The peace of water (Open)

[persecutor]

"When I wake up, I'm afraid somebody else might take my place." The dark female said softly as she stood by the freezing lake. It had definitely gotten colder and ice was starting to cover the great lake. Manakiri sighed and skipped to a nearby bush and forced her way into it as a way of keeping warm. She had grown drowsy, and soon her eyes became heavy and she began to dose off.

Then splashing spooked Manakiri out of her daze. Her eyes shot open, and she looked to where she saw bubbles in place of thin ice, and saw the slightest part of a trout. Instantly she poked her head out of the bush and just barked at it. "I'm trying to sleep! What is your damn problem, you fucker!?" She growled and got out of the bush, ignoring the blast of cold air. The Trout disappeared deeper in the water and Manakiri glared at the broken ice. "Serves it right, waking me..." She muttered and went back into the bush to curl up.

[Lirriel]

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je m’enivre de ce poison

The first scent of snow draws Marie northward.

It is a strange decision – any other wolf in her skin would be quick to avoid the northern lands, terrified that they might once more fall prey to starvation. But she does not think of the past, purposely avoids it as if it is a slighted old lover who never quite knew how to let go. Her days of unending hunger nip at her paws as she heads toward the towering mountains, but her gaze is soft, her face relaxed.

She carries a secret, and it does not reveal itself until she exits a copse of trees and comes upon the lake.

The Akeli Lake stretches before her, glazed in a thin sheet of ice that reflects the harsh sun – it threatens a kind of snow-blindness, and she blinks before moving her eyes elsewhere. She is carefree in most of her actions, but even she is not so foolish as to invite intentional injury.

Instead, she pads down from the small hill she had crested, stepping softly and silently, her pawprints leaving only the faintest of impressions in the ground below. Her ears are tipped forward, her moon eyes carefully focused on the path she trudges down. There is a focus to her movements, to her posture, but it is surprisingly relaxed, despite her proximity to the mountain upon which she almost met her doom.

Marie nearly frisks upon reaching the lake’s edge, her lips pulling back in a small smile as she examines the fish that swarm just below the ice.

So, the gossip was correct.

She considers trout an indulgence – compared to the gaminess of meat, their flesh is pure and light. And, she thinks, tilting her head to better consider them from a single silven eye, they are all the sweeter having been housed in such icy waters.

She dips her head closer, nudges gently at the ice with her nose; she is pondering how best to fish them out.

Before she can truly begin to formulate a plan, her thoughts are interrupted by a sharp cry of rebuke. She blinks, not quite startled, and raises her head, scanning the lake’s shores. She catches sight of a smudge that is vaguely wolf-like in shape as it disappears into the foliage that groups up around some of the shoreline.

A guest? The thought draws a tinkling giggle from her mouth, amused at herself for thinking they could be a guest when she is an outright stranger to these lands.

But she is a pleased to have company, and she shelves any thought of food for now. Perhaps, she thinks, as she travels along the shorebank, striding with the carriage of a dressage horse, they might help her fish. But that shall only be after they have been better acquainted.

Closer now, she waits on the pebbly ground, unwilling to step closer to the bushes the other wolf had disappeared beneath. “Hello?” she calls out cheerfully, her mouth still curled in that small smile. “Excuse me, but are you from around here?”

persecutor	stock by ria p.
gotta shake the rust off marie

à en perdre la raison.

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[persecutor]

"Hello?" A voice rang out very close to Manakiri's little bush. She has scented the wolf before now, and wasn't scared, but did need a way to disguise her tiredness. Manakiri raised her head and poked it out of the bush, before seeing the newcomer. The voice did not betray the look of the wolf, and Manakiri could see the female. Pale cream and lighter tones with white ticked fur was associated with the grey eyes. She pushed her way out of the bush to face the wolf head on before speaking.

"Well heya! I'm Manakiri. I live around here, yes." Was Manakiri's reply as she stepped closer to the female. Her dark grey eyes held their own blue and teal specks, and they looked over the icy lake. "It's getting colder, soon snow will be falling." She remarked, before sitting her haunches on the shore.

