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 Posted: Sun Aug 21, 2011 11:02 pm
Oiseau Mort: *plodding along, grumbling various french words under her breath because well, she is the crazy french lady so why not* ... *She's spent he majority of her time staying away from the more populated area's of the hartlands, trying not to get too involved with the fawns and yearling that have been skipping about. It annoyed her really; they were nothing more then an annoying bunch of endless adolescent energy and they were just the most obnoxious things ever...... if not just a little adorable. But only a little. Then they open their mouths and she wishes she could just strangle them and their little squeaky pippy voices* "Un de ces jours, mon Cracker, zhose little vons vill be ze death of moi." *She grumbles more as she wanders about, her faithful decayed bird offering no more then a deaf chuckle to her woes and complaints*Enola Gay: *check it out, another weirdo who doesn't get out much! lately, however, Enola has been wandering closer to the outskirts of the woods, precisely because fawns are about, hoping to catch a glimpse of the young future of the Hartlands as he stalks in the shadows, jaw clacking. clack. clack.* ʘ‿ʘ Oiseau Mort: *sighs, the slight movement causing her bone necklace to rattle slightly, just a small clinking of bone against bone. Sort of like wind chimes! Bone chimes* ... *but alas, she continues to walk, purple hoof in front of purple hoof. She was glad Posie wasn't around; that god awful thing with all of it's clicking clacking phooey nonsense. Just her and her Cracker. Seriously she is just beaming with happiness look at her. Although she stops when she spies another herla near by, having half a mind to turn around and walk off as she wasn't looking for a silly chit chat today, but something seemed different. She shook her messy hair away from her face to get a better look. Of course, it was him. Gnash's brother, Enola was it?* ... ಠ_ಠ *Yep, it was him alright. Her muscles tensed and relaxed slightly as she watched the monster who was watching the children frol-, wait what the. She had half a mind to approach the mutant, but she was still a little... uneasy around the hart. It wasn't like she could just casually approach him or anything!* ...................... *but she does anyway* "A-Ah, it iz tu again, Monsieur..." *Again, Cracker was beginning with those obnoxious chuckles*Enola Gay*startles at the sound of a voice behind him, stolen legs curling up in a flinch as he swings around to meet the source. curse this toxic waste clogging his ears! yes, that was it, and it wasn't because he was so absorbed in watching children* ...... *as familiarity dawns on him, the only response Enola gives is the lovely sound of his jagged molars grinding together as he studies Oiseau, apparently none-too-pleased with what he sees. what was this, the third time they have now had a chance run-in? three too many. he'd almost swear she was seeking him out, and if there's anything the mutant hates... he finally speaks, a clipped croak as usual, devoid of any inflection but still somehow perfectly voicing his immense disdain* Yes. Again. Oiseau Mort: *watches as the hart jumps, apparently startled as he whirls around to face her. Her eyes held shock, maybe fear still, but her shaggy brown hair provided as a safe cover for them. His voice was still strange, unpleasant to the ears; which in turn made her flick them back distastefully before flicking them forward again.* "Yes, again." *She echo's, although in a much smoother tone. For once, the fluffy hind is at a loss for words, at least for the moment* ... "Vhat is vous doing?" *Ah, yes, being curiously intrusive always works, doesn't i- oh god dammit Cracker stop that laughing!* Cracker: x ▽ x ...Enola Gay: *he was hoping she would leave after that, just a quick exchange of "pleasantries" and off you go then. so why did this balding, decaying, sick mockery of the herla form and a genuine crime against nature have such trouble driving other herla away now? he would never understand it. Enola's already rotten mood plummeted into the festering territory at her question. very well then, he would just have to make conversation difficult, in the hopes that such awful company would drive the nosy hind, nevermind that Enola's never been the talkative type anyway* Observing. *and with that hoarse reply, the mutant made to swivel around to peek out from between the trees and continue spying for children, then changed his mind. wait, no, he didn't want her to know. instead, the hart pretended to find the bark on the tree next to him very interesting, trying very hard to ignore the presence of the other herla* Oiseau Mort: "Observing?" *Her accent glazed over the word like caramel, only to have her raspy voice ruin the pleasentness of the word. She could tell the hart did not want her company, as he was making it obvious with his actions and body language. Or maybe he just wasn't the type for talking. Probably both, she figured.* ... *Although she could understand why. here was this grotesque heathen, who probably made most herla scramble away in fear, like she had as a yearling. Yet something else was there; a bizarre captivation with his decayed form, how his face was nothing more then a skull, how he was balded, and how his legs and tail were obviously... for lack of a better phrase... Not his, unless he really was so mutated. Still, she always found him peculiar, him and Gnash for sure. She wanted to call them related, based on how they acted towards one another, but... there just... There was just no resemblance! And further more, his front legs looked as if they'd be a perfect match for the other hind's missing limbs. It puzzled her, these mutations, and sick as it was, she wanted to know more about them. Why was he like this? Where his parents worse? She shuddered at the thought, dying curiosity. Ich habe dich erhoben gut, so scheint es, echo's in the back of her head; more of Cracker's useless jabbering. Needless to say, it broke her train of thought, and she looked up to see Enola observing.. a tree?* "A tree could only be so interesting for so long, Non?" *She remarked and she gave the bark a quick glance.*
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Posted: Mon Aug 22, 2011 3:20 am
Enola Gay: *despite the fact that he could feel her presence behind him, and he knows she's not gone no matter how hard he was willing it right now, Enola feels another surge of annoyance when Oiseau pipes up with a smart comment. listening to her speak so smoothly and effortlessly only inspires further anger in the mutant, bordering on jealousy. true, the fact never actively upset Enola before, as he had no need to worry about his stunted communication when he spoke only to his sister (who definitely talked enough for both of them), but Enola always was one to be propelled by his often baseless anger and paranoia.
besides, he'd latch onto any reason to hate this dreary hind for intruding and forcing him to socialize and, worst of all, becoming familiar—yes, how dare she attempt to build a connection with him as though he was a normal herla? a thought occurs to Enola then; she is acting as a sort of liaison from his isolated self-imposed exile in the deep woods to the normal life of the general herla population. but why would she be trying to draw him out? he knew his place was not among them. with that comes an epiphany: why would a herla seek a horror out, unless they were disturbed themselves? was she seeking a like-minded friend, then?
