Snippets (30/07/2018)

He sat very, very still, for a very, very long time. In front of him, laid out, were his personal effects that he kept stuffed in his pack. A total of sixty gold (he had sold the ring as soon as he could), damaged leather armor, dried fruits and meats in separate pouches, a mess kit, and basic supplies. Three healing tinctures carefully saved and scrounged and some herbal poultices. Two bundles of salvaged arrow heads. A metal tin that contained fletching. Two spare bowstrings. Two wrapped daggers.
It was that last one that had him contemplating the paths before him.
The memory of a flash of lightning had his fur standing on end, and he held his breath until his trembling subsided. He slowly reached for one of the daggers, and hesitated.
Red eyes opened before him. Large and angled, set into the face of a formless black mass that surrounded him. He could feel the words, even if he couldn’t hear them, taste their amusement as they taunted him about his promise.
He snatched his hand back, fur standing on end as he quickly peered around, the black mass gone and the world as normal as it had always been. It wasn’t real, he -knew- that, but he knew too that it wasn’t fake. It was a mental manifestation of that part of him that he kept buried, that part that had almost lunged and gone for the throat, that part of him that he had to hold his breath and count before it would get bored and go back to sleep.
It was that part of him that had helped to keep him alive, when he had been scared and unable to figure out what to do when he had been cornered. It was the wolf at his back, that stood protectively over him and hated, that drove him away from society and civilization. He reached for one of the daggers once more, and as he touched it he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. Slowly, his gaze lifted, and there it was.
It was crouched like a beast as it took his shape. Red eyed, black furred, perched on a rock nearby. Narrow waisted, slender and watching him as he studied it. The mouth opened, white teeth standing out starkly against the black of the fur and pink of the tongue, and it panted as if the hot and humid of the area actually effected it.
“No. You stay in the wilds.” His voice was a whisper, though it didn’t matter. He knew it could hear him no matter where he was.
It tilted its head to the side, ears flicking and panted harder.
He got the sense that it was laughing at him, and he grit his teeth as he reached with his other hand to settle it on the second dagger.
It didn’t move, it didn’t slink forward. He still found himself starting to drown in the large red eyes, until he recoiled from the daggers, its fangs, as if they had burned him. The Shadow’s panting filled his ears, and he clutched at his head and held his breath…
When he opened his eyes he was alone once more, and slowly exhaled. The daggers lay there, innocent, and he folded his hands as he thought on his situation more. He thought about the sanguine magic that the daggers made available to him, the minor teleportation and the poisons he fought to avoid using-
A feeling rumbled out from behind him, noiseless, formless, and he closed his eyes against the images of blood and gore that flashed before him. He was -different-, when blood was involved, and he knew all it would do was provoke the Shadow.
He wasn’t allowed to die, and he knew it. The Shadow made sure that he was aware of what it would do if he got into a situation that might put his life on the line in no uncertain terms. It had lurked beneath his skin as he lay there, reeling from the lightning, holding his breath and counting and trying to think of something, -anything- but how her throat would have felt as it was crushed between his claws. He had used the rage against the pain, like a cloth to soak up liquid, but that always invited the Shadow to the surface.
Shaking his head, he bundled the daggers back up and stuffed them into the bottom of the pack, trying to think of other ways around what could be done. Step one had already been achieved; he effectively had someone to watch his flank so long as he watched theirs, and they both knew who the other had marked as untrustworthy. Step two was…
Wolfcat exhaled slowly, starting to repack in earnest. A storm was rolling in, and he didn’t want to be caught outside.

As Wolfcat stepped closer to the trailer, he found himself both distracted by his own thoughts and berating himself even as he As Wolfcat stepped closer to the trailer, he found himself both distracted by his own thoughts and berating himself even as he made sure Ja’Kasim made it inside without tripping and face planting into the ground.
What is this one -doing-? He is inviting disaster! He should simply move on. Disappear. He has lingered here too long! He is going to get caught, and killed, or-
He went up the steps quietly, securing a tall glass of water for when the other Khajiit would undoubtedly need it in the morning, and nudging a bucket closer to where Ja’Kasim had flopped down. Turing, he slipped back through the trailer, setting the others clothes down by the door before stepping out and closing it behind him.
-Or worse! He has crossed familiar scents in these woods, and that would be -disastrous-! He cannot risk himself like he is, and the best situation to come out of being caught by them would be that he would be run off and injured!
He huffed quietly to himself as he padded along, trying to keep an eye on his surroundings, but finding his thoughts circling back to the numerous ways things could go so horribly wrong.
What if this one slips, and goes mad? What if he attacks someone? He will be caught, and his life forfeit! They would take silver to him, burning terrible silver, demand he reveal the whereabouts of his pack without even allowing him to say he does not have one! Why would they believe he traveled alone, always?
A low whistle had a large shape slipping through the underbrush to meet him, a smaller shape shadowing it’s movements, and as the painted wolf stepped out of the underbrush he reached out and pressed his forehead against its side, shuddering. The dog that had followed the larger beast trotted up and nudged against his knee, and he dropped a hand to idly scritch under her collar.
He should leave. He has drakes enough to make it to the next town, and continue his wandering. He does not -need- to stay. There is nothing for him here! He should leave, he -must- leave! He…


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He could feel the Shadow as it proverbially paced, and knew he was mad. It wasn’t only his need for someone to talk to, to help give him back some mental stability. Even that part of him caught up in the curse ached when he thought about going back into the wilds. Going back to being alone, beyond the wolf and the dog that he had half enticed, half stolen.
He was lonely, and the thought of going back to the way it had been for so long made him almost want to howl.
Gritting his teeth, he hauled himself up onto the saddle and nudged the Painted Wolf into motion, setting an easy pace to make sure the dog could keep up.

