like the sea touches the soil This content might touch on topics that are sensitive or triggering for some readers. Trigger Warning for mentions of violence, gore, torture, loss, etc. ** note: please let bunny and koi post first ** ** also note: in the interest of speediness there is no real post order in this thread! ** once upon a time there was a mother and a child, tucked away in an island den. sleeping days and nights away, exploring nooks and crannies and felling the mighty beasts in their imagination. a child plucked from an unforgiving beginning, pulled to the breast of an salt and herb scented mother. brought to sand and ocean shore, tended to, loved. a child, a daughter, sharing her magic with the one who became mother. the story of grit and calypso -- and oh, it was perfect wasn't it? fanciful questions of love, chasing clouds across the horizon and diving in to the awe that childhood brings. until -- -- until the clouds touched the earth and everything changed. that was the day that altered the course of their lives forever, the day that calypso chased her daughter in to the mist. the day it swept low to swallow them both, stealing them away from the tropical home, robbing them of the sight and touch of each other. for a time there was nothing but voice, disembodied, floating; and then grit began to see. a tiny voice that told calypso of horrors -- both sights and smells -- and the mother helpless to do anything. trapped with only her words to guide, unable to move through the thick phenomenon. it was torture unlike anything she had known before, a feeling of uselessness she was unaccustomed to. calypso was a healer and there were few times that she did not know the next step to take; it was all she could do to keep the anguish from her voice. "It be big. Way big. There be... it be changin'. Now it be smaller, 'n still big though. Got fluff but ain't a big mane." There is an audible sniff. "It stink. Smell like that blubber ye found." There's no fear, though there is hesitation. "'ma... I think it be dead." "ye are safe, aye? yer wit' me, an' i will keep ye safe. what ye see is not now." time ceased to exist. moments were stretched and condensed, seconds feeling like an eternity and days passing in the blink of an eye. there was no rhyme or reason, no pattern, and so she could not say how long it was before she saw, too. strangers, yet familiar, looming shapes in the fog, faces often hidden. a lioness and a lion, neither of whom she knew, but grit... grit saw them, too. as calypso realized that they were not normal felines (there was rot and decay and all manner of disgusting traits to clue her in) a protectiveness swelled and consumed everything else in its path. not my daughter, you bitch. maybe an outsider could have told her it was pointless to fight. a third set of eyes looking in would see how they appeared and disappeared, escaping the swipe of claws and flash of teeth without breaking a sweat. yet every attack they made landed true, a superhuman speed guiding their moves as they struck again and again. as time passed (or did it? she couldn't tell, she knew nothing but the fight and the whispered reassurances she struggled to give) she regained more sense of herself. a truer insight in to her body and when she lands the first strike she wants to scream her victory from the mountaintops. a slash of claws that spills thick, congealed blood and her battle cry is smothered by the urge to vomit. it rises hot in her throat, bile burning her esophagus, as the sludge falls. it does not splash against the ground -- there is no ground, here -- but seems to be swallowed by the mist. more hours tick away and she can see her. grit, growing before her eyes, trapped as she is in this hellish existence. if she thought it was torture before it is nothing compared to the moment she can see her daughter, watching the emotions that trickle in and consume the girl, seeing the determination and the bravery. bravery no child should have to don in the face of such horrors. calypso would have moved heaven and earth to sweep her up in to her arms, to turn her from the creatures that loom in the shadows. fearless child that she was, it was still her instinct to protect her, and she railed against the mist, pounding her fists against the invisible cage that had snared them. there were days that passed without sign of them, days where she was given a reprieve, but the druid was never still. in time her sense of self returned -- she could not feel but she could move and she was relentless. pacing back and forth through the soup-like mist, unable to see anything beyond the sand beneath her toes and yet helpless to stop. searching for any way to reach her daughter, whom she could see and hear (always) but could not touch. --- how many weeks had it been when her mother appeared? emerging from the mist with that same knowing smile, as if they had been apart for seconds and not years. "how ye've grown." soft words as ocean-storm eyes stared, awed, and her heart wrenched so painfully in her chest. trembling as she stood, bloodied and battered and broken. now -- now she sunk to the ground as the exhaustion sunk in to the very marrow of her bones. the weight on her shoulders was immense, the fear that hounded her clung to her fur and stunk, and she imagined she felt her mother's soothing touch upon her brow. instead it was a ghost that greeted her as the mist made things appear and disappear, messing with her mind and toying with her. instead she heard her voice and saw her face harden, her gentle mother, as if calypso was the enemy. "yer weak. get up! get up an' fight!" snarling, vicious, not her mother. still she flinched and turned away, feeling the tears flood her eyes and knowing that she was right. and then.... a sob from the apparition, tears, and her mother's face morphed again, lined now with grief and age. "how could ye? how could ye do it? it was only a babe..." "No!" launched to her paws, defiant, aching. "no, i didn't do it! It wasn't me!" shaking her head as tear-brightened eyes begged her not-mother to believe her. "it's all yer fault calypso," "no!" "ye caused d'is." a shift, a swirl, and her mother was gone, leaving the druid with only the memory to haunt her. for hours she lay on the ground until all the tears were shed and she was no more than a husk in their wake. --- after that the attacks grew more frequent, more vicious, and it seemed that the longer she was in the mist the more a part of it she became. everything became more real, more vivid, and her blood that spilled did not simply disappear. it lingered on the ground beneath her, soaking in to the sand, staining this world of limbo red. red that turned brown with time, only to be refreshed each day as more marks were added to the tally. sometimes she imagined that they healed overnight, that her canvas was fresh for the next day, for more strokes to be lain across it. how else could she still be alive? grit was her only saving grace, the only thing that kept her tethered to this world. if she had not had grit would she have survived it? if she had not fought -- brutally, daily -- would she have ever emerged from the mist? they talked of many things, idle conversations to pass the time, fanciful topics that might engage the mind of a child. every word had meaning, purpose, and eventually she used the time to teach the girl, to pass along the generations of knowledge that she had. -- "aloe," she would parrot, as she watched her flesh bubble and burn where the mist touched it one day, a new form of torture for the caged mother "is good fer burns." describing the plant in detail, the thick green stems that feel cushy when you press against the flesh, the way you can slice it open to find the clear, healing gel. "usnea," she murmured as she lay broken on the sand, shredded skin knitting back together, "is good fer pain. ye cen ingest it, aye? an' also spread it on de wounds." what she would not have given for some, here, but there were no plants to find. nothing but mist and sand and violence, watered by blood and tears alike. closing her eyes, feeling the tightness in her chest as if an invisible hand was squeezing around her lungs. "wormwood," she whispered, and she could not help but think of him, "good fer de lungs, if yer sick. clears a cough." fighting to keep her voice calm, steady, hiding the struggle from her daughter. -- the lessons were interspersed with the violence, the pain, and all the while she fought. days would come where she would feel she had nothing left but still she was pulled to her feet (was it all her, then? or did the mist do this, too?) to fight. flashing tooth and claw but it was always two against one -- always her against the pair, the older lioness and the younger lion. eventually it pleased her when she would tear a chunk of flesh from their bones, ripping muscle and sinew alike. their wounds did not heal, like hers, and maybe if she tore enough away they would stop coming. maybe if she could sever enough tendons they would not be able to walk; at first, this was what drove her. and as it became clear that they would always keep coming she still fought, keeping them away from the child she could see through the mist, haloed by it, untouched. everyday she was grateful that grit could not see her, that she did not seem to hear the snarling fight that hounded her mother -- this was a small mercy. the hours and minutes blend together, they do not exist here, but still she can remember when she lost her toes. torn from her paw as she tried to hook in to the lion's jaw, to break it and stop the relentless slash of his teeth. instead he snagged it from the air and clamped them shut, clenching his jaw. instinctively she pulled away -- away! -- and the pain rattled in her throat as she fell to the sand. the lion disappeared, and her toes went with him. the wounds were many, the battles were fierce, and as the second month drew to a close she sunk her teeth in to the lioness' leg. deeper and deeper still, uncaring for the rancid taste in her mouth, feeling the bones crack beneath her grip. the apparition a physical thing that pulled back, away, and calypso's front canine snagged in bone and it, too, was gone. --- "i love ye, grit, always an' forever." promises hushed in the night, when the mist darkened and the world grew all the more quiet. whether or not it was truly night she could not determine, but for those brief moments there was no fight and she was able to rest. promises she may not be able to keep -- "we will get out of here, aye? i cen feel it. it's almost over... i hope yer ready for de kisses. yer goin' to get a million. as many as de stars in de sky." lighthearted, jesting, as ocean-storm eyes would watch the wounds disappear, the canvas prepped and ready for the next day. so, it wasn't her imagination. -- weariness settled deep in to her bones and she began to wonder if there would ever be an end. even as the mist changed -- scattering and lifting and offering glimpse of the world -- she wondered. at first it was hope, real and true, exciting! but then the days dragged, the hours disappeared, and it seemed another cruel trick. what foul beast had they crossed, to end up in such a fate? still she kept the hope in her voice, reminding dear grit that they would find their way, that this would end. telling her stories to pass the time and hoping that she did not worry too much when she lapsed in to silence -- the moments when they came. as days disappeared she imagined she could hear them, the crew. calling for them, searching for them -- and camelia? was she gone too? -- and she paced all the more frantically across the sand. scanning, scanning, and then -- and then! unclear and faded but she could see them, just there, just out of reach. the ones she loved, the ones they loved, looking drawn and haggard in their relentless search. her captain, at least, and a small part of her cursed him for not looking after himself. there was no time to worry so she tucked her fears away, turning to face her personal hell with all the more determination. furiously she fought the mist, viciously did she tear in to the flesh the apparitions wore, cursing all the while that they were keeping them here when they were needed there. for days... until hope faded again. -- one night, as she rested, she saw something she did not expect. a sight that wounded far more deeply than she expected, more so than even her not-mother's words. a gift unto the world in the form of four beautiful big babies, untouched and perfect, squalling at the breast of their mother. four babies that looked just like their parents, and calypso knew, then, that this world was capable of so much more than she imagined. and was that her not-mother's voice? the one that echoed in her mind -- look how happy they are. but this was a miracle and she did not look away, not even as the mother and father curled up together and her heart broke all over again. -- it started like any other day. wake (though really she never slept) and stretch and be ready for whatever trial the hours would bring. spoken promises to grit, unaware that today... today would make them come true. at least partially. this day her nightmares did not come and while she was on edge (waiting for them, always waiting) she spent the time in conversation with the one most precious to her. as the time inched forward she sensed the change, and then there was a whisper in her mind, a feeling more than true words. only one... calypso did not question it, much as her heart clenched with fear, knowing that she would soon be left without even her daughter for comfort. soon there would be only her and whatever demons rose to fight. "i love ye," she reminded the girl, hoping against all hope that they would find each other soon, "an' i promise ye'll see me soon, aye? as soon as i cen, grit, i'll be home." then, when the mist swirled and parted and offered her an escape she denied it, lurching away, closing her eyes and thinking in no uncertain terms -- take her. and it did; and she was alone. -- in the wake of grit's freedom there was little awareness of passing time. the hours had always been muddled, anyway, and now she did not bother to think of sleep or rest or anything except the fight. day in, day out, for after grit was gone there was no other target but the druid, left behind but not forgotten. they were relentless, these bloodied creatures, these things of death more than life. after grit was gone her wounds did not heal. what was it, then, that had kept her whole? a mother's love? calypso clung to this belief, trusting that a love so strong and true would not keep them forever apart. trusting in her heart of hearts that she would find her daughter again. despite the exhaustion that consumed her she fought harder than ever before, flashing teeth and flying claws keeping the worst of the attacks at bay. once she realized she would not heal she poured every ounce of herself in to her own protection, because she would not could not give up now. even when the silence of the night pressed down upon her and her not-mother whispered in her mind -- they are better off without you -- she only closed her eyes and waited for the sun. -- there came a night where they did not leave her. almost like clockwork the attacks stopped as they did every time, but the apparitions did not fade. they stood, bloodied and oozing and horrific; staring. she stared back, stone-faced, lips curled to reveal the broken tooth, claws flexing and gripping the sand, breaking open the fresh scabs of her missing toes. unaware of the stars that appeared overhead. unaware of the mist pulling back, fading. unaware, until they smiled. "well done". then they were gone, and she blinked at the moon. so as the clock struck twelve and the mist disappeared a figure appeared on the beach. battered but not broken, sitting on sand stained red. staring at the moon, with a half-smile on her lips.