Enola almost laughs at the idea, before realizing he has been standing there, skull nearly pressed up against the tree and jaw clack-clack-clacking away, for whatever herla measurement of time would amount to several long and awkward minutes. if he had had any skin left on his face, Enola probably would have turned an interesting and very noticeable shade of red then. guess there are perks to lacking a face after all! the beast straightens up, trying to sound as dignified as possible as he chokes out more lies*
They are more. Inter-esting. Than you think. *whelp, nope, he still feels stupid as he stares at the useless tree in front of him that he wouldn't even be able to take parts from for himself anyway. indignant that he should be made to feel embarrassed, his frustration finally reaches its boiling point as Enola whirls around on the cause of his grief, heaving a great, frustrated sigh that only leaves him as a wheezy whistle* What. Do you. *he attempts to put stress on this next word, at least achieving an even throatier growl than usual* Really. Want.
*for what could any herla want with Enola? it seemed they were always seeking him out, and he tried to avoid them, but that only seemed to encourage them, driving him further into isolation—really, could you blame the mutant, when herla were so difficult? Oiseau really set him off now, prompting more words than Enola had spoken in a long time* Hoped you would. Learn. The first time. Told you. To leave me. Alone. Not so.
*draws a ragged breath, then continues his agonizing (for both parties, surely) tirade* And. That time. With sister. Does not. Mean. We are. Friends. Not hers. Not. Mine. *nearly foaming at the mouth with the effort of forcing so many disjointed words, blood mingles with the toxic waste leaking from Enola's jaw as he stares Oiseau down, stolen legs trembling with how tightly curled up they are. he's wheezing, every inhale further outlining his exposed ribs, every exhale thickening his throat with blood. it aches, and Enola wonders if he'll cough up more of his rotting windpipe again. he decides it's a good thing. he can just spit it in Oiseau's face*
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Posted: Mon Aug 22, 2011 8:20 pm
don't apologize, it's beautiful.
Oiseau Mort: *She simply regards him quietly. While she hadn't meant for her remark to come across as sarcastic, it well, it did by a long shot. She wondered if he was offended, but pushed the thought away, because why should she care? She never did before. Instead, she was watching him stare into the bark of the tree, in what would be dead silence if not for the occasional sounds of breaths and slight breeze that peeked through every now and again.
She was about to turn around and leave him in the peace he so obviously wanted. It wasn't as if she sought him out, well, not this time at least. But he spoke again. She wondered if the bark truly was so very interesting, but she wouldn't argue, even though for some strange reason the hart seemed to be acting very flustered like, and she didn't understand the reason, but she rolled with it. She opened her mouth to speak, but he spoke first, asking what she wanted, what she really wanted.
To be honest, she... She didn't know what she wanted. Reflecting on her actions earlier; eve she was a little baffled. It wasn't like her to go up to herla and start a conversation, but... but it was him, she couldn't of just nonchalantly disregarded him and kept on her merry way, that would of been... would of been... well she didn't know. Something compelled her into it. her musing's didn't give her a chance to reply, but she realized she didn't even have a reply at all.* "Moi... Moi does not kn-"
But she stopped, trailed off in her words, for the hart was speaking again. Leave him alone? Yes, he had made that abundantly clear on their first visit.
But her morbid curiosity kicked in again. He started off about that time, with her and Natasha, and of course him. He said a certain word, which was very crucial to her. Sister. So Gnash was related to him... Her mind flooded with theories as she watched the green waste collect and mix with blood. She could tell he was having trouble breathing, speaking, everything, and she realized he really was just a still living, yet decaying mass. Her doctor's sense told her to stop talking back, for that would only earn a response from him, and obvious more of... Of whatever was happening. She had something to address though.*
"Friends? Moi and tu? Non, non." *She replied, shaking her heads, before looking onto the rotted hart with a deep purple gaze. Her voice rasped now,* "Moi haz non friends, and moi vas, vas definitely NOT, implying zhat moi vas either, either of your... Friends." *She didn't have friends, no, she was happy that way. And here this heathen was implying such nonsense? No. What did he think? that she was seeking him out for friendship?*
*No, she wasn't.* "Leave tu alone? Moi has, and moi cannot just stop chance encounters, monsieur." *She watched as he foamed, trying not to display too much concern, being the doctor she is. After all, if he was living now, he must be able to live through anything, seriously. She did want to tell him to calm down, but figured 'asking' such things of him might just lead him further into rage.
Instead, she took a few quiet steps backward, gave him space, but did not leave. She would, soon, but not yet.
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Posted: Mon Aug 22, 2011 10:56 pm
Enola Gay: *hates to think he'll be showing weakness now, but Enola's not sure if he can keep this up. he leans against the maybe-not-so useless tree, hopefully not too noticeably, trying to calm down. certainly not for her sake, of course. this is also becoming too familiar, these crazy hinds always dropping by, working him up till his throat is raw, and then—well, those previous times ended with Gnash happy enough, and the fawn...
Enola doesn't quite jolt at the memory, but he straightens up, teeth grinding but not quite throwing accusations yet, trying to remember exactly what was said. pretty little Harmonia mentioned Oiseau. she was told about him, the bodysnatching monster of the deep woods, by Ois. and still the fawn went looking for him. well, unreasonable as he was, Enola couldn't blame Oiseau for that. the fawn was... disturbed all on her own.
a bit deliriously, shifting his weight back onto the tree, Enola wondered if he should thank Oiseau for sending a fawn his way. but he stays silent as she speaks up, her eyes boring into the dark of his sockets. he's always hated feeling eyes on him, seeing them so clearly, and even now he can't make eye contact and not just because he actually lacks eyes to do so. another show of weakness. at least this time Enola knows she won't be able to tell.
he slightly lowers his skull, attention focusing instead on the bones around her neck. while Enola is listening to the hind—and how could he not, with a voice like that, not to mention the gaze he can't even stand—he still finds the time to muse. how very morbid, does her little necklace serve a warning as his does? he doubts she's capable of much, but he realizes he really doesn't know much at all about Oiseau. he doesn't very well care to. he never did. why start now, when he intended to end it?
his breathing has settled to a softer wheezing, save for a distinct whistling to it now. he thinks he can feel more blood bubbling up, oh what a mess his nonface must be. if only she would just leave so he could find some body of water to get himself cleaned up. no, that could wait, he feels confident now.
it's a good thing Oiseau stepped away, because Enola still wants to spit on her, but instead he lifts his head and rumbles, voice thick and choked* Didn't. Answer. Question. *he paused to hiss, frustrated with how hard it was to get such a simple point across. but he felt he had her now, when she was always had the simple, logical answers. how would she answer this?* Obliv-ious. Could have. Passed. *he did want to kick himself for his inattention, but that was not the point* Most. Would avoid. Monster. Why. Stop. Speak. Like. Normal. *like he was normal, like this was normal, like he was a friend. Enola felt renewed disgust for the hind. really now, was he still not a scary, grotesque beast to be feared? he might have to make good on his warning, show her what he was capable of after all*
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Posted: Sat Aug 27, 2011 4:58 pm
Oiseau Mort: *Her muscles stay tense as the hart moves slightly. Her instincts are telling her to bolt and run, in truth. But her mind tells her not too. Part of her is curious; say she pushed him to far, just what would he do? Part of her didn't want to push him so far, but her companions undying chuckles drove her stubborn nature to refuse backing down.
