loccent | run with wolves

Entry tags:

verse: run with wolves

run with wolves | open post.

Characters

Asil, The Moor
A very, very old wolf and a member of the Marrok's pack.

Jang Eun
Previously of Carmel Valley, sent to Aspen Creek by her former Alpha.

Jesse Hauptman
Daughter of the Alpha of the Columbia Basin Pack

Joshua Brennan
Burden-bound. A Sin-Eater paired with the ghost of a long-dead soldier.

PREMISE

All the stories are true. Years ago, the Fae came out because technology was making it harder and harder for them to hide, and it's been a couple of years since the werewolves did the same. The world is changing day by day. Humans and the paranormal live side by side, but it's not easy nor is it simple. While the Marrok has taken great lengths and care to preserve the werewolves' PR front, everyone - wolf, fae, vampire and other - know that it's only a matter of time before the humans start thinking that perhaps the other stories meant to warn of the dark are true.

This is an open post set in the universe of Patricia Briggs' Mercy Thompson series. The books are amazing and you should definitely check them out. More information via this Wiki link. The rules are simple: Drop a prompt, leave a tag, and let's play!

THREAD TRACKING

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ He sends her a look over his shoulder amd if he pauses for a fraction of a second at the sight of the wolf in her gaze, then it is only to express his approval. She looks comfortable on the wicker loveseat, looking (to his eyes) as comfortable as a cat in her immediate domain. ]

I would be so poor company to prefer the tones of another man to yours, querida. [ He croons the words, just a little, letting his gaze linger on her bare flesh.

Eun, his wolf decides, has such lovely legs. ]

[After all they have done that morning, and all they have spoken of, is it any wonder that she feels quite at home in his garden? She has no doubt that he wants her there, after all, and enjoys the way he returns her gaze.

Her smile deepens at his endearment, her favorite perhaps, tied with mi amor, and she too adjusts as his eyes linger on her. Letting her book hang loosely in her grasp, she raises both arms to stretch out, legs rubbing together somewhat as she readjusts her positioning. Perhaps she is on the petite side, but she's confident in her legs and happy to have him admire them.]

Novels or poetry then, cariño?

Poetry.

[ He is very interested in this poet that she is so fond of.

With one last lingering look, he makes his way to the table and shelves that house his tools. He will clean first and sweep the leaves and petals that have fallen so he can move them all to the compost bin he maintains off to the far end. ]

[Eun begins thumbing through her book anew, casting a casual glance over to Asil as he prepares and works, while she tries to find a poem. Eventually, she settles on a page and speaks. Her tone is quiet and even, and she reads the poem with the barest of pauses between lines so that they flow as true sentences.]

"there's a universe
swirling inside you.

you have to learn to be
your own earth,
wind, fire,
and water.

you are a natural
phenomenon--
not a natural disaster."

[ He's smoothing down some soil as he listens to her, content to listen to the lift and dips of her voice. It is a beautiful poem - a little different from the ones he is used to, but beautiful nevertheless.

The last verse is the one he likes best, in spite of himself, and he cannot help but think how apt it is for wolves such as he who are given to moods. Natural phenomenon indeed. ]

[As he is listening, and they are not discussing, Eun turns the page, and finds another she likes. She continues, a small smile on her face clearly for the first line.]

"if you eat men"

[she begins, pausing there. Then starts again.]

"if you eat men

and still feel
like you're starving,
you're craving something
that they cannot give.

don't expect men
to fill vessels
that were gifted
to you to overflow.

darling,
find passion

and self-worth within
instead of locking them

inside of men
who like swallowing keys
to keep you to themselves."

[It's a poem about love and relationships, one could say, but what Eun likes best about it is the general message to find strength and satisfaction in herself, rather than seek a sense of self-worth in others. Especially those who would rather she be bound to them rather than standing on her own two feet beside them.]

[ He is not sure if it would amuse Eun to know that his wolf and he do not mind her admissions that she knows the taste of skin and passion. The body craves what it craves, and it is only when people talk themselves out of those cravings that the mind gains the upper hand.

