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+---- Thread: from dirty paws & the creatures of snow ✦ open, meet and greet (/showthread.php?tid=829)
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Re: from dirty paws & the creatures of snow ✦ open, meet and greet - Suiteheart - 04-26-2018
[align=center][div style=" background-color: transparent; border: 0px solid black; width: 530px; min-height: 9px; font-family:; line-height: 110%; text-align: justify; padding: 20px"]Suiteheart sat back and listened as Margaery and Lup spoke. The tip of her tail twitched back and forth; she was anxious. The last time the pair had spoken, it had not been pretty. However, tensions seemed to have absolved. Now, the conversation was calm. Hell, it had even taken a soft turn into sadness... And both of them were sympathetic towards one another.
The observer listened as Margaery explained herself, and Suiteheart's nonexistent eyebrows wrinkled together in concern. Health problems? Suite knew Margaery had a bad pair of lungs after the incident with her gardens burning down, but she had not known things were getting bad again. She silently beat herself up for not knowing, for not being there for her wife when she desperately needed her. Why was she never there when Margaery truly needed her?
A pang of sympathy for Lup washed over Suiteheart as she listened to the other explain about losing her crew and her best friend/brother. Losing siblings was a terrible thing, though Suite did not exactly understand this concept. She had had a sister, but it was not by blood. The two of them were not extremely close either, and their last interaction had been a massive fight. Still, she hoped Lup would one day be reunited with her brother.
The white feline felt a sadness tugging at her heart as she began to think of her children. Her story was similar to Margaery's. They had both searched and searched and searched. And for what? Absolutely nothing. It crushed Suiteheart more than words could describe. She wished it hadn't been this way. She could not -
"I... believe I've heard of your daughters."
Baby blue eyes grew wide as saucers. Lup... Lup had heard of them? For a few fleeting moments, her hope reignited. It was quickly extinguished when the fiery feline explained she wasn't sure where they were. What was even more crushing was the story Lup was telling about them.
Despite not wanting to admit it, she knew about her children's serial killer motives. The last time they had all been together, one of them had accidentally stabbed Suite. Things had been odd. Tense. Nothing was normal. And then they had all been separated again. She had no idea they had continued on this path. It scared her. Not for others, but for her children. Revenge was a terrifying thing, and what if someone had gotten to them first?
She resisted the urge to walk away as Lup spoke of them as monsters. She knew Lup meant no harm, but... her children were not monsters. They were lost. They were misguided. They needed help. Shaking her head ever so minutely, she continued listening to Lup speak.
Dull lilac eyes. Her heart almost stopped. Lil. It had to be. She had never met another creature with soft purple eyes. And they healed Lup as well? There was no doubt in her mind. It had to be her daughter. It had to be.
"Lil, Eli, and Lissa," Suiteheart blurted out, not thinking. As quickly as she had said it, she regretted it. "I - uh - sorry. Margaret told me about her daughters the other night. I didn't mean to interrupt..." Her voice grew small as she finished speaking, but her eyes remained locked onto Lup. She didn't care too much if her cover was blown. She needed to know about her daughters.
"W-was it one of them? The one that helped you? Were there three of them?" Her heart was beating a mile a minute. [i]'Please...'
Re: from dirty paws & the creatures of snow ✦ open, meet and greet - Margaery - 04-26-2018
[glow=GLOWCOLOR,2,300]▶ MARGAERY FOLIE - tags - THE ASCENDANTS - OBSERVER - SHE/HER- FELINE ◀[/glow]
As unfortunate as it was to even make such an observation, Margaery couldn't help but notice the general theme of her family. Her father and her uncle had been notorious serial killers of sorts, the former killing for pure enjoyment while the latter killed in an attempt to protect their family and his brother's sloppy tendencies. And then there was herself and that primal instinct that lurked just beneath the surface, threatening to spill over and claim her permanently. She wondered often if it was the bloodlust that had muddled her father's mind and inhibitions and, later in her life, her mother's. She wished she could say that this development surprised her but it didn't- previous behavior prohibited from even batting an eye. It seemed that the desire to kill was not so much inherited but rather observed and she wondered, vaguely, if the souls would have been spared from such a demented fate had she never became their mother. Don't think that way, her mind commanded and she winced. If her presence had been the case, she certainly had never intended to doom her daughters whom she loved so deeply to this living hell. [color=black]"I guess that's the me in them," She finally said wearily, reclining upon chocolate hued haunches. She was not going to lie about her past endeavors in actively killing people- why would she? It was mostly behind her now.
[color=black]"They weren't born monsters, I can ensure that. They were my beautiful children, they are my beautiful children. They can't be all bad," She observed in a low voice, a distant voice. Dull lilac eyes? That certainly was Lil and her assumption was further solidified by the comment about healing. She loved to heal- it came as natural to her as breathing did anyone else.
She was about to offer their names when Suiteheart interjected. She nodded solemnly in agreement with her words, not caring if anyone realized that she knew because she, too, had been a mother to the triplets. [COLOR=BLACK]"It's important that I, no, we know," She murmured, her attention falling once again upon Lup. There had been a certain hollowness in her soul, a place in her heart empty simply because of the absence of her children. To know this information gave her hope for the first time in a long while.
She cared not about the legend and lore that surrounded her children- she was just as bad, as were her own parents- she simply needed to see them, hold them, love them.