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if you're lost, then i'll find you It is rare, these days, for Calhoun to find sleep. He is haggard, worn raw — little more than a shell of his former self. All he hears is the mantra in his head, repeating what he already knows: you failed them. You failed her. He has all but lost his voice; it recedes into him, the wind gone from his sails just as quickly as Calypso had vanished — just as quickly as Aegea had. This grief is different; this one comes with the guilt of never being honest with her, and never being honest with himself. How is it, he wonders, that he is always looking back on what he didn't — what he couldn't — do? When sleep comes to him this night, it is deep and restless and filled with fleeting dreams of Aegea. It pulls him far beneath the waves, weeks of exhaustion crumbling into vivid scenes — memories that he could swear are real, that he could reach out and touch. Her laugh, her smile, how she could light up a room without even trying. Her love, her passion, her fire. And before he can ever reach her, she disintegrates into ashes before him, and the skies turn grey, and the wind whistles in his ears. The last time he sees her, it is different. She looks at him, rather than through him; he is so certain that this time, he will reach her, that all will be well — that this is his reality, and he has just been sleepwalking until now. But Aegea simply looks upon him with a sad, knowing smile that softens the corners of her eyes, the edges of her features beginning to smudge away into the wind. "No, no..." His helpless muttering breaks through the quiet of the night sky, fitful tremors rippling through his paws, and the mirage of her crumbles into the sand. But before she is gone entirely, her lips curve around the ethereal command: go to her. Calhoun awakens suddenly, with a sharp intake of air sucked into his lungs. At first, he is disoriented, still grasping at the fleeting images of his dreams. He pushes up into a half sit, his heart still thrumming rapidly against the cage of his chest, his breathing exaggerated. The familiar, ceaseless ebb and flow of the ocean grounds him, as does the sea salt in his nose, and his eyes droop, nearly ready to push it away and let the weariness of slumber pull him back down. But then he hears it again — Aegea's voice, firmer, demanding: go to her. His eyes snap open, and his head jerks up, and he lurches suddenly and somewhat unsteadily onto his paws. What the fuck? Calhoun's muzzle quivers and his brows deepen into a rutted furrow, his jaw gritting. He cannot help but to wonder if this is the mist again, playing cruel tricks on him — taunting him with Aegea. How, then, does it know his darkest secrets? A shiver ripples down his spine, but he heeds the command anyway. He had never denied her in life, and he doesn't now in death. He would not do her such a disservice. Low tide means the journey from the Cay to the shore is easy, the deepest waters only reaching high enough to lap around his shoulders, pulling him in with the waves. Calhoun feels as though he must be following a siren song — he has been sucked in by a spell, and now he's a man overboard, helpless to the lullaby. It isn't all that much different than how his last months have been spent — sleepwalking. The mist might as well have taken him, for all he's been worth. He reaches the blackened shoreline, and part of him wants to remain in the surf — to find solace in the waves. But again, there is the push. Go. And so he does, uncertain what he's looking for, and less hopeful still that he will find the answers that have evaded him for all this time. Despite the inkling feeling in the back of his mind that this is different, he remains classically Calhoun in his skepticism — a pessimist even on his best days. The lines on his face are drawn long, especially the ones that spell out the exhaustion lingering in his eyes; he is not quite gaunt, but he is noticeably leaner than he once was — every ounce of excess fat burned away and leaving only muscle that is certain to soon begin disintegrating as well. The mist, as ever, taunts him — guides him? — drifting down the shoreline in front of him, luring him in. Seafoam waves wash over his paws, a breeze pulls at his mane, and with it, the fog clears. At first, he does not realize it; he paces with his head lowered, his gaze focused on the sand before each footfall. And when he does glance up, expecting to see nothing different, he sees her. Calhoun Galloway stops dead in his tracks. He damn near falls. For a moment, he forgets how to breathe. His jaw works around words that don't come, and his heart races anew in his chest. Please be real. He is afraid, at first, to get closer. He expects her to crumble, as Aegea had. He is certain this must be another dream. Will it ever stop? He forces one paw forward, and then another — halting and hesitating. Please be real. Please be real. "Ca—" his voice cracks in his uncertainty, smothered before it ever really reaches the night air, faint and weak when he could once clear a room. Calhoun clears his throat, tries again. "Ca— Caly!" At first nearly as faint as the first attempt, but then a gusto swells his voice, jutting through the cool wind. Calhoun doesn't run — he can't, too crippled by the fear that she will disappear. That she is some sort of mirage, and that this isn't his reality. But he does keep moving steadily in her direction, half certain that with each step, the beach lengthens, and she is further away — always out of reach. He is quivering and intent on her, waiting on bated breath to see if she turns to him, if she is real. Mas e do thoil e.