Even though her small, simple responses, she had studied his body language, watched his mutilated face as blood bubbled from his bone jaws, watching how he tilted his head down before turning his attention back up. Listened to how his breaths went from ragged gasps to gentle wheezing, notes the strange nature of the obviously distressing hart.
When her speech was long over, when she stood on her four green and creamy white legs. Her aubergine hoofs dug slightly into the ground. Her lips curled slightly when his short, raspy voice croaked out, asking why he didn't answer his question. It was a question she wanted to avoid, as it was an inquiring she herself didn't quite know.
No, she did know the answer, but she didn't want to say it. She found the hart incredibly interesting. The way he lived with no face, how he constantly leaked radioactive bile, the way his skin was constantly bruised and how he was even alive was beyond her comprehension, and she wanted to know how on earth he ticked. His stolen body parts, his socially ostracized complexion, everything. She never had a problem with admitted it before, but for once in her life, she was scared to admit her morbid curiosity of him.
But, she thought on, she couldn't lie to him, not to mention she couldn't think up a decent enough lie to tell him. Her purple eyes found his yellow sign necklace, stared at the black marking painted on the rust crusted emblem. Das heißt, er ist gefährlich, mein Lieber. she heard Cracker mock, before settling into his quiet chuckles again. Sie sollten herausfinden, warum, ich flehe Sie an.
But she gritted her teeth. Cracker sure had been pretty insistent in his musings lately, his gibberish language, and she didn't like it. She would tell Enola why. Why she stopped when she saw him, and why she wasn't leaving. She was going to answer his question. But even as she went to speak, she felt something vague snap inside her*
"Because, Monsieur." *She said the last part in such a way that she stretched out the word, the sound rolling off her tongue before dropping like a flat, dulled note,* "Moi finds tu just so terribly intriguing." *She felt her lips curl again, but they were not like a snarl, not like a frown. Instead, they curved into a small, disgustingly awkward grin. She shuddered slightly as the grin remained,* "So, so horrifyingly intriguing, monsieur." *She almost takes a step towards him, but doesn't. She doesn't even notice she can't even hear the chuckles anymore, it's just a part of the background now.
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Posted: Mon Aug 29, 2011 6:05 pm
Enola Gay: *well, there's his answer, and somehow Enola is not surprised. infuriated, sure, especially with the way she answered, but ultimately unsurprised. it made sense, really. he was sought out, he was avoided, he was feared, he was admired, all because of the monster he is. in short, a novelty. but novelties never last, and as insulted as he feels, as badly as he wants to hurt her, make an example of her when he should have done so a long time ago, maybe then he'd be left alone, or at the very least finally tracked down and killed if that was possible... as much as Enola wants to make her pay—and surely it shows with how tense he has become, stolen legs trembling and breath hissing—he tries to stay calm.
maybe partly because he knows getting angry will put a strain on him again, but mostly it is that eerie smile on Oiseau's face that keeps him frozen in place. suddenly, her answer didn't seem mocking (well, mostly), but... threatening. Enola isn't afraid, no, of course not for what does a monster have to fear? but maybe he is disturbed. he doesn't claim to know the hind very well, he made it clear enough he doesn't want to, but somehow he gets the feeling she isn't the smiling type. it shows, certainly awkward-looking enough, the uncertain kind of twist that reveals how unnatural the gesture is, how out-of-practice she is, but that such a rare grin should be directed at him?
OK, maybe Enola is a little scared. but despite the fact that he was never one to catch onto those little nuances in social situations, it was hard not to notice that little shudder when Enola's attention is so acutely focused on her. it is a weakness, and so he latches onto that, wanting to keep the upper hand here. he senses a tension in the air now, and wonders if Oiseau realizes it too—or maybe it was her intent?, but he refuses to let it get to him. refuses to let any of this get to him. he's all too aware now of how little he knows about this threat, and there's another prickle of fear with that thought, along with the uncertainty of how to proceed. he wants to be angry again, dangerous, threatening, it always came so easily before, but the emotion that drove him so often has suddenly fled him. well, not completely, more like... the smile ruse was a distaction. anger has taken the backseat, fearful bewilderment HAS the car. when he finally speaks, he's glad there is no tremble in his voice, no more pauses than the usual*
"Well. Miss Mort." *he wishes he could emphasize like she did, but his throat still aches, and the clotting blood doesn't help* "Intriguing. Or not. I am. Not a—" *he pauses, thinking of a suitable comparison. well, she likes birds, doesn't she? ...dead ones apparently, which offers little comfort, but* "—Bird. To admire."
*the downside to his usually unwaveringly monotone growling is that he can't properly communicate just how indignant he feels, either. although his words are that of an offended party, his heart just doesn't seem to be into it. faltering, almost, but then Enola doesn't realize that his body language is now doing most of the talking for him. he is still tense, but it could almost be called a cringe now, not the usual barely-contained rage but now a barely-contained trying-not-to-step back. his acid-eaten ears are pulled back, head lowered, and most telling of all, his stolen legs are pulled close, rubbing together nervously, betraying the anxiety Enola feels now as he stares Oiseau down for any small hint of movement, waiting on any word. he hopes she got his point. he wants to be left alone, not gawked at, especially not by her. what makes her different from any other herla that has approached him? that's not the point*
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Posted: Sat Sep 03, 2011 8:44 pm
Oiseau Mort: *Her smirk curves the way a stick does when too much pressure's been applied; that awkward in between before the wood snaps into two broken pieces. The breeze blows and for a second her slightly dilated pupils can see past her messy brown hair, and she catches a glimpse of the hard as he struggles to stay calm. Her dull off-white teeth, having long lost their old sparkle of ivory, gritted slowly as she wondered what would happen if he did snap. The tensing of his muscles made her own tense involuntarily, as if she were a shadow that copied the harts movements.
