolf? She did not smell ill. So it meant she had reacted to some memory within her mind.

"Are you well?"

He knew the answer but wanted to hear her say it. He needed to hear her say it. Not out of any sympathy - nobody liked to be pitied - but of a soft and barely registered concern. It had been too long since he was concerned with another on an emotional level. Strange. Bran did not move from his spot by the water, his eyes focused on her. Not disgusted or put off. Just... this woman appeared and well, began to yack. No 'sorry' and no 'one moment'. 

It merely happened.

He angled his body slowly so not to startle her, but his eyes traced her face for any signs of an obvious illness. He was not a healer. She did not smell diseased, but she could be in a beginning stage. It was possible. He needed to know if he should quarantine himself for the sake of his new pack. Friends? Ha... What were those?

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