There's a note in the way she reads the poem, a jab - not at him, evidently - but possibly to the wolves who had seen the gift that she was but not the value. Again, it is the last part that he turns over in his head as he leans in to enjoy the scent of one of the roses that she'd noted when she first arrived. ]

[Eun pauses then, to look up from her pages. Asil has said nothing to her poems, but then she likes that she can read more than one without having to discuss each of them.

This is the sort of quiet companionship she had wondered that they might slide into as easily as everything else. Perhaps, for that reason, she takes her time to admire him again, working quietly and listening to her share. Perhaps, for that reason, she decides on a poem of softer things. Eun flips between pages, some of them dog-eared, and when she speaks this time it's not to recite.]

Pick the next one? Or two. I'll give you the titles. "electric bodies," "sun & moon," until you," or "dear future lover."

[No doubt he'll sense the shift in theme.]

[ He does, it makes him go a little still right before he glances over. The wolf is not in his eyes, but it is alert, drawn to the titles of each of the poems. If it were any other circumstance, it would amuse him to feel like he has a hand to the ruff of his beast's neck and is holding it down in the hopes that it will behave.

Allah, is this a lesson for your disobedient servant, that he finds himself dodging the trap of amor sprung on him unexpectedly?

Asil wonders also, if he should be thankful that he does not have to see or speak with Charles anytime soon. The pup would no doubt find his current predicament amusing.

He will... err on the side of caution. ] Read me the first two.

[ The latter titles make him oddly skittish. He has and always will be a romantic at heart. ]

Edited 2020-04-20 05:41 (UTC)

[Eun meets his glance with a lightly raised eyebrow, expression calm, as if there were nothing out of the ordinary about this. She is reading poetry, and wouldn't he find it more strange if not a single one touched on the subject of love or lust? Eun may enjoy the ones that speak about the casual cruelties of men, and there is one that she finds particularly relatable about men looking at young girls as women before their time, but she is happy here right now. It is not the sort of mood she wishes to set.

So when he answers, she nods, flipping to both pages. Eun considers them both a moment before starting, wondering which she should lead in with, and which she should end on. It would not be a stretch to say she is considering this strategically. In the end, she decides to take pity on him. If he is done after the first, she will not move on to the second.]

Sun and moon first then.

"i carry the sun
in my mouth.
i know how to
lure you away
from the twilight
and make you rise
over my horizon.

you carry the moon
on your body.
you know how to
make me howl like a wolf
and lull me to sleep."

[ It is the imagery that catches his attention first and he tilts his head to watch and to listen as she reads. Love and longing, courtship and desire - they are themes as old as the sun and the moon.

He thinks on that as he watches her sitting comfortably in the middle of his garden, on a loveseat made more for comfort than beauty. He notes the way the sunlight falls on her shoulders; patches filter through the trees mimicking a veil of light. ]

I like that one. [ His voice is not very loud, but even from this distance, he knows it will carry across the space between them. ] It reminds me of a verse from one of my favorites.

[One of the reasons that Eun likes poetry like this is not just the imagery or the feeling, but that the poet manages to pack a punch with so few words. They're short and full of meaning, and linger in her mind.

She looks up when he finally comments, and there is warmth in her smile as she nods her head in acknowledgment. Her curiosity is piqued as he continues, however, and Eun places a finger between the pages of the next poem to hold her place.]

Do you happen to remember it by heart?

[Could he recite it to her without having to leave to find a book?]

[ He smiles, turns to his rosebush, and then softly, as if confessing to a lover under the cover of dark: ]

Noche arriba los dos con luna llena,
yo me puse a llorar y tú reías.
Tu desdén era un dios, las quejas mías
momentos y palomas en cadena.

Noche abajo los dos. Cristal de pena,
llorabas tú por hondas lejanías.
Mi dolor era un grupo de agonías
sobre tu débil corazón de arena.

La aurora nos unió sobre la cama,
las bocas puestas sobre el chorro helado
de una sangre sin fin que se derrama.

Y el sol entró por el balcón cerrado
y el coral de la vida abrió su rama
sobre mi corazón amortajado.

