NO LIGHT, NO LIGHT // JOINING?

[DANYLA]

[align=center][div style="max-width: 500px; text-align: justify; font-size: 9.4pt; line-height: 1.4;"]"Venieve meacum, ma aureum." The memory of sickeningly dulcet tones and a false smile sent shivers down his spine, kicked his quivering heart into overdrive. It wasn't just his master he feared, but that he had very nearly obeyed, that with escape so close, he was all too easily swayed by a saccharine voice disguising an acerbic command. Even now, stumbling through lands foreign to him, he didn't know if he would resist when they found him. The name given to Danyla by his master -Idrillas- was both a suitable nickname and a mockery. Little rebel. It was the former when he was young and spirited still, and the latter when his life became nothing beyond servitude. He couldn't even explain what, precisely, drove him to this point, when it had seemed he was a stone forced smooth by the river to settle silently in the silt, not a roughened rock unweathered by the elements.

Going back now was- he could still do it. He could turn and drag himself back, lay himself at his master's paws and beg punishment for his foolishness. Instead, the lean wolf pressed onward, breath ragged in his ears, and he knew he left a patent trail, golden glitter scattering from his fur with each shift. Danyla didn't want to know how awful he must look, how far he was from presentable, though he should be ecstatic he wasn't the pristine, glimmering trophy on display for a crowd of snakes.

There were many things he should be, and he was none of them.

His energy failed him, nearly a day of running without pause wearing down a body trained for decidedly different things than sprinting endlessly. That he managed was a credit to his genetics, not his own work, though it didn't matter now. Danyla fell, topaz eyes wide over ruined streaks of gold paint. He could smell people here, once he managed to calm himself down a bit, but he couldn't- he couldn't trust anyone. Danyla wasn't the first to escape, but he didn't want to be one of the many dragged back because they trusted the wrong people. Maybe if he laid still enough, kept quiet, no one would notice he was here, though they'd surely smell him as he did them.

[WINTERWOLF]

[align=center][div style="width: 500px; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; font-size: 9.5pt; line-height: 1.4;letter-spacing:.1px"]And that was the trick of it, wasn't it? A voice sweet enough to draw you in and keep you. A firmness hidden by gentleness. There was a time when Winter had thought the touches gentle, assuring. Now he finds them possessive and cruel, guiding him as subtly as a slow river did for a boat. Winterwolf had done whatever they had asked of him, time and time again, simply because of the voice, the touches. In a world filled with uncertainty, they had been certain. Never a moment's hesitation with their orders and commands. It was not right, but it was all that he knew and ever would know. Or that's what he had thought, at the time. He had never been spirited the way the other was, at least not that he can remember. Quiet and intent on proving himself, taking the grating criticism with silence and going again until both his paws and chest seemed to leak red. His situation had not been entirely the same as Danyla's. While they could both claim to have been a trophy, Winterwolf was never meant to be golden. He was blood and the shade of a day-old bruise, a monument to the desirable traits of those above him.

He had listened, and because of it, he'd made a monster of himself. At least the wolf that still stood as a wolf is not a monster. Confused, unsure, and twisted through all of this servitude, but not beyond saving the way that he was.

Every thought that Danyla had would put another sharp pain of grief through him. The distrust, the fear. It hardly mattered that their situations may not have been entirely comparable, because he's starting to feel in ways that he hasn't before. The colors of the world are still a little muted, but he understands what other people see. Streaks of gold are supposed to be dazzling — all Winter can see is another color, and the way that his sides rise and fall a little too quickly. For some reason, his mind is unwillingly reminded of a spindly-legged fawn, hiding in the grass in some hope that the hunter wouldn't find it. This, however, is what he had been trained for. The lion had been too quiet in his approach, circling slowly until he was only a few feet behind him. He regrets the silence, if only because breaking it now could cause more harm than he cared to (but since when did he care?). There are no second chances in life, he knows that. No restart button, no easy way out. All he can do is move.