Wolfcat woke abruptly, startling and jerking against the rope that was looped about his chest. Sucking in a breath, he held it for a long moment and then slowly let it out, feeling some of the tension drain out as he did. He shook off the remnants of the nightmare, before starting to untie the rope and crouch on the branch, winding up the coils and tucking them into his pack. Still not the best night’s sleep in his life, but not quite as bad as they usually were. It was always the same thing, always him being chased by some unnameable and inescapable force, regardless of how much he ran.
He wondered briefly if his hands and feet twitched when he dreamed such things, and pushed the thought aside as he carefully climbed down. He thought instead about the female who had caught him, and not only let him keep his kill but also neglected to run him off. In fact, she had done the absolute opposite, and his every senses screamed at him that it was a trap. There was no way that a Pack would accept someone weak like him, after all.
No, she must be planning to kill him. That was the only answer that made sense.
But what if she meant it? He wondered to himself as he padded over to the Painted Wolf and greeted both him and the dog. The remains of the kill were removed from his pack and spread out so that they could feast on whatever they wanted, and he settled to lean back against the tree and keep watch as they ate.
He thought briefly about the female who had been in the tavern, and felt the weight of the ring that still lingered in the bottom of his pack. Paranoia crept along his spine, and he twisted to remove his pack, fish the ring out, and immediately dug a hole. Dropping the ring in, he hurriedly buried it and then crouched there, panting and staring at the spot. A shiver traveled up his spine and he rumbled quietly as he worked to suppress it, finally resorting to his usual practice of holding his breath. A count of thirty had him exhaling slowly, and he scrubbed his hands across his face before carefully digging up the ring and brushing it off.
It went back into the pack, and as his two companions finished their meal he stretched and went into a run, both wolf and dog following at an easy pace. He couldn’t ever hope to outrun them, but that wasn’t the point. The movement, the momentum, the fact that as he ran he potentially did not run alone was enough to lift his spirits.
With how things were turning out, he certainly could use the peace of mind it gave him.

Wolfcat returned to the clearing that held Ja’Kasim’s empty trailer, and let the act of excessive fatigue drop. He went from head down, tail dragging to alert and hustling over. His Gray Lady, the gray guard dog he called Fangthane circled around the trailer and trotted up, nosing him and whining as he pet her and continued around to the side where Zevran lay against the wall. Swinging his pack off of his back, he rumbled a low, quiet sound and withdrew one of the jars within. Crouching down next to the exhausted beast, he removed the lid and scooped two fingers into the mashed, potion-laced raw meat and used his other hand to work the Painted Wolf’s muzzle open.
“Eat, Brother. Regain what strength you can.”
Zevran let out a half-hearted whine, weakly swallowing. It was enough to get some of the potion into his system, and that made it easier for him to eat the rest even if he barely had the strength to lift his head. Wolfcat grit his teeth, and worked his way through the entire jar, before reaching for the Painted Wolf’s limbs to stretch and flex them. He remembered how being bed-bound had made him stiff and weakened him, and it was all he could think of that might help Zevran regain his mobility faster.
As he worked, he went over what he knew in his mind.
The fog, the storm, the necromantic cloud of corpse dust, drained endurance, life, and magika. Most, after being touched by it, were unable to last beyond a single fight before exhaustion leveled them at this point. Multiple exposures made it worse, but there were people resistant to the effects. People who were monsters, he contemplated. People like him, perhaps, though most definitely vampires. That he had -proof- of, considering how he had confirmed one person was indeed touched by the necromantic fog, and had said he felt fine. Great, even.
He had taken -that- one aside and as gently as possible told him he should perhaps act as the dust at least tired him somewhat, before he made people suspicious and silver tests started being done. If people started showing themselves immune to the touch of the cloud, then others would want to know -why-, and he prefered to avoid any such questions.
This was not to say that Wolfcat himself was immune to the effects of the dust. He felt the fatigue, but between copious amounts of food, lots of rest and the potions he was brewing he felt he was managing and mitigating the effects just fine. It was getting harder the longer the entire ordeal dragged on, but still. Burdens, the Argonian Aegis, was bedbound. Mavos had slept away an entire day. All that Wolfcat was doing different was eating an extra few pounds of meat and napping for an hour in the afternoons beyond the occasional potion. Usually, what he drank was just water, to try and dupe people into thinking he was drinking four times as many.
The Painted Wolf shifted slightly, tail thumping, and he pushed himself up and latched onto the saddle so that he could haul Zevran a dozen or so paces away, rage burning away in the back of his mind at how his Painted Wolf was reduced to needing help for such basic things. He bristled, before taking a deep breath and holding it.
There would be a time and place for him to let off some steam, but for now, Zevran needed him.