[Lirriel]

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je m’enivre de ce poison

Marie stands patiently, that small smile still clinging to her lips. In her mind, the transition from her last word to the strange wolf’s first stretches out unto infinity. Within its endless space, she finds possibilities – that this wolf might belong to a pack, that this wolf might be a loner, that this wolf might be a friend, that this wolf might be a lover.

She does not think of aggression, does not even begin to consider what it might mean if the wolf were to be an enemy – but that is because she is Marie Mangeur, and she does not have enemies.

She does, however, have an appetite. In the few heartbeats that pass, she spies the glimmer of silver scales, the flash of a trout briefly driven toward the surface before it dives back down into the depths of the lake.

She thinks it might pair well with the unearthed root of pokeweed – her mouth waters at the very thought, and she swallows. Though she had hoped to pair the clear, clean trout with the tart, burning pokeweed berries, the early frosts have begun to kill off the plants and only their roots now remain – she had seen a few of the plants in her travel northward, but they had all suffered from frostburn, and she had left them regretfully.

But what to pair with the fish and root? Without the bright bursts of the berries, there is a worry that the trout may flop beside its more rustic partner. Fresh trout is clean and pure and perfect – but perhaps dill? Is dill even in season now?

Marie blinks as the other wolf finally appears, a look of surprise dilating her pupils. Then she blinks and smiles again, dipping her head in greeting.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Manakiri,” she answers softly. The other wolf is a lovely color, the chalky hue of charcoal atop the white-silver of a fish’s belly. The smile on Marie’s face crumples somewhat, inwardly amused at her own thoughts. Why must she always return to food?

Especially when she hungers to sink her fangs into that tender flesh.

Careful, Marie.

“Yes,” she answers brightly, cheerfully, her eyes scrunched in gentle pleasure. “Fresh trout is at its best when fished from cold waters; the snowfall will ensure its quality.”

And then, sheepishly, as if she admitting to a secret, her eyes downcast and bashful: “Manakiri, you wouldn’t happen to have any dill, would you?”

She cannot hope for fresh herbs, not so late in the season – but there is always a chance that a wolf might have some dried; she has heard tales of shamans and witch-doctors and quacks and medics, who deal in herbal medications. Surely dill must be used for something?

And if not…

Almost absentmindedly, she adds, “I am Marie Mangeur. I came northward seeking a feast."

persecutor	stock by ria p.
xx

à en perdre la raison.

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[persecutor]

Manakiri didn't quite understand why the wolf asked if she had any dill, but she surely didn't, so Manakiri shook her head. "Well, Marie, I don't have any Dill." She said as she actually noticed how Marie's smile crippled slightly. Now Manakiri was sent on edge, but when was she not? "Personally, I don't care for the taste of trout, food is food, right?" She asked, and crouched near the water, watching the trout with patient eyes.

She sighed and waited for a fish to show up, but for the entire time she was down, she had not seen any scale from the fish. She slightly moved her head enough to get Marie into her vision.

[Lirriel]

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je m’enivre de ce poison

That’s disappointing, Marie thinks.

There is something to be said for a trout rubbed in dill. The fish itself tastes almost sweet and has none of the oily tones that can sometimes be found in its saltwater counterparts. The dill provides a sharp contrast, tasting of a snappy, almost tart flavor that is unlike any other plant Marie has ever tried.

The pokeweed is beginning to look like an unwanted element – perhaps, she thinks, she can replace it with something tart. Is yew tart? Certainly, the plant can survive the earliest of frosts, and they are oftentimes overflowing with their bounty; other animals know to beware the blood-red berries.

She will consider it after a trout has been acquired. That is a decision she can stand behind: a plan laid out for the future. As it is, she is quick to click her jaws in mild consternation as the other wolf professes her distaste for the fish.

It’s understandable – most wolves think nothing of food beyond its consumption. She had found few who delight in the subtle flavors; more often, their kind is the type intoxicate themselves on the stench and drink of blood. It is a savagery that runs rampant amongst her kin.