So he does. A few strides forward, much less quiet, and then an insistent nudge to the wolf's form. "Up," Winter says, almost commands, his tone flat. "Why are you here?"

[DANYLA]

[align=center][div style="max-width: 500px; text-align: justify; font-size: 9.4pt; line-height: 1.4;"]Danyla wasn't certain he'd ever had doubts about the duplicitous nature of the people he served, in that for as long as he could remember, he was compelled more by the lingering hint of darkness than the blinding front of gentleness. They rarely punished him psychically, at least, not with scars; rebelliousness meant having sleep denied to him, meant they fed him food past its time. They couldn't wound him. A trophy with scratches marring a perfect surface was useless, and his purpose was to be very useful. His resistance died down as he grew older, and he took...solace in small acts of disobedience, ridiculous things that his master couldn't notice. He upheld responding to Danyla among his fellows, when the opportunity arose, and he chipped the backs of his earrings, where the missing pieces weren't seen. They were barely anything, but for him, with so little of his spark left, they were everything.

But he still obeyed. Played the empty-headed, untarnished decoration his master wanted him to be, because what the master wanted was a slave's earth to their moon, the object of their revolution. If they wanted a killer, they got one. A pretty piece at their side was even easier, and sometimes, Danyla wished he had been the former, that he could have at least known something to do beyond running.

Something beyond cowering when the silence fell beneath audible steps, that were far too close, and a prod to his side had him recoiling, body stiff. "Up." He leaped to his paws, the motion smooth yet hurried, and he turned to face the stranger, a lion with eyes that had Danyla's head lowering. He instead watched as more bits of glitter drifted to the dirt. "Mihi dolet, obsĕcro mihi ignoscas," tumbled out before he could rein it in, and his shoulders rose. "I- I am sorry. What do you want? Please don't send me away."

[ISIDORE.]

[div style="margin: 0 auto; border: 0%;width:60%;text-align:justify; font-family: verdana; font-size: 13.5px;"]”Hey, is everything alright?”

The deep voice rolled softly along the hills as he peaked over, approaching the two animals with a faint frown. He wasn’t too sure what to make of the situation, though the tone in which he broke through unsettled him a little. The calm, but stern order he’d caught between his ears, reminded him of those rigid young days, following directions and carrying out drills. Back then, there were no apologies or begs to not be sent away, there was just listening and carrying out orders as efficiently as possible. Isidore wished though that he could’ve just slipped up one day and be sent back home to his family, but he knew the disgrace it would’ve brought on to him if he had. The military man in him just needed to be cracked open, just needed to be sought out under all those dreamy and artistic layers. There was a man under there, his dad would say.

Lips parted, his gaze traveled between the two for a moment, before he spoke, ”Not gonna send you away ...” Isidore mumbled, shaking his head and smiling towards the creature. The word docile is what came to mind ... lamblike, almost. ”You have a name? I’m Isidore, this is the Ascendants territory ...” Dory wasn’t all too sure if this guy knew this already, but he shrugged, it was too late anyway. Glancing back towards Winterwolf, then to Danyla, he asked quietly, ”You need some water? You look exhausted.”

[WINTERWOLF]

[align=center][div style="width: 500px; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; font-size: 9.5pt; line-height: 1.4;letter-spacing:.1px"]He wonders if they had known, even when he was little more than a child, that his response to a direct approach was to tense up and dig his feet in. Had they tried? Had they snapped at him, ordered him to do something? He can't remember. Still. All he can look back and see is a sickly sweet warmth and encouragement that should have made him trip. Scars, for Winter, were his decorations. Not streaks of gold and earrings that would chip, nothing that he could wash off later. The blood, perhaps, but only that. There had been a time where he hadn't questioned anything. There were no acts of disobedience, not even the smallest of things, and life had fallen to the comfortable monotony of a job that would never end. Day in and day out, it was the same tasks, the same ideas. He would fight, he would drag, he would break the wills of people who didn't deserve it. Once upon a time, he had been little more than they were. That was what they had said, whispered as if he'd been raised up, made better — these days, he realizes that it was something of the opposite. He's still climbing out of a hole he made.

