sick of all these people talking ;

Shackles rattled with the wind, bound tight around the dainty wrists of a woman as she hung barren against the winter's wrath. The cold made pain great, they'd said, tongue thick with an accent she didn't recognize. Her war had seized, a battle won; had they not realized? Or were they instead intending on provoking a new one with her slain body lying waste in the pastures of her home? A riot it would've caused, but no war.

The wind blew into her again, the cold searing parts of her that should've never played victim but instead were free of cloth and furs. Her back, a brute agony she'd willed herself to forget, awoke like a fire within a hearth. It lit her body with shock and the sickly scent of ichor permeated the air, but it was ultimately the sight below her hanging frame that left her complexion ghastly. Beneath her, mingled with snow, lay bits of herself—her back, she presumed—alongside splatters of red. It was no puddle, but the amount was concerning. Had she fallen out of consciousness?

It wouldn't surprise her. The woman had been strong, a warrior made true, but even a lashing could bring a man of great strength to his knees. She was no different. Yvaine's teeth clenched as the whip met with her skin again, wrapping around her waist and searing an unmarked spot of her stomach. Her head hung between her shoulders, but still they persisted. Her name, they asked. Her home, they ordered. She couldn't answer, she wouldn't answer.

But she knew their hatred to lie beyond herself, beyond what she stood for. Flea-ridden whores, they had called her and her people, confined to a part of the world where wolves were rejoiced—worshipped. Majestic creatures sent as blessings, gods taking the form of docile creatures that lurked beyond their home and protected it. It was a beautiful thing, and she was being punished for simply being born into it, and for staying.

Another lash.

She didn't know how long it'd been going on for, how much life she'd truly lost with each slap of leather against her ivory skin. Would it still be ivory when she recovered? Or would it glint in the light, scars to forever remind her of what her oppressors were capable of? Perhaps she could get her healer to mend the gnarled skin when she returned, because she would return. Another lash, this one weaker than the last. They were getting tired.

Something fluttered in Yvaine at that. Hope. But it was diminished when the sound of straps met her ears, ties being undone, buckles haphazardly being thrown to the side. She was still, eerily so, even as molten dread curled in the pit of her stomach. It burned her almost as much as the deep wounds on her back did, but the touch of fingers on her hips was enough to pull the dread from where it resided. Everything was quiet, the forest had stopped, the winds quieted, and all she could hear was the heavy, excited breath of her abusers behind her.

The grip on her hip tightened, something wet slid along the crest of her ear, and then it was pain. It enveloped her, took everything she had to give, and gave nothing back. The hands in her mind grasped at straws and scratched at the chains binding her, but soon enough, everything quieted. It quieted until she was nothing but limp in a man's grasp, a shell while her soul moved onward.

---

Yvaine woke with a start, a warm kiss fading on the woman's forehead as red eyes glinted against an ever-rising sun. Her fingers—now paws—wiggled beneath her rapt attention. She'd been blessed, kissed with rebirth, and given a second chance amidst her god's world. Another fate sealed. But she knew her back to be tainted with the remnants of a rekindled memory, lacerations healed a stark pink against the white cleanliness of her pelt. Jagged and crisscrossed, the scars wept a memory she'd hoped would be forgotten, left behind while she was kissed with a new life. Greedy, she was, but hopeful nonetheless.

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Since her awakening, Merel had kept moving.

The scent she sought was fickle, drifting in and out of reach. It shifted too much. She was used to following weak trails, but this was more than that: this was chaos. No wolf could move that fast. There must be a great storm somewhere, casting the winds in every direction. Perhaps the land itself moved, though she heard nor felt any great fissures that would suggest it. Or, perhaps, she was not as skilled a tracker as she thought.

She shook out her coat as she walked, as if she could displace her doubts that way. In these chilly mountains, the air was harsh and icy. Spruce and fir sap lingered in her nose. Nothing lived—except for something new. She followed the sudden smell to a white wolf. Her pale coat, crossed by scars, gleamed in the sunlight. She was beautiful, Merel thought.

Merel watched her from a distance as she stirred to life. There was something in her eyes that she recognized—a confusion she had experienced not long ago.