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unlike them, he is not lead by providence. he is not lead by the dead or a whisper on the wind or a rotting spirit, devised only to torment him. there are no words whispered in his ears — not even the voice of the god that has shaped and changed his entire life. no, the night is quiet and still and — peaceful. maybe. he is restless regardless, but he is often restless. an itch in his paws burns the pads there, irritates them in a way he can neither explain nor justify. it is a terrible, fluttering feeling that is hardly foreign. it forces him to leave the den saga has claimed for herself in the wee hours of the night, but not before making sure her and the cubs were safe. he is not the type of man to sit idle even if most of his life has been spent stagnant. not anymore, though. amaryllis has allowed him to bloom and grow in more ways than one, allowing him for the first time to open his heart to allow others in. he loved his shield, of course, and cherished them the best he could. they were a survival tool more than anything though, and it's not until he comes here that he realizes just what love might be like. a shame, then, that one of those loves leaves. calypso had left. disappeared into mist, if calhoun was to be believed. and hakon.... was not sure he did. a lioness ( and her cub, big and blue ) could not just vanish into the mist, no matter how panicked the pirate captain had seemed. instead, hakon knew the terrible truth. she had said she loved him and he had said nothing. he had said nothing, and then she was gone. it did not take a smart man to put those pieces together, to read between the lines. he sulks and he mourns; a man, awash with the realization of love, forced to grapple with heartbreak in the same stroke. the moon is full and bright, washing out the shores in shades. the black sand is an abyss beneath his paws, swallowing up each step and leaving no indication that he has come to pass. he stalks stygian like a phantom, like a ghost. maybe one of the rotting ghosts that kept @Calypso in her endless, waking nightmare — an eidolon of horrible things yet come to pass. the night is still and the ocean is almost calm. it is idyllic, if not for the sudden shouts that break across the beach. he is not lead by providence, aye, but he comes regardless. ( perhaps you are your mother's son, after all. ) @Calhoun's voice is not instantly recognized, but the name he shouts certainly is. it's the same name that is certainly imprinted across the casing of his heart ( next to another, of course, but with the same ink. calypso. a namesake, a melody — a name he does not expect to hear here. calhoun's voice is tinged with enough anxiety that it sets the skagosi's pulse kicks like a drum, panic welling even under the still, calm moon. more than that — he does not expect to see her. calhoun is at her side, or nearing her, by the time hakon emerges from the shadows. here, now, he can smell the blood against the sand — her blood? — and his stomach lurches, remembering the mangled wreck that saga was left in after the rike had barged into the lagoon. his heart skips a beat, and then maybe another, seafoam eyes wide and transfixed and staring at her. maybe he had fully accepted that she was gone, gone, gone. maybe that was easier than teasing himself with the hope that one day she might return. but.... here she is. bathed in moonlight and blood. ethereal. ( have you ever seen such a beautiful sight? ) big, useless limbs move then, finally lumbering forward with a tightness in his chest he does not want to recognize. getting closer, then, does he realize what kind of state she's in — it does not look good. tell me what to do, he says, voice almost hoarse — pitched low and fraught. he speaks to her, to him, to whoever will answer because he will not lose her now. he wants to say more, wants to offer more, but this is what he can manage. a tool to be used is how he is best used, and he stands — primed, ready, awed and humbled. he will not lose her now.