It's slow, strenuous work. Like Danyla, he has come to the conclusion that he would still go back if asked, and it drives him to work ever harder to make sure that he never will. There will come a day when he can bare his teeth and snarl at the idea. Not today, and probably not tomorrow. But eventually. A killer was no easier than a distraction. Both were emptied and refilled with what was wanted. An idea, nothing more.

They're both distracted by the unsubtle fluttering of fold that catches the light, turns to flakes of fire and ash before settling in the dirt. His mouth had opened with a quiet, reassuring reply before he catches another voice, and his jaws clamp down the way they had before. It was likely better that way, with how clearly he makes the wolf — not uncomfortable, but subservient. A reminder of things he didn't need to be reminded of. In truth, he was something opposite of Isidore, at least now. There was no digging required to find level commands and a cold attitude. Instead, one would have to search for something softer, something that didn't carry this heavy violence he'd had branded into him. "Noli commoveri," he murmurs after the other has finished speaking. "I don't want anything."

[DANYLA]

[align=center][div style="max-width: 500px; text-align: justify; font-size: 9.4pt; line-height: 1.4;"]He knew, in comparison to other slaves, that laying at his master's feet and demurely answering questions from guests were tasks that did not demand much of his physical strength. Danyla had to remain lean and fit to be appealing, but he wasn't used for manual labor, and he did not clean a grand house from dawn to dusk. Regardless, they were typically...in a sense of solidarity with one another, a silent sort, but when he grew a little older, he recognized there were still divisions between them. A magister's slave had higher respect than a mere lord's did, but even so, Danyla had never imagined that one might leave the position of slave -when their debts were paid, if they were lucky- to a career involving a life they once had. To go from slave to slave-catcher was bizarre, and yet, Danyla heard the stories, whispered between servants and slaves alike. One individual in particular, called Banal’ras’iroth by most, stood prominently apart from the others. Typically, Danyla hadn't paid much mind to chatter, but the stories he heard put a chill in the tropic air.

So he did not call him quick shadow. Danyla called him Eshne, like them, because that wolf was not a fellow. He was a leash, too, no matter where he came from.

Danyla saw him in frigid blue eyes. He'd never imagined how ice-cold they were in the stories, but now he wondered if they looked like this lion's. 

He wouldn't stare. He couldn't, gaze tethered to the ground beneath the weight of the commanding stranger's eyes and voice. The dark wolf was taut and then relaxed, repeatedly, a forced cycle of attempting to calm himself, as though one tensed before a blow but knew it would only worsen the hurt. Not that Danyla had ever been harmed in such a way. How they looked at him though- that always felt like a lash to his back. How the lion looked at him wasn't entirely like that, lacking the hunger, but he still felt it so tangibly that he flinched heavily when a voice suddenly snapped the cord pulled tight between them.

The speaker was smaller than Danyla, though that never meant anything, and as soon as he'd gazed upon the serval, he stopped, eyes on the ground once again. He didn't know how to answer. People never wanted the truth when they asked questions in his experience. When his master stared at him and questioned in that airy voice if he was satisfied, he had to say yes and mean it. "I am fine," he said eventually, inhaling deeply. No one wanted him to be strong, to be a man- they wanted him to be pretty, and docile. Not a dreamer.

"I thank you. Thank you." If he knew their social habits here, he would have prostrated himself at his paws, or whatever it was that showed gratitude. Instead, he briefly glanced upward, and upon seeing the smile, quickly averted his gaze again. "My name is I- Danyla. You do not need to waste your time for me."