Re: from dirty paws & the creatures of snow ✦ open, meet and greet - BASTILLEPAW - 04-26-2018
[div style="background-color: #dedfdf; width: 305px; border-bottom: 1px solid black; border-left: 1px solid black; border-right: 1px solid black; padding: 10px; line-height: 110%; word-wrap: break-word; text-align: justify; margin: auto; color: black; font-family: Georgia; text-size: 6pt"]
Strangely, Margy and Suite had an energy about them that made the room feel small, private, intimate when they were together. Very quickly Bastille could lose all sight of everyone else around them, as if they had somehow tucked themselves away into a private conversation despite the plentiful amount of strangers that surrounded them. Perhaps it was love. He did not believe that a love that intense and powerful could develop over a few days, however, and he was as certain as ever that they had known one another in the past even before Margy started to speak about her past, her daughters. She wasn't even speaking to him and Bast was... transfixed.
It wasn't just Grimm's hungry nature, the rampant, vicious surge that climbed through him the second the greedy little bastard realized that there was a good story about to be offered, memories to be hoarded. Bastille knew acutely how that felt; there were times where he felt possessed, mindlessly moving on autopilot to collect the precious tale that Grimm's soul so desperately wanted, times when he truly was nothing more than a host. And this was like that, felt familiar, and yet... there was something else there. He was genuinely interested in Margy, wanted to know more -- not only for Grimm, but for himself.
(That wasn't all there was to it, but he wouldn't realize the strange, new element at play for another few moments.)
His stare flickered from Margy to Suite and then to Lup, drinking it in, analyzing it for later. And then he was staring intently at Lup, ensnared by the word she chose -- folklore. Yes, Grimm was very much interested in her fables, in the strange blend between reality and imagination... surely there girls truly existed, but they'd been spun into something more, something beyond even their own lifetimes. They were stories now, spoken murmurs of the masses, and soon they would be Grimm's.
Oddly, Bastille felt a strange sense of deja vu as she spoke, describing these young girls in such morbid, gripping terms... His skin felt hot, and suddenly he was plunged straight into the middle of more memories than he'd experienced at once in a long, long time.
"Haven't you heard? They're telling the tale of a child demon, dark as night with eyes so cold they'll freeze you on the spot... Everywhere he goes, death follows. A strange tom brought him to a tribe, once, and the entire group perished within days, struck by an unusual sickness... Only the little devil survived. He moves from group to group, and when they don't throw him out in time, someone will perish. They're calling him Death's Call in these parts, but they call him many names..."
The same story, over and over, with slight variations: sometimes he was Death's Echo or Death's Shadow, other times Owl, occasionally just Death or Echo or any variation of the all the rest. Word of him traveled so quickly these days, and some of the stories were true and some of them fabricated over time, such was the nature of folklore. They spoke of the tribe that perished, the dead mother he was borne to, the femme and her kits who were gripped with disease after taking him on; the old tom, a father figure to him, who traveled with him from place to place until he too eventually succumbed to sickness, to Death's own personal plague; they murmured about unexpected deaths in each new group, freak accidents resulting in casualties and injuries, mobs chasing the young tom away from their homes before his curse could settle in.
He was either evil incarnate or walking bad luck; some places tried to kill him, others simply feared him, sent him sympathetically on his way. No one seemed entirely certain how old he was -- some claimed that he was a huge, lumbering beast of darkness, but most reported that he was young, a mere kit, so defenseless looking and yet so incredibly dangerous. The truth was closer to the most popular whispers: he was young, barely six or seven months, not quite a tiny child but still young enough to warrant the protection and care of a clan, if only one would take him. No matter how far he traveled, however, the stories seemed to follow, like an unfortunately shadow.
The withered old storyteller had stopped speaking, and there was a gradual hush. It took him a moment to recognize it, that tense lull -- someone had noticed him. When he looked up, the tom was staring straight at him, the story dying on his tongue as if he had realized the very boy he described was sitting among them. Cold blue eyes met shocked hazel ones, and without a word, he was on his way; clearly, this place was not going to work out.
Bastille wasn't sure how long he was trapped in a daze. He felt that memory override him, engulfing him as if he were there in the moment, but there were others, a whole stream of them -- similar settings, similar events, the hundreds of times he'd run into someone speaking about him, murmuring his story into the darkness... They didn't always catch him, and Bastille had seen glimpses of those times as well, but many times they did. There'd been so many flickers of running, of creeping away in the middle of the night once he realized he was found out, of escaping just before they could burn him like a witch. Months and months of memories, washing over him all at once -- and it took him a second before he felt like he could breathe again, before he could remember that that wasn't him.
That was what it was, he realized -- the addition piece pulling at him. It wasn't just Grimm, or Bastille's own fascination with Margy -- it was Echo, his memories pushing to the surface, smothering him. With a soft gasp, Bast came to himself, firmly stamping down on the floodgates as his unfocused stare suddenly snapped back to attention, vivid and intense and locked on Lup once more. His throat felt dry, his head throbbing with a subtle headache, and it was clear he'd miss some of her words. Not all of them, though -- he must not have been under for too long.
Vaguely disturbed by the strange occurrence, Bast forced himself to focus on Margy, realizing abruptly that Suite had said something there, in between -- something that he'd somehow missed. He only got the faintest of impression of her voice, and then he was coming to awareness in the middle of Margy's words, and he realized... he realized that he was waning in and out, catching bits and pieces, his thoughts hazy and sluggish. (Grimm would keep track of it all, he theorized; he must still be functioning in the background, hoarding his stupid little stories even when Bastille wasn't quite put together.)
"You said we," he said, abruptly, the first words out of his mouth, but he was staring straight at Suiteheart. Either because he knew, he knew who Margy was talking about, or because he honestly could not tell who had just been speaking, dazed as he was.