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like the sea touches the soil how much time passed? an hour? two? none? the passing of time feels thick across her skin, heavy, a burden and weight she is not used to carrying any more. calypso has no understanding of the fact that she has been gone for months -- she cannot fathom that there had been more than a handful of days. yet, all at once, it felt an eternity. her eyes are on the moon and her flesh is torn asunder, every mark earned fresh upon the canvas. she is a webwork of cuts and marks, an abstract painting bathed in blood. an artist gone mad and tipping the can -- a beautiful disaster. from the moon to the sea; she does not realize her gaze has shifted because she has slumped, her body sinking in on itself as the blood dripped to the sand. for a long moment -- days? weeks? -- her focus is the sea, the pull of water across the black abyss, the hush of the surf in the midnight hour. oh, how she had missed that sound. it is a balm for her soul and she slumps all the more, feeling the need to rest her body on the sand, to close her eyes and try to wake from this never-ending dream. this nightmare. it is only when her gaze slips lower to the sand and sees the darkness of the blood, the patches of vantablack where she has spilled, that she becomes aware of the pain. it arrives slowly and then with a bang, pulling a whimper from her lips even as his voice is in her ears. electric, shooting to her paws, ignore the agony or the sway of her body where she struggles to stand. defensive, poised to strike, curled lips and flashing teeth (broken teeth) a warning followed by her rumbling growl. away, demon, away. there are echoes of her not-mother in her mind and visions of death behind her eyes -- he is another apparition, surely. the mist has sent him to toy with her, to tear her apart so that she might know true pain and betrayal. but no, no. well done they had said before they had disappeared, and her head swings from side to side as if searching for the mist that had harbored them. her eyes move rapidly, almost unseeing, frantic and clutched in the hard fist of fear. it takes time -- seconds? minutes? years? -- for her to understand. realization dawning, slowly, steadily, as @Calhoun pulls ever closer. then, slowly, her gaze lay on him, and that half-smile tugs at her lips. "cal," a breath. pulled from her dreams he is there, and then another, and she is dwarfed by the giants she loves. (there is another, too, in shades of blue, and her mother's heart looks for her, peering behind them both). everything else is forgotten, all of the before set aside as she basks in the now. "hakon," a sigh. @Hákon is frantic and she cannot figure out why -- his words come as if underwater and she frowns, trying to piece together the meaning, trying to make sense of it all. ocean storm eyes fight to focus on him, to stop him from splitting in to two and swaying before her. cold fear, then, as she thinks it has all been a trick to lure her in, to tuck her in to a false sense of security. no, this is real. you are safe. it's gone. the mist is gone. the mist is gone. a mantra, and she shakes her head and sways and smiles her broken-toothed smile. "grit," she murmurs, as she falls to the sand, desperate to rain down the kisses she had promised on the child she so dearly loved. her eyes slid shut with one more whisper -- "voluspa." she needed her apprentice; and so did they. (note, she's in an out of unconsciousness, but i'll still be posting!)