But then it fades. A slow uncoiling like a snake; suddenly it looks as if the smile was never there at all.
Her muscles relax and she droops slightly with the new posture her body takes on. A slumped, tired slouch, as if the grin had sucked her energy away. Not that she was too terribly tired, but the confrontation had proved to drain her somewhat. She preferred being alone. She avoided confrontation, and for good reason; at the end of the day, though, it left her unable to know how to act towards others at all.
She was supposed to be a doctor. No, not a doctor. The Doctor. Doctors helped people, and how could she proclaim herself one of their cult if she could not even muster herself to the basic tasks that such implies? Suddenly, she feels so utterly disgusted with herself. Repulsed. She reminds herself she is in the presence of the body-snatching heathen, and her eyes look up, although the action is hidden by her mask of hair. He's speaking.
She listens this time. Okay well, she's listened every time, but this time, she actually listens. Not just to his words, but suddenly she is engrossed with the way his words sound. They are not fluent, but rather that of a raspy hitch; he croaks, and the way his voice fluctuates so unevenly, in a drawn out, yet staccato manner. She doesn't know why she's dwelling so much on the sound of his voice, but it's almost as if her previous moment of excitement had left her mind cleared. It was like she was hearing the monster speak for the first time.
And her eyes bore into his facade of body language. She feels triumphant in a way, and yet still disgusted. She feels a tickle in the back of her throat and she coughs hoarsely for a few brief moments, surprisingly raspy for how smooth her voice sounds to the ears. Smooth and pleasantly legato, which also formed as a betrayal to her rough appearance. In fairness, she hated the sound of her own voice to begin with, and she wondered why it wasn't ruined from her near-constant sickness like her occasional coughs were.
Needless to say, she can tell he's nervous, but she also can see that small, underlying indignant rage. She knows he's mad-enraged-imprudent-agitated-incense-tumultous. She gets his point like an arrow to her hide; he wants to be alone, and part of her meekly whispers to abide.
But she doesn't. She stands her ground. She tuts, she chuckles. Such a empty, hallow laugh that doesn't sound like it belongs. It doesn't. It never belonged in the first place; it vanishes into limbo with her deceased smile; never there at all.*
"Oh, but monsieur." *she does not drag out his pseudonymous new nickname* "Of course tu are not a bird to admire." *In fact, her voice almost sounds haughty, yet contradictory playful. Suddenly it stops, and her tone shifts, her mood shifts, and it sounds low and disdainful, melancholic in it's own sense yet more angry, yet remains still in it's passive-stoic nature.* "For tu are not a bird at all, non? Monsieur, tu are just a monster."
*She goes on,* "Moi does non know vhere ze admiration comes from. Perhaps et iz because tu are a monster. Perhaps et iz because of how tu act. Moi does non know."
*She stops though, as she does not realize where she's going with this, and she doesn't realize as she takes a step forward, her purple hoof taking a step into the damp earth.* "Monsieur, why are vous to being so nervous, hmm?" *she asks, legitimately curious, although she feels as if she's beginning to long overstep her boundaries.*
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Posted: Sun Sep 11, 2011 2:41 am
Enola Gay: *involuntarily flinches when Oiseau coughs, but this he realizes, and it's enough to snap him out of his cowering. pathetic, that she should reduce him to that, and for what, because she smiled? that was enough to intimidate him? Enola's anxiety was drowned out by a new surge of anger, yet still he stayed cringing, not taking his eyeless gaze off of her, staring her down just as she watched him. and even if his glare is not as evident, it's a standoff all the same, whether she realizes it or not. as his anger returns, his hate for her grows, and with the hate comes strength, so he watches her for anything to hate, and there is a lot, more reasons to justify what he wants to do to her, not that he would ever have to explain to anyone, not that he needs an excuse.
still he stays recoiled, though it's more of just a coil now, wound up tense, like a snake about to strike. the air grows tense again too, it feels thick in his skull, and Enola's gurgling breathing picks up again, heavy, trembling, it's hard to breath, the air clots in his lungs like the blood from his throat. and although his flesh, bruised, burnt, numbed for so long, although it has lacked feeling for so long—even if he hasn't as much as he wishes—even now there is a prickling, like thorns, stinging under his hide, spreading over him and stabbing deeper when she laughs.
but none of this reaches Enola, nothing can pierce his thick skull when he is so utterly obsessed, fixated on any object, but it's not parts this time, or a beautiful child, but this grown hind before him that he thinks is the one, finally, after all he has fantasized and lusted for, all those times he held back, kept himself in check, now he is going to right every wrong. he is going to kill her and show everyone what a monster he is, maybe then he will be left alone, or better yet maybe hunted down and killed! if such a thing is possible to do, but by then he will be already gone, and he will take them down with him.
his acid-eaten ears are tuned forward, catching her every word, and it should be pleasant. at any other time, had he been watching her privately as he wanted to watch the fawns, had he been admiring her hair, tail, wanting them for himself because she was doing it all wrong, he might have rumbled to himself at the fluid tones of her voice. but now all he can think is he hates it and it's not fair that such a revolting creature should have it and use it to mock him, and she is, even if she doesn't stress it this time. it's there, his ears twitch, picking it up, his teeth grind as he imagines tearing her voice—tearing her throat right out her neck, the blood soothing him more than her words ever would.
but he does not allow himself to get caught up in the image. why, when it will soon become a reality? but she speaks again and again his ears twitch, the tone has changed now and he hears what he has wanted to hear all this time for so long, what he always knew but no one ever seemed to believe, and he sees she is defeated, he has won this standoff, but still he is not appeased. because it's still mockery. even when she is down does she mock him, and that makes Enola angrier than anything else.
or almost anything else. Oiseau takes a step forward. and out of everything else, or maybe because of everything else, Enola finally snaps. the answer to her question is a guttural, monstrous roar, choked with blood and venom and blind rage and he lunges forward, gnashing foaming jaws aiming to rend, yearling's hooves lashing out to mutilate, the beast's howling echoing under the dark treetops*
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Posted: Mon Sep 12, 2011 7:50 pm
Oiseau Mort: *It's like the calm before the storm. Before a hurricane, or a tornado. The air is thick and muggy, heavy, enough to weigh you down; suffocate you. The wind does not blow, for even the wind is frightened. Even it has fled the storm, turned tail and run. Perhaps the absence is smart, perhaps the long left wind is smart, perhaps it had done the right choice in fleeing. It is a fleeting thought, but maybe, she wonders, just maybe she should of left before she over sought her boundaries.