“Welcome,” she announced with a small smile, “to wherever this is.”

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Perhaps her fear had been displaced. Maybe it was the vines of decaying ivory she should've been concerned by, the cold press of snow against her body, or even the whistling of an eerie wind. Whispers she would've deemed them had she been home, echos of taunts carried through a cavernous mind. One would think having awoken in a world so strange, so unfamiliar, the only appropriate thing would be to fear it—to question.

But Yvaine? As smart and strong as she was, her instincts clawed at her like a ravenous beast lurking beneath the depths of her supple skin. They screamed and tore at her until her soldier instincts disintegrated, instead mingling with her faith once more. She was home. This was to be home. In a new body, albeit one torn and ragged, but the same mind, she was meant to begin again.

So, when the gentle caress of another's voice crept upon the woman, there was little threat in her tense shoulders, merely awareness. From her place lounged across the snow, she turned her head to the woman, a graceful and beautiful she if Yvaine was anything to judge. But too unconfident in her ability to stand quite yet, if the tingling of her back was anything to go by, she simply stayed put and allowed the other to come to her when she saw fit.

“This? This is home.” The woman would murmur with a smile hidden behind a mouth set into a picture of indifference. “"I take it you, too, have found yourself in a different world before this one?” Yvaine was curious, sure, but it was ultimately her role in a world before that had her prying. If she were to continue with this woman, consider the chance of allowing aide, the pale woman wouldn't let herself be completely dumbfounded when it came to her.

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This is home.

It was not what she expected the other wolf to utter as she sat up. And truthfully, Merel could not say she looked out of place. Her pale fur could have been sculpted from the very snow she laid upon. In contrast, her own dark fur marked her clearly as a visitor. The vague sense that she’d somehow intruded upon this other wolf crept over her. It kept her from moving much closer—that, and respect for the other woman’s personal space.

But she was even less prepared for what she said next—though, in hindsight, perhaps she had known it all along. It was the only thing that made sense. The only thing that explained why this land seemed so pristine, so uncorrupted.

“I…” Merel started to say. For once, the Blackbird was at a loss for words. “…I tried to tell myself that the sea just washed me here. But it is a different world, isn’t it?”

The only thing that kept her from panicking was the knowledge that at least one of her sisters were here. Had they been here all along? Had that been why she hadn’t been able to find them?

A strange sort of hope suddenly fluttered in Merel’s chest, and her smile warmed. The stranger couldn’t know why—but suddenly, Merel felt an odd gratitude towards her.

“I think I like this one more,” she added tentatively.

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Yvaine's gaze crept across the darker woman's pelt, eyes critiquing every breath and every shift in her body. She appeared unthreatening, but the pale woman knew better than to go off that alone. Even despite Yvaine's obvious indifference, she couldn't help but brighten at the other's words.

“It's quite beautiful, isn't it?” Her gaze never left the other even as she spoke the words, still on edge from the reality she'd been torn from. But then this poor bird, one with wings tucked so delicately against her sides, muttered words that the white wolf resonated with. Had she been torn from a cruel world, did someone clip those gorgeous wings?

“I believe I do too.” The woman murmured with soft traces of a grin, head tilting to the side before she was rising to her paws. It took a moment, a few heavy breaths, and then she stood at her full height, a frail rival to what she used to be. “What is your name?” She hummed, toes digging into the coldness of the snow in an effort to keep her upright and steady.

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Merel was not blind to the fact that the other wolf was sizing her up. She could hardly fault her for it; the scars on her body, some fresh, had almost certainly not come to her by accident.

She knew that this stranger’s past was not her fault, nor hers to pry into. Merel knew she was not some carcass to pick apart, to dissect out all the bits that bled and put them on display—as some had tried to do in the past. And Merel would not treat anyone else in the same fashion. Yet she could not help her concern at the wolf’s unsteadiness as she stood.

The stranger was tall, too. Merel had to look up at her, even from her distance. Formed from ice and snow, tall and powerful—she could not help but admire her. Subconsciously, she shifted forward.