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if you're lost, then i'll find you He watches as though in slow motion — ever reaching as she crumples down with each passing heartbeat, and he is not nearly fast enough to catch her. He cannot tell if it's the ocean or his own heart rushing in his ears; perhaps it is both, or perhaps it is nothing at all. Calypso falls, and he sees flashes of Aegea in her place. He runs into the brick wall of his memories, and the anchor holds him back, the same as before — and he can't save her. He would have thrown himself — he did, though — to the wolves if it had meant she would live, and he wouldn't. He would throw himself now, again, for Calypso. But there are no hungry dogs here to fight. There is no sacrifice that will change this moment. It seems an eternity, but he finally reaches her side, and he is hit by the sharp metallic tang of blood in his nose. Upon the black sands of Stygian, it looks like an oil spill — shimmering in the glow of a full moon in a manner that is far more iridescent and celestial than this moment calls for. The smile that tugs at the seams of her lips is haunting. She sighs his name, and he fears that she is drifting far away from him, from them, from here. It is @Hákon nearing that begins to pull him from the haze of his stupor, forcing him to recognize a reality that is tangible. Hákon, after all, has never been a face to haunt his dreams; if he is here, then Calhoun cannot be sleepwalking. Grit, she murmurs on a breath, and he tips his muzzle towards her cheek, nosing his snout against the base of her ear. "She's alright," he promises lowly; in the absence of Calypso, he'd made certain of it. Seeing her now, he doesn't understand how the child came out nearly unscathed, but it only takes him a moment to fabricate why. She is like him. She throws herself into the fire to save the ones she loves. She sacrifices. Hasn't she always? Hasn't she been sacrificing since the very moment she'd first found him on that beach? Patching him back together like a well worn jigsaw puzzle, frayed at every edge and tattered at the seams. And she'd fought alongside him, helping him earn a revenge that wasn't hers, giving him every piece of herself and never expecting him to be able to give back. He'd known it then, hadn't he? That she loves him. He'd known it then, and he's known it in every moment since. He's known it in himself and he's denied it, with every breath and every instant he's pulled away and left her there — wanting. Calhoun is unwilling to let his penance be her life. Break the cycle. Another name spills from her lips, and the pieces connect in an instant. Trust Calypso, even in her haze, to know that Calhoun and Hákon are utterly useless in a medical crisis. Absolute blockheads, really. He lifts his muzzle to the night sky, rumbling free a call not only for @Voluspa (who he doesn't even know will deign to answer him, and he glances expectantly to Hákon, whose voice might signal more urgency to her) but also for @Francesca and @Madelina, who are not only the only medics he knows, but also likely the closest ones. Anyone, everyone — ring the alarm, call in the cavalry. Calhoun, however, cannot just stand around and wait, and he imagines that Hákon is much the same. "We— we needta stop teh bleedin," he mutters. He knows that much, at least, and he's paid attention enough to the process to know that moss is often used for this task. The boulders of the beach are typically plentiful with it, and it doesn't take him long to find the nearest one, to rip free a sheet of moss and send some of it Hákon's way, returning to Calypso's side to begin applying pressure to the most heavily bleeding areas. He dares not consider moving her — not without the eye of someone trained in this field. And whilst they wait for aid, he fills the silence, trying to pull at the fringes of Calypso's consciousness, to keep her from sinking into the abyss. "Yeh should see how big she's got, Caly," he rumbles, a forlorn little smile ghosting briefly across his lips. "I t'ink that lil bugger is goin' teh be as big as me." Tiny, fierce little Grit has shot up like a weed, and already dwarfs his own daughters in size — though they have the ferocity to match hers. "Yeh shoulda seen teh way she came out o' this. I t'ought Archie was goin' teh be a goner." For her sake, a breath of amusement accompanies his commentary. And on he goes, rambling about the faces she knows and loves, with every breath trying desperately to ground her — to keep her here, with them. To remind her that there is something to fight for. And when he runs out of stories to share, his murmur is a plea, "chan urrainn dhomh seo a dhèanamh às aonais thu." ( I can't do this without you )

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The closer he gets, the more time seems to slow. She is smiling, toothy fangs glinting in the soft moonlight, but there is something clearly amiss. Wrong, wrong, wrong. The feeling is only intensified by the other man and his reactions -- he reaches caly first, he realizes first. So when the question falls from his lips, useless and clunky, already he knows. He will do whatever it takes, he knows, to put her back to rights. Has she always been this small? Had he just never noticed it before -- ? Usually she is so vibrant her presence stretches out past her physical frame, but here, slumped as she is, she only looks.... small. Broken, maybe, but only for the moment. He will not let her stay like this; hakon skagos has every intention of piecing her back together. Patience has never been his forte but he will suffer this gladly. It is -- the least he can do. @Calypso looks at him and something in his chest freezes up and tightens ( does his breath catch? does his heart seem to stop in his chest? Yes and yes, all of this and more -- ), and the ocean roars in his ears. She looks at him but also looks through him, her gaze is glassy and vacant. Not a good sign, he knows, even as she murmurs two more names. Hakon catches the look @Calhoun sends his way ( he would have to be blind to miss it ), a frown marring his lips. He doubts his voice would have any more sway over the sigrun whelp than the captain's would, but he unleashes another call for @Voluspa regardless. He hardly knows the girl beyond seeing her in passing -- she was one of magnus' oldest children, from the litter that had ruined their own drowning. The litter that had taken more from saga than she should've ever had to give. It was not the type of person he wanted attending the woman that he loves, but calypso has made her choice. The captain calls for others and after only a moment of thinking, hákon too calls for extra hands. He calls for @Eyvindr, and..... and for @Ofelía. Pure Desperation colors his choices, if not his voice, and his hands fumble the moss when it is given. Still it is a task, something to focus on besides her thready breaths, and though his intentions are good, his touch is heartbreakingly gentle. The moss sops up the blood that marks her peachy pelt, ignoring how gaunt and weak she feels beneath his hands. Calhoun talks and talks, his voice filling the air, and it sets his teeth on edge. So many mentions of people he does not know, names he does not recognize. A sinking realization, then, that no matter how much their dalliance might have meant, he still knows so little of her. A stranger, even here with his heart in his throat and panic in his veins. It makes him feel strangely othered, numb fingers pressing the blood-slicked moss against her ruined flesh. He listens but doesn't, tuning out the stories from a life he's never asked about in lieu of the thready pulse he feels beneath his hands. This he focuses on, a silent mantra repeating in his head. You'll be okay. You'll be okay. You'll be --- The others would come soon, and they will help. They have to.