Static would crackle in this calm, and she has a horrible taste in her mouth. It's dry, and all she can focus on is the taste of the muggy humidified air. It's been a while since she spoke so marvelously, so fluidly. Beautiful eloquent words that spread across the ears of the listeners, of the composers of the sought after songs and then they can picture wonderful things with a voice that speaks so verbosely. Visual notes on invisible paper, breathlessly floating on the air as light and graceful as dandelion seeds.
It's been a while since she spoke, and she realizes she cannot hear either. Her ears are, were, would be pricked, but she finds it difficult to focus on any sort of sound, just the horrid taste in her mouth and the muggy air. The muggy air; she feels so weighed down, and she doesn't know why. It's like her world has gone deaf and mute. She cannot see past the tendrils of her hair, for past the strange of golden brown it is just black. A blackened void. she concentration, and for a second she see's many things. Many things in the brief second.
She see's a plump, decayed bird nestled outside her thicket. She see's a legless shadow looming over her ominously. She see's her sister, her face caked in blood coming towards her. She see's her father, tall and proud in his captain stupor; he's handing her a necklace. She see's a little delta fawn, with colors like the bleeding sunrise.
She see's a monster with empty eyes charging towards her.
It takes her a moment to realize she's being attacked. That the monster is running at her in a full bodied rage. The adrenaline pumps through her veins so quickly, she finds herself immobilized, standing there. Suddenly she is a yearling, staring up at him, her purple eyes wide and dilated and filled with so much fear and wonder.
But she remembers she is not that yearling anymore. She is an adult, she is standing here, and Enola is recklessly running at her, and she realize's soon enough that it doesn't take much time for him to clear the distance between them.
It's like thunder, the storm has arrived. Suddenly her ears shoot back and she hears it. Hear's it a million times in her head. That screeching, horrible sounds. It rings in her ears, echos in a way that it never fades, it plays on loop and it's endless and it's overpowering, and suddenly her senses feel overloaded and she's being attacked and she can't believe it.
Not until she flinches back and feels a sharp pain in her side and she realizes she's bleeding. She's bleeding a lot, and she screams. Perhaps it is music to the monster's ears, perhaps... but to her it's seething pain, and suddenly her resolve melts and there is nothing. She is the prey and he is the predator. Her adrenaline rushes and she realizes he's attacking her, and she's bleeding and hurt and she still can't believe it.
Run, they say. Run, they urge. She ignores the muscles, the thoughts, the pain. Run!
And she isn't the brave pirate her sister's are, her mother is, her father is. She isn't like that at all. Her, the great Beak Doctor, and she's scared to her wits. She can't fight, she's too immobilized, and she wonder's what she's come too, wonder's why she's thinking of this while attacks her. Her legs scream is agony, let us run, let yourself run, run, run, run.
And she does. She runs, her hooves turn from the tainted earth and she bolts. Fight or flight, and suddenly she's running. She's weak and defenseless and she feels the thin linen string holding her medicine bag break and fall onto the floor. She feels helpless, and it's almost symbolic really. Her life was in that bag. Everything she was, is, wanted to be, and she's running from it.
No.
She can't do that, and she stops. Her body shrieks as if it had emotion itself, but she pulls on the reigns. Why is she running. She is scared, she's terrified. She's bleeding now and she's hurt, and that disgusting taste hasn't left her mouth but suddenly she doesn't care anymore. Her eyes glance around and she see's the bag on the ground and she bolts forward, she goes to retrieve it, if she runs she runs with her life, with her needles and her necklace and with Cracker. No body snatching monster can snatch something so precious from her. She honestly has lost control now, spun so, so far out of control.
He wouldn't really kill her anyway, would he?
She grabs the bag in her dulled yellow teeth and runs again, but she looks back, a casting glance over her shoulder. Is he still pursuing this battered bloodied up freshly maimed hind? Would he finish the deed? Would he? Suddenly her morbid curiosity springs up again and she slows. She's farther then when she started, but suddenly she stops and she holds her ground.
Her eyes speak a challenge, and she is the gambler. She's placing her bets on the mere thought that he wouldn't really kill her. Something deep down tells her he will, he wants too, he seeks to. Part of her tells her, so be it. Part says to run, the blood dripping down her fur says to stay, and she does.
She stays.
Her eyes gleam, come get me.*
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Posted: Tue Sep 13, 2011 1:46 am
If Enola had eyes, it would be plain to see that he had completely lost himself. Any spark of humanity (so to speak), any indication that he was still sane—as sane as he could be—the smallest hint that he was still just a herla after all would be gone. As he attacked Oiseau, it was blind, completely taken by bloodlust. The dumb, bloodshot, rolling gaze of a rabid beast driven mad by its pain, only one thought penetrating the muddled haze of disease that has taken its mind: Bite.
Only, Enola doesn't have eyes. Or rabies. But he resembles the crazed hound all the same. Instead, he tracks his prey with empty sockets leaking what has been slowly killing him all this time, like a disease. And he has tried to quarantine himself, the proof whips wildly about his neck now as he charges, but that never seemed to work. Enola knew he was dangerous, ill, he's hurt others with it, but now, like the mad dog, he is reduced to a monstrous shadow of his former self. And with Enola, that's saying something.
A hoof has hit its target true, gashing the hind, blood glittering on the yearling's pink hoof that big brother always took such good care of before, keeping the stolen appendages clean while the rest of him rotted away. It kicks out, sending an arc of blood whipping through the air, splattering the ground. In a better world, Enola would have seen this and immediately snapped out of his frenzy, horrified at what's he done, tantamount to getting his sister involved.
He pauses, pulls back, a glimmer of hope? Recognition? His mangled ears perk up, strain forward, as though trying to drink in every note of his victim's scream. The stolen blue tail flicks erratically, teeth grinding as he stares Oiseau down with a skull's grin. True, that was the only expression he could ever make, but there was no mistaking that he truly meant it now.
All he can think is to draw more blood. Bite. Kill.
His target bolts, but he does not give chase immediately. Instead, the monster doubles over, suddenly shuddering and convulsing, a sick rumbling starting in his chest, bubbling up into his throat, then erupting out in a spray of blood and bits and bile. He gives a hissing gasp, but suddenly his voice sounds clearer than ever, and with that comes a disturbing sound: laughter.
