07-11-2018, 05:34 PM
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Guilt is a terrible thing, especially when it does not discriminate between good or bad, right or wrong. Standing up for a friend does not warrant guilt, even if the person in question did not desire it. Speaking up when one believes injustice is occuring does not warrant guilt, either, even if the situation was not fully understood. So why does Imperia feel so crippled by this guilt? This soul-crushing, all-consuming emotion? The truth of the matter is that the she-wolf feels thing totally, completely. With every fiber in her body, every cell, Imperia experiences happiness and sadness and all the emotions in between. In some ways such a phenomena allows her to connect with individuals on an empathic level, experiencing and understanding in ways most people do not even realize exist. But it can also be a hindrance. If she could turn it off somehow, then maybe it would not have been so devastating to hear Agent Washington basically brush her off when she tried to defend him from Carolina. The canine had responded so meekly that she cannot remember if any words escaped her lips before retreating to the comfort of her home. She felt--no, feels--terrible. There is no way she could have been able to know all the deeply intertwined history between all the agents, but she should have known. She should have been able to read the mood, to recognize that Washington did not need her to save him. Now she fears that he might hate her.
And that is not something Imperia can stand.
For the rest of the day and all night, she slaves away at the hearth. Slicing thin cuts of eat, marinating them in a myriad of herbs and spices, before slowly cooking them over the fire. Not for herself, but for him. For her friend who cannot stand raw meat. Upon their initial encounter, Imperia promised Washington more jerky, and her guilty conscious compels her to act upon that promise. It is a good outlet--redirecting those unhealthy emotions and channeling all that energy into something productive. Doing nothing makes her more susceptible to the darkness which emboldens her personal demons. After many hours of cooking and preparation, Imperia emerges from her den carrying a wicker basket full of delicious treats suitable for a gargantuan felid. The usual scent of herbs and citrus clinging to her sleek silver fur is now overpowered by the savory aroma of roasted meats. The basket hangs from the harness strapped around her torso, by which she totes around her leather satchel (which, in reality, is more of a saddlebag for dogs). But it is useful for one with no hands.
It takes a little longer than usual for Imperia to locate Washington as he tends to avoid the main camp, but the food is still warm by the time she catches onto his scent. The petite she-wold approaches downwind of him, though not entirely on purpose. After so many moons spent avoiding Pierre and Katherine, it has become almost second nature to move around with the intention of remaining undetected. Calloused paws make nary a sounds as they move silently through the amber grasses, a pelt woven from space and starlight blending into the shadows cast by the tall blades. Her mind drifts a million miles away as she walks--not quite aware of her surroundings. Perhaps that is why she lurches to a sudden stop as she crests a hill, silver eyes locked upon the sight of an armorless Agent Washington. "Oh, uh, hello," she stammers, awkwardly forcing herself not to stare. Although he still wears his helmet, Washington's upper torso is now exposed--scars and all--and that makes her feel as if she had walked in on a sight she was not meant to see. "I...I brought you some more jerky.." Imperia fidgets where she stands, unsure of what to do with herself. She wonders if he hates her.
And that is not something Imperia can stand.
For the rest of the day and all night, she slaves away at the hearth. Slicing thin cuts of eat, marinating them in a myriad of herbs and spices, before slowly cooking them over the fire. Not for herself, but for him. For her friend who cannot stand raw meat. Upon their initial encounter, Imperia promised Washington more jerky, and her guilty conscious compels her to act upon that promise. It is a good outlet--redirecting those unhealthy emotions and channeling all that energy into something productive. Doing nothing makes her more susceptible to the darkness which emboldens her personal demons. After many hours of cooking and preparation, Imperia emerges from her den carrying a wicker basket full of delicious treats suitable for a gargantuan felid. The usual scent of herbs and citrus clinging to her sleek silver fur is now overpowered by the savory aroma of roasted meats. The basket hangs from the harness strapped around her torso, by which she totes around her leather satchel (which, in reality, is more of a saddlebag for dogs). But it is useful for one with no hands.
It takes a little longer than usual for Imperia to locate Washington as he tends to avoid the main camp, but the food is still warm by the time she catches onto his scent. The petite she-wold approaches downwind of him, though not entirely on purpose. After so many moons spent avoiding Pierre and Katherine, it has become almost second nature to move around with the intention of remaining undetected. Calloused paws make nary a sounds as they move silently through the amber grasses, a pelt woven from space and starlight blending into the shadows cast by the tall blades. Her mind drifts a million miles away as she walks--not quite aware of her surroundings. Perhaps that is why she lurches to a sudden stop as she crests a hill, silver eyes locked upon the sight of an armorless Agent Washington. "Oh, uh, hello," she stammers, awkwardly forcing herself not to stare. Although he still wears his helmet, Washington's upper torso is now exposed--scars and all--and that makes her feel as if she had walked in on a sight she was not meant to see. "I...I brought you some more jerky.." Imperia fidgets where she stands, unsure of what to do with herself. She wonders if he hates her.