code by irish & art by tanzani

the presence of the mist was a nightmare that continued to deal dark tricks and horrid revelations, each day seeming to bring more tribulations than the last. and so when it had finally begun to lift from the lands, dispersing and returning those that had been lost, voluspa had made the naive mistake of being hopeful. hopeful that life may take pause and offer them all refuge from the storm that they had endured — but, poor girl, if only she knew that it was far from over. this was one of the last times that she would make such a foolish mistake.

for the sound of a summons shook something deep within the woman's chest, brows furrowing as not one, but two voices beckoned desperately for her assistance from further down the shore. and though she was confused, and uncertain of what may await her out across the expanse of the sands, voluspa wasted little time in snatching her medic bag from its hiding place, slinging it across one, tensed shoulder before taking off down the coastline in dutiful fashion.

alas, the scene that was playing out upon her arrival, however, was worse than anything that voluspa could have fathomed on her own. because there was @Calypso, another victim to the schemes of the mist, with her body bloodied and hunched across the earth, torn apart and ravaged in ways that she - them - could surely only imagine. a small part of her felt relief that the healer was alive, albeit her condition, but this fleeting sentiment did little to quell her heart from thrumming louder, and stronger, and more urgently with each step that she took nearer to the group.

closing the remaining distance, the sigrun looked first to @Calhoun — a distant figure that she had seen in passing and interacted with only once. ‘he’s with me’ calypso had assured that day, her steadfast confidence having been enough to soothe voluspa's skepticism, and her wrath. and then, after another moment, her attention shifted to @Hákon — the skagos who she was not foolish enough to believe cared for her, not after everything that had happened. and so they had remained affiliated from afar, their paths seldom crossing. except for now. except for when it mattered most. voluspa did not allow herself to take pause any longer, however, before pushing herself amongst their bodies, steps lumbering whilst dark eyes scanned the battered frame of the medic. what had happened to her in there? what horrors had she seen? had her and khal existed within the same state of lostness as the other? she knew not, but now was not the time for such insignificant questions — it was time to save calypso, as she has been taught to do.

seaweed, she instructed abruptly towards the men, eyes narrowing as she forced control of her breathing and willed the calm of her pounding adrenaline. i need damp seaweed, as much as you can carry. and cape aloe — it grows in long, thick leaves up near the dunes. the two of them may not know her, may not even trust her, but voluspa gave them no other choice but to put their faith in her, for the sake of the woman that they all clearly cared deeply for. with her lips pressed into a thin line, the sigrun would aim to slide up as closely to calypso as she could, now, her maw dipped down as the satchel slipped down from her shoulder. stay with us. she emphasized lowly, words not much higher than a whisper, though the gravity of them weighed heavy on her tones, sad and bitter and remorseful all in the same breath.

like the sea touches the soil awareness comes and goes, fading in and out like the sea on the sand. with sharp breaths her eyes snap open, spinning, searching, claws clenching where they lay. reality settles heavy upon her shoulders and the rumble of @Calhoun's voice calms her racing heart. grit -- her anchor -- is alright. of course she knew that the bold and daring girl would be okay, but she worries for the trauma she has endured all the same. or she will worry, when she is capable of such a thing. "i saw --" what? what did she see? but ah her eyes slid closed and her body relaxed, the tension disappearing as she gave in the pull of sleep and rest and all the things she had been unable to do. small and frail upon the shore, hardly the fierce creature she often seemed, and missing the energy that thrummed beneath her skin. drained. she jerks awake again as they touch her, taut beneath their paws, flashing her teeth in warning against the ones that have come before. a growl pulls from her throat and fades quickly, swallowed when awareness returns. they are there and she is safe. the mist is gone. the mist is gone. voluspa comes and she wants to sing her praise, guide her through this as she has guided her before -- but she does not need to. her apprentice has grown, she has learned, and there are no paws she would trust the same way. so she smiles and lay still upon the sand, focusing on the sounds of the ocean she had missed so dearly.

code // art // do not use without permission

in the beginning...

...the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep.

      She'd found the bag under a pile of dead palm fronds and dry grass; Remnants of a nest that belonged to a family of mice she had just evicted. She had still been picking shards of tiny bones from between her teeth when she'd started clearing out the rubbish. In truth, she wasn't sure if her mother would even want her here. The smaller den was for storing medical supplies, the perimeter lined with piles, stacks, and containers, of too many types of plants to count. After how she had destroyed her mother's garden while attempting to only pick weeds... perhaps it wasn't a good idea for her to be here while Calypso was still gone. Who knew what else she might break or trample. Maybe something irreplaceable this time. Still... she just couldn't sit around anymore. Couldn't live with knowing that everything was just falling further and further into disrepair. So she'd made her way from the larger den to the smaller, and began by ridding it of squatting vermin. Then she'd moved the nest aside, and found the bag.
      The bag itself wasn't quite what one might think. Given a lack of thumbs (and dew claws didn't count in this context), it was difficult for a lion to fabricate anything too intricate. This 'bag' was the hide of an impala, or what she assumed had once been an impala, de-fleshed, dried, and with the legs knotted together to create a rudimentary strap. Some of the fur was missing, worn off through hours and hours of travel and use, and there were some holes that seemed suspiciously mouse-sized (and fresh), but it was intact. The sight of it stopped her dead. For a long, long moment, she just stared at it. Her mind swirled with visions Calypso trotting along a beach, scooping up plants and interesting trinkets and tossing them into her satchel. The images were Zeus striking a thunderbolt directly into her heart, and her breath caught in her lungs.