She offers the other a smile, one that borders on pitying, and says, “Food is food only if you allow it to be. I think some of my greatest experiences have come in the tasting of different flavor profiles.”

Still, she quickly finds that despite Manakiri’s supposed disinterest, the other wolf is quick to approach the lake, eyes seeking.

Marie cannot quite contain the tinkling laugh that escapes at the other’s actions. She asks, “If you are uninterested in it, then why are you searching for one right now?”

The question is enough to suddenly strike understanding – she gasps aloud at the realization, a soft exhale that sounds as if the wind is brushing through the grasses that frame the lake. The plan formulates quickly, and she speaks her mind rapidly, as if afraid it might congeal.

“I know! Why don’t we have a small meal together? We shall catch a pair of trout, and I will show you what a properly-prepared fish can taste like.”

persecutor	stock by ria p.
xx

à en perdre la raison.

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[persecutor]

Manakiri flinched but stood to her full height to look at Marie. She opened her mouth to say something, but merely scoffed and looked away, taking into consideration of what the female said. She shook her fur and looked back to Marie. A properly-prepared fish? 'This sounds interesting.' She thought as she shifted her body to face Marie.

"Sure. What's the worst that could happen?" Manakiri beamed and smiled, but her mind was thinking of so many things that could go wrong.

[Lirriel]

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je m’enivre de ce poison

Marie continues to smile pleasantly at the other wolf. Perhaps her words were unwanted? She has difficulty, sometimes, of knowing when best to speak and when to let the subject rest.

She wonders if she should not have said what she said – but the past is the past, and even when Manakiri stands to her full height, Marie only stares back at her warmly. It would be strange to call her expression innocent – rather, it is a disinterest in conflict, that can let her look so gentle and genuine even in the face of her potential mistake.

When at last Manakiri looks away, Marie giggles again. It jostles against the other wolf’s scoff, and the two sounds intermix.

At least, Marie thinks, she is quick to forgive.

It’s a good trait; a necessary one, when interacting with someone like Marie. They could perhaps be friends for a time; Manakiri has already shown herself to possess two of the requisite traits.

When Manakiri offers her consent, jubilantly, Marie dips her head in a pleased bow. Her tail curls up behind her, a banner of delight – but just as quickly it drops, and she says, in a voice laced with excitement, “Wonderful! We shall have the most marvelous of meals!”

With the task chosen, now it is time to divvy up their roles. She tilts her head toward the lake, gesturing even as she keeps her eyes on Manakiri. “Do you know how to fish? We would need two, to each have a proper meal—”

—Which is a lie. A wolf requires more than a single trout; it qualifies as a snack and nothing more. But Marie is a gourmet, and she has learned something on spreading out the length of her hunger. With the addition of berries and roots and leaves, she has found it easier to keep that gnawing appetite away.

Her strangely-spaced meals is yet another part that sets her apart from other wolves. But she does not think to dwell on it, does not know it is so strange – because it has become so natural for her.

“If you can’t fish,” she continues, and her nose wiggles, as if she might laugh, “then you could perhaps gather the other items we shall need?”

She is happy with either role. She knows something of ice fishing, as a northerner. And she knows something of berry picking, because they were the only way she survived that one horrible winter. She views both jobs with equal fondness, and the softness of her eyes speaks to that feeling.

persecutor	stock by ria p.
xx

à en perdre la raison.

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[persecutor]

Manakiri thought for a second about what the female asked of her, and she looked back out over the water. But then again, what Marie had previously said sent a small hint of annoyance through Manakiri, although she didn't show it.

A single fish would for sure not feed a well-fed wolf, even with whatever Marie planned for preparing them. Manakiri sighed inwardly and looked at Marie, half smirking. "I can get the fish. At least, if you don't mind." She said teasingly, seeing the softness in the female's eyes.

Fishing. Well already it was getting cold and Manakiri practically fished whenever it was available. Already she felt like the day was going to get better.