It is ugly, airy, a giddy wheezing, and Enola slowly lifts his head again, stumbling forward, sides heaving. When was the last time he laughed? Has he ever? Funny, how just earlier, he had managed to make Oiseau smile. And she made him laugh. Had the actual Enola witnessed this, he might have laughed (but not really) for other reasons. The morbid irony of it. But the Enola that was here laughed because he saw the hind's loss. That bag she carried, was she really going to leave it behind?
Enola blunders forward again, sloppy on unsteady legs, crashing through bushes and scraping against trees. They scratch his hide, loosen his rags, but he feels none of it, he doesn't care about any of it, he just knows he must move forward and reach her and bite. His jaws, caked with filth and still dripping, snap eagerly, wanting so badly to tear into her. He wouldn't even care if her fur would be messy when he wore it, he must look quite the mess himself anyway, and Enola giggles again at the bleary thought.
She stops. She actually stops and goes back for the bag and he is thrilled, getting closer now, stolen legs kicking wildly as though their strides will help him reach Oiseau faster. But she's quick, already running again, and he gives a snarl of rage and pain as something pierces his exposed innards, but he ignores that, still so utterly focused on catching the hind, he doesn't falter even when he feels a wet warmth growing at his side.
The mutant sees her look back and that is enough to give him a burst of speed, a reservoir of strength is his delirious state driven by the absolute loathing he feels towards her. Their gazes meet, or rather, those yawning black voids he calls eye sockets threaten to swallow that defiant look whole as Enola thunders, once again aiming to mutilate, yearling's legs lifting to gouge those hateful eyes out once and for all, skull lunging forward, wanting to grip her throat between his jaws.
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Posted: Tue Sep 13, 2011 7:59 pm
Oiseau Mort: *The stinging never ceases, the sharp stung that resides in her shoulder. It feels as if something is moving through her fur, and for a moment the heavy, hot air distracts her again, and she feels faint. The bag of herbs and needles and memories hangs in her mouth, and she inhales the pleasantly sweet smell of spice and plant. Her senses clear and she see's and smells and tastes and hears and her world is alive again. Adrenaline is flowing freely now, and she no longer feels fatigued, no longer feels scared or terrified.
But now she can't hear, for the only sound in her ears is the deafening pulse of her heart beat. The creamy colored insides of her ears flush pink with the coursing blood. The cloth in her mouth is irritating to her gums now, soaked with the overabundance of fluid accumulating in her mouth. No longer does the rancid taste reside, on the contrary, it tastes of the plants in her bag, the ones she smells right now, almost as if the two senses unify.
She feels a burning sensation on her legs also, and she realizes that in the wild rampage of the beasts onslaught, some of the green sludge that leaks from his ears, his eyes, his face; gently dribbling down her foreleg and she realizes it's burning her almost. She feels her skin tingle with the burning sensation and it hurts, but for the moment, she doesn't care. The pain makes her feel more alive.
And then he's laughing. She, for a second assumes, the sound of rancid gagging, gurgling, hissing retch of internal slosh that pours out of his throat and lands on the ground in the most unpleasant of sounds. Blood mixed with the green acid and the blackened bile and she feels disgusted for a second. Like discovering her first maggot wriggling in Cracker's corpse. A putrid decay that smelled of the plague and looked as Beelzebub would, lording over the pestilence of flies as they feasted on the corpses. She shudders. Is it delight, or is it haphazardness fear that is driving to such extremes? Not even the most clairvoyant would perceive such fogged emotions.
Now she is laughing too. That deep, hearty muffled chuckle that clicks in the back of her throat and echo's through her half opened mouth. He's coming towards her again and his jaws and his body are plastered in the filthy disease that thrives inside him. The parasite he was born with, and he borne to be it's host. He's staggering towards her and it's so blatantly obvious that he wants her dead and all she can do is chuckle. She's crazy and insane, but she has the power of a cleared mind, and a process of thought that the mad-driven beast lacks.
And she stands and her eyes still shine with that challenge. Come get me. She see's the blood gush out of the wound from his abdomen, and somewhere, the Hippocrates of Cos laughs as he weeps. This doctor stands and watches this heathen bleed and she's laughing as he charges towards her. Laughing as his form comes closer and closer and closer still and her lips are turned in that malicious grin.
And she drops her bag once more and it lands onto the ill-ridden earth and the laughter erupts again. She's suddenly swift and her hooves move as if equipped with minds of their own. She dashes to the side which creates a scuffle in the dirt, and her laughter subsides and becomes a low, quiet giggle. She does not attack him back, for she knows she will surely lose if she did.
Instead, she dashes around him as if the two were in some sort of deathly waltz. It's almost dance like, trance like, and she's twirling and spinning and laughing and she feels like the fawn she never was. Normal and free, not sick and crippled. The sun is shining on her face and it's pleasantly warm like the thick crimson dripping down her cheek. She doesn't even notice the pain anymore, she's too enthralled with this intoxicating samba.
She doesn't strike back, she just bounds and leaps and hovers just out of his reach. She does not do it to spite him, or to enrage him. She does not know why she does it. An enigma in herself.
Perhaps, she realizes, she does not wish to strike him back. Perhaps, she realizes, she does not really want to die deep down. Perhaps, she realizes, she wishes the monster would quell, but for what reason? At what cost?
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Posted: Sun Sep 18, 2011 12:20 am
For being so focused on Oiseau, Enola misses a lot of what she does now. When the laugh would have driven him even madder than he already is—if such a thing were possible—he takes no notice, not even giving a flick of an ear. He apparently does not see her smile, when any other time he would have wanted to kick her teeth in. So absorbed in following her movements, the monster becomes more of a shadow than a pursuer now.
He still snaps at her, of course, teeth clicking loudly as they manage to catch only air, hooves swiping only inches away as she dances just out of reach. Other times, Enola manages to move in so close, if he had any fur, surely it would have brushed against her own for only a split second and then she's gone and he can only lurch after her, what he lacks in grace he makes up for in showmanship, unraveling rags whipping around, a trail of blood marking their movements.
Another thing Enola is oblivious to. So captivated by Oiseau, playing the cobra to her snake charmer, he does not notice even the most important wrappings around his waist are falling away, too, loosening with every jarring stomp, every heaving, eager gasp. He feels it, certainly, a sharp, cold air stabbing at his side, seeping in, spreading through his body and knotting his insides. It hurts more than he has ever hurt before but even this pain is dulled in comparison to the all-consuming hatred he feels toward Oiseau, charging at her even as shining wet ropes drop from the (very visible now) gaping wound in his side, tangling with purple cloth, dragging in the dirt.