A small jerk, when he heard language he hadn't expected, both for its origin and its meaning. He couldn't keep himself from lifting his head to stare at the lion with round eyes, mouth slightly ajar in a very unbecoming way.

[WINTERWOLF]

[align=center][div style="width: 500px; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; font-size: 9.5pt; line-height: 1.4;letter-spacing:.1px"]Laying at someone's feet was its own sort of torture. Carefully placed lower than someone's direct line of sight, it hurt whether or not people looked. Look, and you're an object, something to stare at. Don't look, and you're worthless, you're nothing more than a statue that breathes. A piece of art, but living things were never supposed to be that. There were a lot of things that neither of them were supposed to be, and he supposes that right now, the only thing he gets right is the strange, unbidden gratefulness for the fact that Danyla had not spoken his thoughts out loud. In the strangest of ways, he couldn't understand why someone would do that either. Could never dream of picking the path that they had. And yet here he was, fixing his mistakes in the only way he knew how. It wasn't much, to be honest. Hardly even a start. This is a slow process, and at least he can say that he's taken a step.

It could all be undone so easily now, but he doesn't push the wolf to look at him. In fact, Winter finds his own eyes drawn to the same patch of ground for a long moment. Most of the conversation flies over his head, though he tips his head just faintly at the way his thanks rush out, how eager he seems to show sincerity. It's a familiar thing, though he had never truly been asked if he was happy. Sated, full, rested. Fit enough. Healthy. Pale eyes narrow slightly. "There are places to sleep, enough food and water. It's not a waste." Winter doesn't look down this time, carefully seated and attention holding strong. It's not the sort of attention that makes notes of his features — wide eyes and liquid gold over black — but instead studies the way that he carries himself.

There's less fear once Winter speaks. Surprise paints itself plainly across Danyla's face, and the lion's own cold facade breaks a little under the warmth. His lip twitches to a near smile, which is perhaps his equivalent of "deeply amused". A little wary still, but the expression is worth it. "Te adiuvāre possum?" he asks softly, the smile still lingering — as close as he'll get to joking, now and probably forever.

i shouldn't be writing right now and also possum oh god

[ONISION.]

[ISIDORE.]

[div style="margin: 0 auto; border: 0%;width:60%;text-align:justify; font-family: verdana; font-size: 13.5px;"]Bast or Moon might smack Oni upside the head, but that didn't make him anymore lucky with Isidore. His gentle gaze concentrated on the wolf before the younger animal came through, rough and jagged and sharp lipped. It took Dory off guard, his expression slowly hardening as the Fireball spat out his piece, mismatched eyes narrowing as he watched him turn to leave already. "Hey, watch it! Man ... irrespectueux ..." He called back to the younger boy, shaking his head in disbelief. The temper on that one ... a lot different than the others in these parts. Everyone wasn't necessarily so laid-back and casual, but none of them flared up as red hot as that child did. It left him with a bitter taste in his mouth, scolding the kid, because it made him feel ... uncomfortable in his own skin. Reprimands being barked around were something was used to, though at the opposite end of the barrel. But the kid didn't have parents no more, no one to keep him decent, so it was the responsibility of the group as a whole to raise this flock.

Danyla brushing off his offer doesn't make him feel any more relaxed either. His brows stitch in confusion, in concern, fretful ripples across his white face. "Not a waste at all ..." And he wants to offer something else to the poor lupine, but he can't dig up much, trying to catch the tone of voice that Winterwolf speaks in, just like he had with Onision. Though he might not be able to understand the flex of the tongue, he can grasp the intention of the tone, the jaggedness, the spit of malice, or the pillow-y, warm embrace of words. "Really, you're welcome to stay here, Danyla." Isidore reassures again, but now he refrains a little, steps back to offer up a bit more space, not that he'd been too close anyway. It seems, whatever is on the stranger's mind, there's a whirlwind of it, and he doesn't want to apply anymore pressure that isn't necessary.