“I am Merel the Blackbird,” she said. “Yourself?”

A pause, and then she added: “Do you need any help?” She angled her body to the side, indicating that the white wolf could lean on her, if she wished.

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Be it desperation or outright belief in this she's kind nature, Yvaine let her attention linger, full of curiosity instead of the wariness it possessed mere seconds earlier. She let it linger long enough while she contemplated her offer, lips thinning into something relative to a smile but not quite. It was the most she was capable of giving in that moment, the only thing she cared to.

The stern woman's head tilted. “You refer to yourself as a bird?” There was no judgment behind her words, simply curiosity—wonder. She'd recalled her earlier thoughts, how the elegance reminded her of the tentativeness winged creatures had back home. It suited the darker woman well, she thought, but Yvaine wanted to know why.

The pale woman would've been satiated had the question remained vacant, but she'd try nonetheless. Her words would, in hope, clip the tethers of her wings, pry them from her sides, and allow for her personality to bloom beyond what she was showing. The white soldier was observant enough to know to note her behavior. Her hesitation, the falters in her elegant gait, even scars that marred her beautiful coat. It was why her questions never probed further, why she'd let Merel hold onto a tether of control throughout their conversation.

An introduction had begun, and this...blackbird held the reigns.

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Merel supposed she was not surprised the other refused her assistance; at least she had tried. But she was a little caught off-guard when the stranger did not introduce herself in turn, instead asking after her.

The white wolf seemed reserved, wary—albeit difficult to read. Merel did not know whether to be cautious or kind. Subconsciously, she shifted away. Did this wolf see her as a threat? A potential ally? Or a little bird to crush between her jaws?

But the stranger’s question seemed genuine, and so Merel answered.

“My family called me that. I keep the name as a reminder.” A reminder of who she was, and had once been. A slight warmth crept into her voice as she spoke. Sometimes, she felt that much of herself lay in twisted, jagged shards, stuck in the teeth of other wolves or buried under the burning heap that was once her home.

But not all.

“I don’t need my name to inspire fear,” she added, and her eyes glittered sharply. “I let my teeth do that instead.”

She laughed, mild and soft—in contrast with the darker edge to her words. And the subtle glint of fangs when she opened her mouth.

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There was hardly any regret that passed across Yvaine's face, nor remorse when it came to withholding any sort of facts about herself. There were more things Yvaine felt concerned with, details about herself that she wouldn't relinquish unless outright asked of her. Merel, however, hardly faltered in her responses, in her brief explanations that offered the pale woman all she needed to know.

Her gaze shifted from the woman, ears flicking as the tumble of words met them. “You cherish your family then?” Her curiosity ebbed, waning at the smallest mention of family. She could feel the falter of her lips within their transfixed frown, but otherwise she remained indifferent. The memories that once wreaked havoc among her slender frame, convulsing her with an imaginary agony, had long been pushed beneath her paws. Left to a life of dirt and rottenness, they'd remain.

But then this woman's remark drew her attention back, the threat behind her words provoking the smallest of grins among her maw. Her shoulders straightened ever so slightly, her shoulders inclining inward with a low hum. “Your strength is admirable. I pray for the next creature that finds themselves on the receiving end of those teeth of yours.” Yvaine murmured, head tilting downward as she took a few steps forward, testing her balance even more. “Are you searching for something?”

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Merel was willing to entertain questions, to a degree. The white wolf had asked nothing she wished to hide—until now, that was. It was the Blackbird’s turn to fall silent. She regarded the stranger with cool hazel eyes, studying her scarred hide and strong limbs. The form of a survivor. And Merel knew that survivors sometimes had to do terrible things.

Merel had no issue with offering kindness. But kindness did not necessitate trust. Trusting her would be foolish. Nothing personal, of course. More than just her own life was at stake here.

“And I should not like to be the one on the receiving end of yours,” Merel answered with a small smile. “Actually, I was looking for a meal. There were pheasants here. Earlier.”

Merel gave the stranger a pointed look. Her steps were still unsteady; food in her belly would likely help her regain her strength.