And still, as his guts spill out of him, the monster is driven by hunger. He does not slow in his volleys, rags around his neck slackening to reveal a rotting cavern, glistening red and pulsating with each thick wheeze. With a kick of his back leg, the other tatter flutters away, uncovering a sick shock of pink where the skin has been eaten away by the very liquid that slavers from his ravenous jaws. When the hoof lands again, it finds not ground, but the lagging entrails underfoot. The pain shoots up through the cord, so sudden and sharp that Enola is momentarily blinded, falling to a knee as he shrieks in agony.
When his vision returns, more unfocused than usual, clouded with pain, he sees the hind swimming in his blurred vision and he is sure she is the cause of his suffering. Retching, he jerks toward her, trying to pick himself up on trembling legs. The innards are tangling around his legs, and he kicks again, impatient with the bonds he doesn't realize are his own intestines, pitching forward as more blood and gore spills from his stomach.
He gives another enraged howl, exposed throat pulsating with the effort, but his final charge is his last as the damnable binding trips him, sending him crashing to the forest floor, thrashing and writhing in an agony he cannot comprehend. He gasps, choking on the dirt he kicks up, mandibles never ceasing their desperate clacking as he stares at Oiseau with that dark, vacant gaze.
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Posted: Mon Sep 19, 2011 7:52 pm
It's a long, quiet, low sounded gust. The wind whistles through the tree in a soft hymn. It picks up, intensifies, and the whistle fades into a low, near silent buzz, as if a choir of festering plague borne angels opened their decayed mouths and hummed out a mournful 'aah'.
Aubergine hooves still gently dance around the damned. They're like, prancing steps still. Each step is quick and bouncy, short and sudden as if the floor was searing hot and her hooves were sensitive like fingers. Her lips are still curled in that grin that only shows the top row of her teeth and her red gums.
She watches as his purple wraps uncoil, satin silk stained with filth and dirt and blood and bile. The Monster is clacking and biting and trying to reach her and at times it seems so! As if the heathen strikes it's mark and she will collapse; but it is not so. She remains up, unharmed from the dance, but not from the previous encounter. Her leg burns horribly now, the acid having eaten through her fur and residing on her skin, a quiet sizzle that flusters like hydrogen peroxide would, such a thing ever existed in the post-plagued future.
There is a hole in his side where skin should be, where muscle should be. Blood is gushing from his side and her trance-like dance halts as the pink glistening gut sloshes out from his abdomen. It trails on the ground and picks up dirt and grass and her eyes widen as the rope tangles around the beasts leg. Watches as he falls to a knee and lurches forward before crying in agonist suffering. Watches as he collapses in front of her with a mess of intestine spewed in front of her.
Her eyes open. The smell of blood and gore fills her nostrils and she's petrified and horrified. The mess in front of her is appalling, and for once the hind is at a loss of what to do. She looks down and swallows hard; not even her hooves are purple, she realizes. They are stained crimson like the demons liquid relinquishing itself from the belly of the beast in front of her.
She's a doctor, and she feels sickened with the sight of the monster with it's own guts entrapping it. It's a bizarre emotion that she feels next; almost a sense of pity. She shakes and realizes the sharp pains dotting her body where she's been struck, and realizes that she has not once turned on the beast herself, and that his condition in front of her was brought onto himself.
No, she antagonized him. In a way, she brought him to this. She started his raging frenzy, and she brought him to this. Weather it was truly her fault or not, she felt partially responsible for it. She heard Cracker. No matter where she went, how far apart they were, she always seemed to hear his voice at the worse of times. Those condescending words that made no sense to her. He was trying to tell her something;- he always was, but she never bothered to learn his lingo. Maybe what he said could be useful; the hind would never really know.
But her purple eyes are staring into Enola's deep, dark sockets. That endless gaze that really isn't a gaze at all, and she shudder's knowing that even if she looked there would be no eye in the thresh hold staring back. She feels her muscles tense and she gulps again and suddenly feels conflicted.
She is a doctor. Sworn in by an oath that means nothing to the herla or the creatures of this time. 'May I always act so as to preserve the finest traditions of my calling and may I long experience the joy of healing those who seek my help', she hears faintly, or does she? It echo's in her head, that oath, and she comes to a standstill.
Here was a demon. A hellish steed brought into life to suffer. 'Twas not the demons fault, for the demon did only what the other's did; he lived, although he chose a life of solitude. To stray from other's and live alone, quarantined with the death eating him from inside out. Here, lay a monster that she pushed, taunted, enraged, and drove to temporary madness. A creature that attacked with the bloodiest, foulest, most true rage. Anger and hatred and it boiled and boiled until it over flooded, and the beast attacked.
Flip the coin. A hart lays on the ground, beaten at his own game. Pathetically tangled in his own insides. Laying on the ground, suffering, bleeding. He's clacking with desperation at her, but she cannot tell if it is desperation born from the will to end her, or for a plead of help. Surely it wouldn't be the latter, but now she's filled with a strong sense of urgency, and she wants to help him. She wants too, but she's scared.
She moves, apprehensively at first, migrating from the beast. She does not stray far, for she only goes to retrieve her bag. She shudders again with the sickening thought of what she was about to do, but pushed it away. She swore she would. It was her duty to help him, weather he tried to kill her or not. Although she had no idea how to do this, for she could not sew the hole together, for not enough skin was there. He seemed to get by fine with having it wrapped up, but it still seemed highly unsanitary.
She moved more quickly now, emptying her bag full. Herbs fluttered out, then a silver necklace. Then came the bones. Thin, intricate ribs of a small mammal, either an avian or perhaps a ground squirrel. Her needles she would use. She glanced back at the monster with the slightly deflated abdomen and the heavily ragged breaths. She became apprehensive again, for if she went and tried to help him, she knew he might have another fit of rage. He might attack her again, hurt her, or worse; hurt himself. The sudden amount of care she felt towards the beast was sickening, but for the moment she brushed it off, and for a moment, she did not care.
No. She approached him quietly and meaningfully. Quiet enough to not be taken as loud, but loud enough to be heard. She approaches his side and stares at the pink lengths tangled around his back legs. It wasn't too bad, well, for as bad as it could be, being tangled up in your own entrails. It would not take long to untangle the intestine, but it was the threat of being attacked during her work, for she knew it would be painful. It was what came next, she had no experience stuffing intestine back into a living herla's body. She didn't know where to begin, with that, but her doctor's senses told her she had to try.