[ He had come upon Lorca's work before the poet had risen to prominence. And had, at one point, skirted the edges of readings and performances to listen to the young man's work. He had to admire the poet's interest and attempt to capture the music and spirit of a time history only recalled in susty old manuscripts and monuments.

He wonders now, if it was because it was such a terrible period in his own very long life that had drawn him to the words. To follow such a bright star as it shone and plummeted to an early death.

Among the European immortals, there had been whispers and rumors, that Lorca or one of his fellows had stumbled past the veil and glimpsed the monsters that wandered the dark, hidden as normal people in daylight.

For Eun, he translates, roughly, cobbling together various translations to approximate what modern day writers aspired to: ]

Night approached us, the moon full.
I began to cry, and you to laugh.
Your contempt was a god, my laments
a chain of doves and moments.

Night left us. Crystal of pain
you wept over great distances.
My sadness was a clutch of agonies,
over your fragile heart of sand.

Morning joined us on the bed,
our mouths pressed to the frozen spout
of unstaunched blood.

The sun crept through the closed balcony,
and the coral of life opened its branches
over my shrouded heart.

Edited 2020-04-21 00:34 (UTC)

[Werewolf ears make it easy for Eun to hear his voice, even as he speaks softly to his roses. To her, perhaps. There's something beautiful about the romance languages that Eun can't help but envy. She grew up in a household that often used Cantonese, Korean, and she learned a fair amount of Spanish in school, but her primary language is still English, and there is something decidedly flat and clunky about it by comparison. Especially when listening to someone for whom Spanish is his native tongue.

The moment makes her feel positively spoiled, laying there on the cushions in soft sunlight among roses, listening to an attractive man recite poetry to her, the taste of him still on her tongue. His translation is appreciated as well, for while she caught most of the basic gist, she can appreciate it once more in words more familiar to her. By the time he finishes, Eun's expression has grown soft and thoughtful.]

It's lovely. Heartbreaking, I think, but lovely. I especially like the imagery with the sun and the coral in the last verse. The sunlight and the balcony... [Her lips curve up as she regards him from the short distance between them.] I think I'd gladly listen to you recite more in Spanish sometime, even if I'll miss bits here and there.

I would happily read you more. [ He steps away from the bush and comes over to crouch to a squat in front of her so he can peer up at her. ] And perhaps teach you, if you like, so you can appreciate the nuances more.

[ It was always tricky, translating the heart of poetry from one language to the next. Much of the essence - the soul - of a piece was lost along the way, and while expected, he cannot help but mourn the limitations of language. ]

A great number of his - Lorca's - poems are charged. Emotionally, politically. A cry in the dark.

[He's hard to look away from. Even when he's not trying to hold her attention (or at least, it seems as though he's not trying to) Asil manages to hold her focus. As he draws closer, her eyes skim over the way he walks, the slight movement of muscle she can see with each gentle swing of his arms.]

I can see why you'd like them. And I'd enjoy hearing more from you, having you offer context or translation notes so I won't miss the finer points.

[When he's not tending his roses, at least.]

To set the mood, are they best enjoyed at night?

Poetry is not limited by any time. [ He would not object to sharing more of his favorites. ]

As for context, I am compelled to caution you that what I can provide is likely history filtered through the eyes of a werewolf.

[ It was a bloody period for Europe - and then the world. ]

I'm surprised you think that's a deterrent instead of a draw, Asil. History filtered through someone who was alive at the time, or a werewolf, would interest me.

[She reaches out to him because he is there, and she cannot help herself. It's been easy to get accustomed to the feel of his skin under her fingers, and she indulges herself in trailing them down his arm.]

And to backtrack a bit, yes, I know poetry isn't limited by time but are you telling me you've never found enjoyment in rereading certain poems at night or others during the day, depending on their content and feeling?

[ He was about to retort that if not gossip or speculation, most of his stories were bloody and full of gore. But her fingers are on his skin again, and he relents - violence is part of the wolf. And he can always just skip the parts that might give her nightmares.

