blood orange wine

A small part of him regretted taking this journey, a mind swimming from the lingering rush of nausea which threatened to grip him aboard that quaking vessel. It’s creaking boards seemingly ever shifting upon the slightest roll of the tide. Even hiding away in the captain’s quarters, finding fixation upon the comforting embrace of the stars was not enough to call forth a true sense of peace when the untamed seas had grown too volatile. Those rushing waves jostling the very structures one had hoped to cling to, to find a fruitless notion of sturdiness. Claws partially embedding themselves in the woodwork whenever digits coiled.

No solace was offered there and ever less upon learning the calling of ghost ship… indeed, it could make a specter of him yet. Cut short what life he had in an instant. Leave all the work he’d yet to do unfinished and questions forever unanswered. Twas a fat the kitsune hoped to avoid for a long while still and - by some grace - in this particular venture he had. No outward force had claimed his soul, however, the grounds beneath his feet felt as fragile as that ghastly craft the moment he stepped ashore. Limbs trembling, unsteady; creaking wood still a resounding reverberation deep within his cerebrum. And with the voices rising behind him there would be no chance of reprieve.

He was tired, dizzy. He needed to get away. Find some place upon these foreign shores to simply be for a time. Have a moment to collect himself away from the incubus’ presence and any else that sought even a fragment of the scholar’s time. Surely they would understand, besides were it not wise to leave those more familiar with the workings of a craft in attendance? Of course it was. So it is without a second thought that Raoul moves inland, abandoning the company once traveled with to a land so unknown.

Paths winding and unfamiliar to him and yet the very idea of this being something new, a location never beheld before is what made it all the more enrapturing. Nothing more than speckled illumination dancing over vegetation and frost alike as it glimmered through broken canopies. And it is here amidst the trees Raoul settles, haunches resting against the earth with a steadying sigh as briefly gilded gaze fell closed. Hoping to ground himself before returning to the fleeting glint of what was known, all he deserted upon the shores.

Another restless night had passed in these strange new lands. It was becoming familiar, all the winding paths and sheltering pines. Still dreadfully cold and no less comfortable, mind you, but Cicero was all too aware that winter was far from over. Fresh and soft snow coated the forest ground in a soft blanket. He'd spent all evenings in the shrouded shrine he'd stumbled across a few days ago, both for shelter from the cold and out of fascination. It was all mostly rubble and overgrown weeds, but he was nothing if not determined, and he'd managed to scavenge a few old tomes. The parchment was stiff and chipped and some pages often unsalvageable. But no less wondrous to the former scholar, who'd long since missed the comfort of a good scroll.

The shrine was eerie, though, and a little too unnerving for he to loiter around and snoop. So with the rising sun he'd set out, tomes grasped delicately between his jaws. His pace was leisurely, though it was by design. That leg of his ached increasingly more with the dropping temperatures. Still, it wouldn't deter him from a morning stroll—perhaps he'd visit the frozen falls again, bathe in the frigid shallows to sooth the discomfort of his limb. What a peaceful morning it would've been...

If it wasn't for the unfamiliar scent that caught his attention. Another wolf, surely, a stranger. Cicero bristled for a moment, and was half-tempted to turn around and slink back toward the overgrown shrine. But to his surprise, that scent was met with an odd sense of...could he call it anticipation? It'd been a week or so since he'd last stumbled across the path of another, and while he preferred his solitude, the loneliness was all too pronounced now. Perhaps the stranger could offer goods, like food or scrolls, or perhaps they'd just be decent company.

It's that very notion that veers the direction of his course. With gentle, quiet steps, Cicero made his way closer, until the stranger was in eyesight. And oh, are they a strange sight.. Ears that reminded him of a lynx, exotic fur that was the color of a sweet wine. And is that three tails, or was his mind playing tricks on him?

What a peculiar sight. Cicero ambled closer, and a flicker of amusement gleamed in his eyes. The stranger looked...green. As if he was second away from hurling. His gaze wonders to the coastline, and he's able to connect the dots. "Sea sick, are you?" He commented with a chuckle, his words a heavily Czech accented purr. "You do not seem the sea-fairing type."

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