4/21/2025, 2:36 PM
Where she once lay bleeding, now stood cold stone.
In a haze too thick to sequester, she would blink away a fog of color and sharp, penetrating scents that were all too unfamiliar to try to distinguish. In the room she inhabited, a symphony of birdsong rang just outside. Their song of unabashed freedom felt like ridicule.
As the she-wolf began to stir, memories of the previous night began to roll through her memory. So vivid it was palpable on the tongue.
The sharp pain where crimson once bloomed.
Now, her thigh was wrapped tight in a strange, web-like bandage, the long white tresses tucked neatly beneath its folds, a carefully-crafted knot pressing against the outer side of her leg. Before she could get a chance to acclimate to her surroundings, however, a familiar face popped into the entry of the room.
'Miss Takala?'
'I hope I didn't wake you'
Her ears instinctively flattened to the tenor of Francis' voice. What a fool she must have appeared to be. Fumbling under the weight of the ewe. Moreover, they had nothing to show for it. Crushed under the weight of the ewe — and for what? A scar, and a failure that would not be so easily forgotten.
And there she lay— a weak, pitiful fool.
"No,"
The word left her low and rough, the rest catching like a stone in her throat. Questions, apologies, anger, all of which entangled themselves until there was nothing distinct enough to form on the tongue.
Takala cast her pale eyes to the light that entered the room. A flat, vertical threshold. The architecture of this place was like nothing she'd ever seen, and certainly not one built by the paws of wolves. Or rather, no wolves she'd know. After all, this world had mystified her before. Individuals with the ability to make finery such as this could be commonplace here.
She looked back toward Francis, watching as he busied himself with something unseen. His back turned, it was easier to find her voice.
"How bad is it?"
In a haze too thick to sequester, she would blink away a fog of color and sharp, penetrating scents that were all too unfamiliar to try to distinguish. In the room she inhabited, a symphony of birdsong rang just outside. Their song of unabashed freedom felt like ridicule.
As the she-wolf began to stir, memories of the previous night began to roll through her memory. So vivid it was palpable on the tongue.
The sharp pain where crimson once bloomed.
Now, her thigh was wrapped tight in a strange, web-like bandage, the long white tresses tucked neatly beneath its folds, a carefully-crafted knot pressing against the outer side of her leg. Before she could get a chance to acclimate to her surroundings, however, a familiar face popped into the entry of the room.
'Miss Takala?'
'I hope I didn't wake you'
Her ears instinctively flattened to the tenor of Francis' voice. What a fool she must have appeared to be. Fumbling under the weight of the ewe. Moreover, they had nothing to show for it. Crushed under the weight of the ewe — and for what? A scar, and a failure that would not be so easily forgotten.
And there she lay— a weak, pitiful fool.
"No,"
The word left her low and rough, the rest catching like a stone in her throat. Questions, apologies, anger, all of which entangled themselves until there was nothing distinct enough to form on the tongue.
Takala cast her pale eyes to the light that entered the room. A flat, vertical threshold. The architecture of this place was like nothing she'd ever seen, and certainly not one built by the paws of wolves. Or rather, no wolves she'd know. After all, this world had mystified her before. Individuals with the ability to make finery such as this could be commonplace here.
She looked back toward Francis, watching as he busied himself with something unseen. His back turned, it was easier to find her voice.
"How bad is it?"