Seizing her fingers and pressing a quick kiss to the tips. ]

Poetry with strong emotions are better during the day. [ "For me," is left unspoken. While his nights have been plagued by more pleasant dreams of late, he is loath to court the dark at the corners of his heart. ] My reading material tends towards the morose. But perhaps you can provide recommendations.

I'm sure I can think of a few recommendations, and we can pick a later day to listen to more Lorca.

[If they're of strong emotions, harder emotions, she thinks she'd rather save them for another day. Today things have been emotionally charged enough, and she is enjoying things being easier, lighter with him.]

Like the next poem I have to read for you, for example. [Her fingers curl up, drawing up his arm again idly.] One more before I let you return to your roses?

As many as you like while I work.

[ It's an invitation to enjoy herself, to read as much as he likes even if he will only listen. He appreciates the welcome intrusion of her presence, of her company while he goes about his business here. ]

And in exchange for the lovely breakfast, I will manage lunch for us.

[ He set aside several tomatoes earlier, before her arrival. Even if her plans had been to spend just the morning and go about her business in the afternoon, he would have invited her for one more meal as a thank you. ]

[Eun's smile widens to a grin, she can't help herself.]

Yes, I would say lovely is one word for it. But I'd love lunch with you later, thank you.

[She shifts, hand leaving his arm then so she can open her book to the correct page once more. If she were entirely brazen, if she were making this an invitation, she'd keep her hand on his skin while reading it. But they have had their play this morning, and Eun already feels as though she is skirting a line with him with the last poem and this next.]

so, the second you selected by title. electric bodies.

"i can smell
what makes you a man
from across the room.
it boils my blood

to an electric blue
and engulfs my mouth
with desire.

plug yourself inside.
feel the electricity
traveling through
our circuits.

summon the
ravenous beast
kneeling inside
aching to be freed
through the small
of my back."

[She looks up then, curious what his reaction will be. Wondering if it was too much, or if he'll enjoy her play in their dance.]

[ Perhaps kneeling so close was overconfidence. Perhaps he is grateful that her hand withdrew before she started reading. Like the previous selections, the poem uses words to relay feelings in simple words and clear imagery that reveal instead of obscure.

He is still, but not unmoved, and he marshals his thoughts away from the unspoken question of: is that what you would like?

They have been skirting the edges of play, rather dangerously. It is both intoxicating and dizzying in the way a robust glass of wone might leave a body warm. It has not been so long that his thoughts have strayed from the intimacy of their earlier activities, of his honestly all of today (how is it not noon yet?).

When he rises - because his wolf is restless again - he deliberately presses a tender kiss to her cheek, his eyes fixed on hers the whole while. ]

Read me more. You choose this time.

[ He all but purrs the words at her, which is well enough. It appears he will need to... clear his garden a bit more. ]

[The wolf is back in his eyes, and it pleases her to no end that she can have this effect on him. These are the days she feels rather like a chessboard. Her pawns are physical distraction, a front line that no one ever got past when she was human. The back row, mental and intellectual engagement, much like this dance they have with each other now. Eun supposes that makes her King, or Queen because she says so, emotional investment. That which is protected.

It's incredible what a difference it makes to play the game with someone who can begin to challenge her. She holds his gaze since he offers that direct stare, heart beating a little faster from the kiss to her cheek. The low purr of his words. She would have thought he'd agree, that just one more was enough. It appears that Asil is not interested in backing down just yet.]

More of the same? Or a new theme?

[It is possible that in the giddy joy of finding a match, she is enjoying the opportunity to be a little reckless.]

[ He is watching her still, pausing just a bit to bask in her scent. It warms him to know that she enjoys this, and while he might otherwise worry that his wolf would frighten her, that it does not is giving him much to think about.

Especially since the beast itself has become preoccupied with preening around her. ]

Choose some that my children might enjoy. I used to sing to them to encourage them to grow. And poetry, as we've previously discussed, is kin to music.

(no subject)

lastcall - 2020-04-21 04:25 (UTC) - Expand

(no subject)

nosco - 2020-04-21 04:32 (UTC) - Expand

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only