      The mist dropped without a sound, enclosing them both in a deadened room of nothing. There was the briefest of moments where sight could still be had of each other--just enough time for the child to see the fear on the mother's face--then the fog created a wall between them, sealing them into their respective prisons. Their voices were all they had to comfort each other.

      "'ma?"
      "Grit? Grit!" A voice tight with fear. "Are ye okay?"
      "I'm a'right." A pause. "Dis be clouds."
      -- Because it was only a handful of days earlier that they had been discussing the clouds. Wondering, as they looked up at the skies, if they were as soft as they appeared. Talking about if they could come down; Yes, they could, it was called fog. And ending with a statement that, one day, the cub would touch a cloud. Oh, if only they knew. If only. --
      "Do-do ye like d'em?" A mother's calm to chase away fear. "Tell me what d'ey feel like, little love."
      -- The mother needn't have worried about her child being frightened. No one knew for sure, not yet, not for a good long while, but this child was special. So special. She did not feel fear. Did not have whatever gene or chromosome instilled it within a being. There was no fear to feel, for better or worse. --
      "I can' see." No fear, but hesitation. "They don' feel. I can' feel. Where we be?"
      "I.. I t'ink still on de island." Unsure, a slight waver in her voice. "Can ye walk to me?" A soft hum to guide her way.
      A long pause. "I don' know if I'm walkin'." Puzzlement, pure and clean. "Is dis what flyin' is like?"
      "Hello? Cen anybody hear us?" Her voice raised, then softened again -- "Meybe. Do ye feel like flyin'? Or.. floatin'?"
      A small giggle. "How 'ken I know what flyin' be like if I never flied ba'fore?"
      "Ye cen imagine it!" Bright and light tones, chasing fear away. "Ye must be close, I cen hear ye. Jest keep by m' voice, aye?"
      "I ain't got no reason to go away, y'know." The faintest huff. "Yer me mum. I love ye. Ain't nothin' to... see..." The words trail off as though attention is drawn elsewhere.

      Then came the horrors. First, they were amorphous shadows, lurking on the edges of the vision. Fleeting things that had the equal chance of being real as they did being a trick of the eye. Then, they were silhouettes. The outlines of lions with depth and defined movement. They slunk around and around, watching, waiting. When the moment was right--meaning when the cub was at her worst vulnerability--they let themselves be seen in their full horror; They were a pair, male and female, teen and adult, respectively. Both wore shawls of blood with tassels made of coagulated tendrils that swayed as they moved. Viscera adorned their skulls and limbs, a Picasso painting of the most terrible mediums. And they missed chunks of dermis, exposing muscle, and muscle, exposing bone. They were ghastly. Ghostly. They were visages of the earliest memories the cub held.
      A window opened up for the mother to see the daughter, to see the apparitions that haunted her child. And, oh, how they both suffered for it.

      The adolescent's face contorted into an ugly mask of emotion she had never worn before. Pale eyes grew wide, then hardened, then glistened. Then she collapsed, burying her face into the bag with a choked cry. For the first time in her life, she was unable and uncaring to rein in the turmoil in her heart. All hint of composure left her in a series of great wracking sobs, her body quivering with the sheer force. Everything she did held some hint of intensity. This was different only in that it did register on the scale, because it broke it. Pain, in all its forms, spread through her body and squeezed her lungs and compressed her heart and made her scream out in agony unknown. She mourned. Mourned what she could not clearly remember. Mourned what she did not know she had lost.
      And she mourned Calypso. Mourned the loss of the one constant in her life. The one bright light in an otherwise dark world. Because now, and only now, did she understand that she would never get to see her mother again. She would never get to wake early and leap upon that snaggle-toothed face, nibbling and batting at those soft ears. She would never get to sit and wonder about the eccentricities of formations of water vapor high up in the atmosphere. Never get to hear that voice, so soothing, so loving. Never get to feel safe and secure in her arms as they slept. Never. Never. Never, again. Because even though she had tried, relentlessly, unendingly, with all that she was, Calypso was still gone. Even though the entire Crew had given everything and anything, she was still gone. The mist, the cruel, evil, horrendous, damnable, miserable, no good, very bad, mist... took the only meaning in her life away.
      It was hours before she could regain herself. Before the numb feeling in her toes, caused by hyperventilation, faded and she could stand. When she did, there was no sense of determination in her movement anymore. No constant interest in her surroundings and the goings-on of the world. There was just a heaviness that did not fit a being so young. She slipped her head through the straps of the bag, ignoring how the material was damp from her woe, and shouldered the satchel. It was all she had left. All she would ever have left. And she would keep it with her until its very fabric fell to dust. Even if it was a painful reminder of the gaping ragged hole in her chest, it was better than nothing at all. She stood for a long moment, head low, staring at the half-cleaned den around her. Then she trudged out, out into the night that had not been when she had gone in.