[Lirriel]

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je m’enivre de ce poison

Marie laughs, a soft exhalation of air that slips from her maw with delicate ease. She dips her head to Manakiri, acknowledging her decision – she has no qualms with her role; besides, she is not well-versed in the woods surrounding the lake. Perhaps, on her journey, she might find further foodstuffs to add to their meal; were Manakiri sent to forage, she would only seek what she has been told.

She grins back at the other wolf, her tail frisking happily once more in a short wag. “That is perfectly agreeable,” she says.

She looks to the sky, considering the time of day. Her silver eyes shimmer like newly-laid frost as the light reflects off them, before she drops her gaze back to Manakiri. “We shall rendezvous here, once the sun has risen to its highest point.”

It offers them both some time – and it offers Manakiri a time in which to expect Marie’s return. In truth, it is doubtful Manakiri will leave the spot, but it offers her some sense of frame.

And, more importantly, it binds Marie, by its very utterance; she will not allow herself to drift as if a living ghost, with the sun incessantly shining down on her, reminding her of a promise made.

Never mind that she finds oaths as binding as spider web, silken and pretty and so completely useless at holding her.

But she won’t acknowledge that part of her, right now. Now is a time for a feast.

“I shall be off, then. Catch us a fat pair, that they might have room to be stuffed.” She smiles as she says it, awaiting Manakiri’s further consent before she truly turns on her heel and disappears once more into the forest.

persecutor	stock by ria p.
back from holiday!

à en perdre la raison.

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[persecutor]

Manakiri let her smile grow and turned slightly to face the lake. She nodded, then looked back to Marie. Until the sun is highest in the sky wasn't that far, but Manakiri was positive she could get the fish in that time frame.

And a pair of fish? Manakiri shrugged at the thought, but smirked and nodded. "I might catch more if the time allows." She called out as she went to the shore of the lake to start breaking the ice. Already she saw fish underneath the ice.

[Lirriel]

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je m’enivre de ce poison

Manakiri replies as Marie suspected she would: with a teasing lilt to her voice, a kind light to her eye. Already begun to return once more to the copse she emerged from, Marie waves her tail in a friendly farewell, trusting the other to her task.

For her part, she journeys deeper into the woods, where the soil turns loamy, fertilized by an endless banquet of dropped limbs, leaves, lives. The forest itself hums with quiet activity, birds calling to one another as Marie pads slowly through the wide-spaced trees.

She steps with a carefree confidence, and so the birds above only take note of her presence – no alarm cry sounds, and the elk that wander the forest amble away from her as she passes by. One snorts, a cow paired with a calf, and Marie patiently changes her course, choosing a path that takes her farther afield of them as she circles around.

It does not take her long to find something of what she wants – huckleberries load down a young tree, its slender branches bending between the weight of its bountiful harvest. So late in the season, the berries are ripe to the point of spoiling.

Marie rises on her hind legs, balancing with a practiced ease, as she slowly draws her teeth over the branch, applying the slightest bit of pressure to tug them free. The berries spill into her mouth, and she holds them gently – their skins are easily split, and they are as sweet as they can be. She must protect the juice, as best she can.

She searches her surroundings, until she finds a large leaf that she can deposit her load in, gently folding the leaf over itself, trapping the berries between the two sides. She takes the makeshift container in her mouth, knowing that a few berries will likely bruise on the return trip, and continues her search.

She finds the sassafras after some time has passed – it is the scent of it that draws her, a sharp snap that warns of the heavy, earthen taste that the sap will dribble out. She sets down her berries with a gentleness that is almost maternal, before grasping one of the young saplings firmly by the base of one branch. She tears and gnaws at it, the lifeblood of the tree slithering onto her tongue until at last she is able to yank it off with a particularly forceful twist of her head.

The branch is not overly large, and in truth the root would be better, but she is aware of the time. The shadows are lengthening, a testament to her rapidly-approaching deadline. So, she wedges the stick between her molars, grasping it firmly before she once more gathers the berries up in the front of her mouth.

Then, satisfied with her items, she begins to trot back toward where she last left Manakiri.

persecutor	stock by ria p.
i blacked out in the middle of writing this so hopefully it isn't overly shit lmao

à en perdre la raison.

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