She walked towards him so quietly and softly, and begins the trail, or at least attempts, to untangle the creatures gut from his legs.
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Posted: Sat Sep 24, 2011 10:15 pm
 Re-reading your post, I feel extra bad for being as underwhelming as ever. It's funny. Despite all the blood staining the ground around them, and now pooling in the cavity where his own damn guts should be, despite the fact that the blood loss if robbing the monster of his consciousness—at the same time, Enola is finally actually gaining awareness. Sort of.
He is aware of none of this, of course, but he is aware of other things as vision returns to him. For one, in fact, his vision is shoddy. Worse than usual, even. Darkness lurks in the corners, threatening to edge in further, completely blinding him again. It's blurry, more than the usual unfocused gaze he knows, and all he can make out is the sky.
Why is he staring at the sky when he—he's up, right? He feels dizzy, anyway, like he's stumbling, and he has the feeling his legs are thrashing, however weakly. Why? If he's not up and moving after all? So he stills them, suddenly overcome with such exhaustion.
Neal is wild, raving, laughing, but it sounds so far away, a mess of words he can't make out and frankly doesn't care to. The boy speaks only lies and stupidity, and he ignores the choice snippets he makes out. He's too tired to deal with his Guardian.
But for how confused he is, somehow, Enola also feels relaxed. You could even say at peace, for once. The exhaustion blankets him, dulling his already dull senses, lulling him into a daze. He remembers quick flashes, actions, but he ignores these. It doesn't matter, he's tired, he'll just take a quick nap, now if only he had a real blanket, to help how cold he is...
So cold. It's an empty feeling, almost, though he can't explain it. But the idea wakes him up just a little. He realizes he's never been able to feel bothered by the cold before. His hide was always numb, wasn't it? He shivers, the cold penetrating. Was he trying to sleep? The cold woke him up, didn't it, silly Enola. Sleeping on the open forest floor—he should find a better place to sleep. He moves to get up, then freezes, hearing approaching hoofsteps.
He is suddenly afraid and decides to stay where he is, silent. Maybe he should pretend to play dead, then he'd be left alone. He'd do a pretty good job of it, wouldn't he? He suddenly wants to laugh along with Neal, then forgets why he wanted to laugh in the first place. He's cold and tired. What's there to laugh about? He'll just sleep, then he'll be fine. His visions fades, and he thinks, he'll be fine...
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Posted: Sun Sep 25, 2011 12:23 am
There's a very calming air to this clearing now. The wind blows slowly, ruffling the long stalks of grass and the many leaves that dwell in the trees. Somewhere near the utmost outer canopy, a nest sits, and within it a light blue bird with a charcoal black beak. It sits, perches, enjoying the calm after the storm, the silent servitude. It is high from the ground, able to overlook the bloody massacre at ground level.
Finally, she is done. She had lost track of time;- what was time anyway, it was just a measurement, and she had lost the track of it...
Cracker had not spoken in a very long time. His bones lay scattered back with her empty bag and herbs, his bones kept together only by a single, fine string. She's surprised he hasn't spoken, for normally, especially in the midst of her work, his condescending voice would be there. Be there to scold and judge, to whisper and gawk. A voice she could not decipher, and yet decipher entirely. For it was the words she did not understand, but his way of speaking was so clear; she could tell when he was mocking, when he was frustrated, when he was stoic and when he was disgusted. He hadn't spoke, and the silence added to her train of thoughts.
Oiseau was covered in blood now. Her front legs and her face were coated in the crimson liquid, although most of it was not hers, she knew she too was injured, and she too had bled. She had forgotten for a while that she hurt, and for once, she hurt of a different kind as well. It was a subtle feeling in the pit of her chest that she could not figure out, and it was an ache she chose to disregard. The pain in her cuts was not so easily ignored, but in the heat of her cause she was able to ignore it.
But now she was done. She looked over her work, and for once felt exhausted. She knew the hart had blacked out a while ago, but her ears were pricked to keep check of the ever soft wheeze of his ever rising chest. Small and shallow as they were, he was still alive- somehow. She's afraid to move him, but doesn't want him to lay in a pool of his own blood. At the same time, she's afraid moving him might jostle his innards again, and she doesn't want to go through the same retching task of re stuffing them back into his living body.
And her body is already exhausted, she doesn't think she could move him if she tried. She looks at his filthy purple rags and wishes she had something else to use in their place, but she has none. Just a bag and and bird. Needles and some thread. She tried to recap what had happened prior to this, but finds nothing but a haggard haze of laughs and wails. Of screams and howls. Of blood and gore.
Her leg doesn't burn as bad anymore, though. Where the ooze was, a missing patch of fur remains along with a bumpy, seared red burn of sorts. It stings like a burn, but it doesn't hurt as bad, and she's able to look past it. The trickles of blood that touch it do make her wince, however, like the gash on her shoulder and the cuts on her body. Her eyes are half lidded, but she stands there, looking at the monster, and she remains awake.
The monster. She reminds herself he is just as much of a Herla as everyone else.
So she watches the hart. She listens to the breeze. She feels the sun. She tastes the sweet serendipity of the horrific accident, something that can only be regarded as the taste of regret and hurt. She wonders if Enola will live, and if he does, how he too will regard this incident.
But none of that matters at the moment. Her hoofs that now shine royal red leave it's color in the ground as she walks. She limps now, for her leg hurts. She wonder's if she's hurt there too, maybe so, she can probably say for sure she is. or at least, wouldn't be surprised. She goes back to her bag, to Cracker, the plants, the necklace and the sack. She nudges everything back into the satchel, then tightens the hold. She hears a whisper; is that Cracker maybe? She can't tell.
But she too feels somewhat light headed, and she picks a spot somewhat away from Enola, under the shade of a tree. She sets her belongings down in the cooling shade, then collapses bashfully, letting out a content snort when her body hits the earth a little forcefully. She moves around, then finds a comfortable position, eye's wanting to close but she... finds herself unable to. She's tired, but her eyes are fixated.
Just like when she was a fawn watching that barely breathing bird die outside her thicket. One of the thing's she was best at. She stares at the hart with her purple eyes, hidden from the world thanks to her brown hair. She sighs, ears forever standing tall on her head as she hears the monsieur breath, and she sighs for a second time, although it's more of a yawn.
She watches and waits. Watches and waits. Either he'll wake up or she'll fall asleep, which ever happens first.
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