[ WP-003 ] Fierce Warrior

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kuropeco
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[ WP-003 ] Fierce Warrior

Post by kuropeco »

[imgright]http://matope.pixel-blueberry.com/image ... uncert.png[/imgright]

This time, he was not alone.

Two wolves stood beside Fierce Warrior as the desert began to slowly form itself around him; a long stretch of hard, flat land in varying shades of orange and brown. They had been led this way by a sand dog, pinkish red in color, her voice carrying out over the small, gathered crowd of kin. He saw again the same unfamiliar faces, but there were creatures too; small, sharp-eyed sand dogs and wary wolves and sly looking demon hounds that faded in and out of sight the same way that dreams did. At his own side, Sharp Eyes was to his left, his mate Watch Over You on his right, both of them close enough that Fierce could feel their small, furred bodies brushing against his legs. They were, as ever, welcome presences; relief coursed through him, unable to be tamped down, because without them he was too vulnerable, too unsure of himself.

(Who was he without them? Without his children? Who was he at all? He didn't know.)

This time, instead of pretending he was one of them, as he had previously, Fierce stood to the side of the dream and watched, his brow furrowed, dust settling on his coat and in his hair. He could taste the sand in his mouth, hot and gritty, and he wanted to leave, to find water, to take solace in the place that he felt most comfortable. Even known, in this dream inside of his head, he could feel the yearn for the ocean, the desire to submerge himself until he could no longer think about anything else.

The desert had no water, no life. The heat was oppressive around him, waves of it making his vision ripple unsteadily so that he felt in danger of collapsing, all the edges furred out so that he wasn't actually entirely sure if he was looking at a mirage or not. Perhaps this whole expedition was just that - a mirage, an un-reality that was taking place at a time that Fierce had not been there, shaping something out of nothing. He wondered if this was just his mind playing tricks on him again, like the forest at night when he wandered, the shadows stretching longer than they should, everything louder, more dangerous, more daunting.

He let himself be soothed by the presence of his wolves - dream creatures though they were - and stood watching, even as the kin came together and discovered the answer to the silent question of the obelisk. Light burst free, as it had the other two times, and Fierce stared up at it, half blinded by its brightness, until it was too much and he had to look away. He drew no closer; his mind still remembered the dreams of his children dying, rotting away, and he did not want to touch the obelisk (except that he did, if he was listening to himself, if he was being truthful about the press in his chest he didn't want to think about).

The crowd thinned. The kin dissipated. He was alone, as he always was these days.

Sleep, Fierce thought, and his head began to ache. No. No, wake up.

This time he did remember the trek back, though he could not remember ever having done that in the waking world. But in the dream, he stumbled and staggered and pushed his way into the swamp, collapsing onto the sandy forest ground just at the edge of the Crescent tribe, his entire body writhing in a dull pain that throbbed in time with his heart. He remembered closing his eyes in the dream, wanting to sleep.

He opened his eyes in the waking world and it still hurt.


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