“I could track them down,” she mused. “But I prefer to share my kills with wolves whose names I know.”

---

misc skill: trickster

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The silence was enough of an answer to have Yvaine tiptoeing back across the line she'd crossed, and yet still, none of that hesitance showed. Her face remained a plane of indifference, a simple casualty she'd mourned long ago. Her mind was empty, warped and completely molded to match the mindset of a soldier meant for war.

She'd doubted this woman, despite her scars and an occasional comment about the violence she was capable of inflicting, took those wounds in stride. She wondered if this dame was more a warrior or a victim. Did she cry over her wounds? Retreat to the solace of her family and coo underneath their concern? Yvaine sucked in her cheeks. It was no luxury the pale woman let herself have; she let herself bleed. She let herself feel the wounds, feel the wrath behind them, and then let that fester. When the blood dried and the wounds began their healing, she sought out her victims, an absent pleasure that wreaked havoc on her now that she remained in a new world.

She wouldn't be able to bestow her own wrath on the people who scarred her. It agonized like a wound of itself, pulling at the bloodthirsty animal that lurked in the barren stomach of the dame. It crept upon her in the times of acknowledgment, stirring in its sleep as she remembered.

“Yvaine, Blackbird.” She would've replied finally. If not only for the idea of food that stirred a rumbling in her stomach but for the fact that she'd assumed this woman wouldn't leave without a name to stick to her pelt—a trophy from their interaction. Another step then. “I can help you. I'm no fool to accept an offer without my fair share of participation.”

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Difficult to read, the white wolf was. If not for her scars, she could have been a sculpture of ice. But even if she could not thaw that exterior, Merel knew that the quickest way to the heart was through the stomach. It was good to know Yvaine was still as much a wolf as she was.

“Oh, good. So you are made of flesh and blood,” Merel quipped, but there was no true bite to her words. In an instant, her own wariness had faded. A fog over the sea that dissipated in the morning sun. She gave her a friendly and toothy grin. “You're far less likely to stand out than I am, anyway. This way.”

The Blackbird moved at a steady walk, though even her lean limbs were not quite as long as her new acquaintance's. She found herself having to trot now and then to keep up. Not her most graceful moment, that. Even though she felt less like a little bird being sized up for a meal now, Yvaine was certainly...intimidating. That was really the only way she could put it. She could not help but feel as if she'd overstayed her welcome. She did not know anyone had laid claim to these lands yet—except, of course, Yvaine. Home, she'd called it. For Merel, that was a weighty title. One that no place deserved, save for one that was now long gone.

“How do you know this place is home?” Merel asked, almost conversationally. She only partially expected an answer, but she supposed she might as well try.

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The woman bared a grin, her lips lifting in something savage and empty. “Only just.” She would've agreed, amusement hanging heavy in the tone of her voice. A joke even as limp as it remains. She was as made as the rest of them, cut from the same fabric and thrown into the same world as nothing more than ribbons to be carried by the wind. She supposed it might've been fate that she landed in the same place as Merel, supposed it could've been a fruitful happening that'd leave them both with something to walk away with. Her head tilted at the thought.

Believing in such things had proved to be futile in earlier aspects of her life. It was as sickening as it was surprising. The pale woman didn't let herself dwell on it, didn't let herself think about it much beyond that original thought. By that point, they were off, paws guiding them through the snow with pheasants on her mind. She'd never dared eat such a bird back home; meat was a bold luxury, and it often came dried or with so little that she ate sparingly without much thought toward the taste. Bird itself was a treasure, and her gold was never spent on such things.

She hadn't expected the thoughts to come to her in such a rush, but she could taste them. She could taste the dried jerky that was nothing more than a last resort among trips, and could taste the chilled winds that seemed to match the ones she powered through now. This memory was warmer—the present. She blamed it on the company she had, the wittiness she held under a soft tongue.

She turned her head to Merel and then back again, her brows furrowing ever so slightly at the question. “Because this place welcomed me, dear Blackbird, it opened its arms and wept with flurries at my arrival. Yours too. If it hadn't, if it was a dreadful place, it would've thrown me into the cold waters that litter this land. For that, for its sparing of my life, for its haven, I will consider it home.” She turned her attention back to the other, seemingly lighter at the realization that she was meant to be among this land.

