run with wolves | open post.

[thelittleone]

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

© tessisamess

Comments

[nosco]

[ 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.

[lastcall]

[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?]

[nosco]

[ 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.

[lastcall]

[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.

[nosco]

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.

[lastcall]

[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?

[nosco]

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. ]

[lastcall]

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?

[nosco]

[ 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.

[lastcall]

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?

[nosco]

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. ]

[lastcall]

[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.]

[nosco]

[ 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. ]

[lastcall]

[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.]

[nosco]

[ 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.

[lastcall]

[Eun begins flipping through pages again, brows knit together briefly with concentration. There are a great many she passes by with this new criteria. Her poems would lend themselves well to brief melodies, but the ones she might put to song are not the sort of which she'd say encourage growth.]

You say you used to sing to them. Do you not anymore?

[The question is given with a lift of her eyes back to his form, back to his face as he watches her as well. It is not a request, just in case he does not, but a question of genuine curiosity.]

[nosco]

[ He laughs then - a light and happy sound - because given that he'd been braced for the pull between them again, her question surprised him.

Softer though: ] Not for a while now. Most of them [ there's a brief pointed look at a bush of dark red roses spilling from one side ] have the good sense to acclimatize to their new home.

But I may take it up again for the roses Hussan shipped from overseas.

[ Because he knows too well that all because they look well today does not guarantee that they will be tomorrow. ]

[ He slides a look at her and croons the next words flirtatiously. ] Perhaps, I may sing later.