      The moonlight found her leaving the Cay. Fording the waterway to the mainland without joy or effort. The bag around her shoulders hung, sodden, as she emerged from the waves. Without a glance back, she trudged on. A child with her backpack full of snacks and toys, running away from home because she thought it would be better out there. Walking the figurative railroad tracks--in reality the line between high tide debris and now-tide surf--with eyes on her feet. The weight of the world too great for her to lift her head. The questions of where she would go, how she would live, were empty echoes in the far vestiges of her mind. There was nothing but the black depression at the fore. Nothing but the instinct to just... move. To trudge; The weary yet determined walk of a man who has nothing left in his life but the impulse to simply soldier on.
      The call of the captain took a long moment to penetrate the wall of shadow. In truth, were it not for the following cry of another, she may not have heard anything at all. The response was still painfully slow, the heart railing against any semblance of hope, lest it be torn so far asunder it may never repair. It could be anything that the captain was calling for. Any number of adult issues that she didn't quite comprehend. She hadn't been able to help him and the Crew search. Though part of that was intentional on her part, it still stung. None of them had asked her directly, either. What could she do, truly? Tag along and slow them down? Steal their focus while they desperately tried to keep her from latching into the ankle of the wrong lion? It wouldn't have been helpful. It wouldn't have mattered. But... the captain was still the captain. She was still a pirate at heart. So she turned around, and trudged only slightly faster toward the origin of the sound.
      The three figures on the beach were huddled around something that lay just beyond the surf. She recognized Calhoun, Hákon, by their forms and size--the night muted the colors too much to be of use. She did not recognize the third form. So she assumed that it was someone they knew. Or at least someone who wasn't a threat. Why else would they share such space with a stranger? She couldn't see what they were so concerned over. Distance and obstacle obscured her view. None of them seemed hurt, though their actions were quickened. She felt no urgency to join them. There was nothing in her hollow chest that bid her step up her pace. Only the ingrained reaction to come when the captain called; She may not obey every order given, but she was not errant nor mutinous. So she came, one step at a time, one breath at a time, as Atlas, bearing the world upon her young shoulders.
      It wasn't relief that washed over her when she, finally, spied the form lying upon the black sand. It wasn't excitement. Nor elation. Nor hope. It was just... calm. Calm, quiet, acceptance. Of course this would be what happened. Of course, of course. There was no sense wondering why, or how, or what had been done to deserve. Just a simple agreement that this is reality, now. So she slipped her way under and between the adults to stare down at the form. she couldn't tell if it was dead or alive, but it didn't matter. There were things that had to be done. She hadn't been in time to hear the female's words, but her mind sparked with memory of what her mother had taught her in the mist. Then, quiet and heavy as she had come, she turned and left.
      The beach was large enough that its farther edge, closer to the sheer cliffs that divided it from the mainland, the wind had whipped the black grains into hills and valleys. None of them were impressive by any means, but they were enough to create habitable places for a particular plant. Unfortunately, this plant was a dark green and, in the night, it was nearly impossible to spot. It was made worse by the fact that all she had to go on was a name and a vague description; No scent to track, no mental image to pursue. Just what she had been told, and what words she had memorized.
      "Aloe." Her voice was dull, flat. "Good fer burns." The words came out as a chant as she moved, searching. Repeated over and over in the same dead voice. "Aloe." Over the next dune. "Good fer burns." Nothing. Keep searching. "Aloe." A small cluster of spiky leaves was noticed. "Good fer burns." Several were picked, tucked away into the bag, and path turned back to the group. "Aloe." Pace was not swift, not hurried, and not slow. It just was. "Good fer burns." There were other things in the bag, too, but she didn't know what they were. Only that they were. Maybe they could help. Maybe they could hurt. All that mattered was "Aloe. Good fer burns."
      When she arrived back, trudging forth in silence, she ducked her head and slipped out of the bag's strap. Using a single over-long claw, she pulled the opening apart to expose the aloe she had gathered, and the multitude of other plants and balms and trinkets that her mother had kept in there. One paw remained in the strap, though, an unspoken possession. She looked up with dead eyes at the captain, then at Hákon, then at the unknown lioness. "I 'ken get more." A simple statement with no tone, no hope, no emotion.
      And she waited. For anything.

---

words. 2,317
tags. @Calypso, @Calhoun, @Hákon, @Voluspa
notes. my heart q.q

october y7 ≠ stygian shore, neutral lands
8 months old ≠ galloway crew boatswain
barbarian lvl 0 ≠ medic lvl 0
wounded ≠ fatigued
H4 ≠ D0 ≠ L5

Trade: Medic
+10 heal a character's sickness or injury
1/2 posts

+5 collect herbs
1/2 posts

+5 learn something from another about your trade
1/2 posts

code by corvus

though the endless stories @Calhoun murmurs might unsettle him, they were not for hákon. it does not matter what he thinks of them — instead, the only thing that matters is calypso. she wears that same, strange relaxed expression, the one that speaks volumes of the pain she must be feeling. it’s clear from the blood dribbling over his paws, wetting the moss and the sand below itself. she tries speaking once and caramel ears twitch forward, but the thought is not finished before her frame goes limp. for a moment, until they rouse her again. with more and more pain. a quiet noise rumbles from his throat, unbidden — trying to calm her, to soothe her. it was not a nice process ( he knows from experience ), and he knows that he is not as gentle, or knowlgable, as he should be. but soon enough, he does not have to be. @Voluspa, for whatever reason, decided to attend their calls — and he is relieved. he makes no noise, he says no words, but his gaze lingers on her — pointed, deliberate, appreciative. words could come later, once there is time — when calypso is not so in dire straits. for now, this would have to be enough. his gaze lingers on her as she speaks, directing them in the only way she knows how. seaweed, dampened by the ocean. cape aloe, from out near the dunes. with a small nod he braces himself, pausing only a moment longer to linger — gaze dropping from the medic to @Calypso. it is clear he does not want to leave, and lingers because of it. she has come back once, though, and she will not slip from his fingers in the time it takes him to scout for the needed supplies. this pause is time enough for him to spot @Grit — looking as hallowed as he feels, and his lips curve. she joins them with some of her own supplies ( the bag and its importance lost on him ). the sight of the girl, though, helps to steel him before he leaves, finally pushing away from calypso. the sea is close but the seaweed is hard to find against the dark sands. determination lines every step, operating fully on instinct versus any real conscious thought. he knows where it should grow, he knows where he’s seen it many times before. he is no stranger to these dark shores, not anymore, and it’s with blessed ease he is able to locate what the medic needs. it is not a neat process, gathering it up, but he would be far more efficient if his paws could just stop fucking shaking. finally with some clenched in his jaws and the rest draped across his shoulder, he returns with as much as he can carry — dropping it at Voluspa’s paws, as directed. he lingers, just like the girl-child does, ready to fetch more — skin ablaze and buzzing, restless energy with nowhere to go with it.

code by irish & art by tanzani