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This land had spared her life, and so it was home.

The white wolf’s words were beautiful—yet Merel could not shake the sadness she felt, too. It was not pity; only grief at what Yvaine must have suffered. Grief for her own suffering, too. Grief for the suffering they both had faced.

Merel could not say it was home. But she understood a little better why Yvaine saw it that way.

“It is a sort of blessing,” Merel agreed. “You’re right to count it.”

She paused, and added: “You don’t just have to live, Yvaine. You can thrive too.”

Abruptly, Merel halted. The smell of feathers had grown stronger; their quarry was close. Up ahead, she spotted two fat pheasants plucking at something in the snow. She crouched down.

“Wait here in the snow,” Merel whispered to her companion. “I’ll chase them from behind. I can catch one, but the other is up to you.”

If Yvaine agreed, Merel would slink around through the pine trunks, emerging only when she was as close as possible to the farthest of the two pheasants from Yvaine. Hopefully, the second bird would not see Yvaine’s camouflaged form when it bolted.

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“You'd be a fool to believe in blessings, Merel. As optimistic as I sound, those blessings will kill you in time.” Yvaine believed in the hands she was given, the cards she was openly dealt, and only when those cards were laid out in front of her to see. “I'm simply gracious for the pity someone must've had for me. It was strong enough to bring me here.” Her gaze dipped to Merel. She assumed the same pity was held for her, too, and she could only imagine what the bird's situation had been like before a strange world opened its arms for her.

But the next words the bird uttered had Yvaine's steps faltering and her brows furrowing. As far as she had been concerned, they were on in the same. To survive was to live, to thrive meant enduring the pain brought down upon her, to allow herself to become an iron rain that seeped into the snow as a stain of scarlet. That was her thriving. So what else did Merel mean?

Though, the woman would've been too preoccupied to supply an answer given Yvaine had even thought to ask the question, not with the familiar waft of pheasants that swept through their pelts. Then, Yvaine was happy to discard the conversation entirely, focused instead on the rumbling of her stomach and the trembling in her legs. She offered the barest of nods to the opposite woman before she was crouching until the coldness slipped through her heavy coat. Yvaine hadn't hunted since she'd morphed into a new form, but she was determined. Determined not to make a fool of herself, determined not to be named useless despite arising challenges.

So she waited, tongue gently grasped between her teeth until the ruffling of their panicked movements urged Yvaine closer. Her narrowed eyes darted to Merel for a brief moment, but the flutter of wings hadn't escaped her notice. Her movements were stumbled, utterly sloppy, but there was enough strength locked in her legs for her to jump and grasp onto the leg of a fleeing pheasant. She landed with a grunt and lowered the bird to the ground long enough for her to replace her grip, instead wrapping her jowls around its neck until its franticness eased into nothing at all. Yvaine turned to Merel, then, eyes scouring the other carefully. Was she expected to stay? She lacked the knowledge of courtesy when it came to situations such as these. The white woman had never eaten with anyone. Ever.

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In a blur of brown and black, Merel lunged from her position. Her aim was true: within moments, her jaws were full of blood and feathers.

She approached Yvaine with the pheasant hanging limply in her mouth, smiling.

“Excellent,” Merel said. “One for you, one for me.”

She didn’t waste any time digging into the gamey meat. Fowl weren’t her favourite food—you spent half the time spitting out feathers—but Merel wasn’t one to complain about a meal. Even so, she sensed a bit of tension in her companion. She looked up from where she’d dropped her kill in the blood-stained snow.

“It’s alright. You can eat here,” she said. Merel quirked a brow at her. Maybe she was uncomfortable eating with others, she realized after a moment. She thought they’d bridged some of whatever gap rested between them—but perhaps the white wolf had come as close as she could.

Well, Merel couldn’t begrudge someone for wanting space. Blessings could all too easily turn into curses, as she herself had learned.

After a brief pause, she added: “Or you can leave, if you like. You’re a free wolf now.”

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