[ P ] Help

In the days since Cordie’s arrival, Brann had noticed his mother falling a bit ill. He had noticed it a few days prior, when she’d complained of a headache. That headache had since turned into a roaring fever, shivering, and a cough. Which, brought Brann to where he was now. He had set out, leaving his twin in charge of the family — and their mother’s care — until he returned. That initial departure was almost a day ago now.

He had been seeking out a healer, and had been told of a strange man that lived in the forest, only a few hours’ walk from the place his family had made their dens within the gnarled roots of the pines. Frustrated that he had made, essentially, a big circle, Brann searched as fast as he could. He didn’t know how much time he might have left, but he felt in his gut that things might be ticking down.

A scent crossed his path, and without thinking much about it, Brann took off in search of the source, following the trail as fast as his paws and nose would allow him to. A figure came into sight through the trees ahead.

“‘Ey! ‘Scuse me!” He called out, paws moving a bit faster. He knew he looked frantic, and tired. He had searched through the night for any word of a healer — the one they had usually went through had turned out to be a traitor to the rightful King, and had went to work for the Imperial Army, rather than supporting the Jacobian army when word of the draft had reached the Highlands. Brann was panting by the time he reached the stranger with a pelt that was mostly of shadow.

“Are you… by chance… a healer?” he said between trying to steady his breathing. He hoped to all the Gods that had or ever would exist that this was the man he was looking for.


@“Mordred”

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Mordred stalked the forest during the deep hours of the night, picking up on all of the usual scents and sounds of the home he had so grown to love. The fresh pine wistfully playing on the wind and the gurgling of a stream not too far away was information enough for Mordred to identify his location within the dense undergrowth.

For as long as he could remember, Mordred had been morbidly curious about the world around him. The everlasting cycle of birth, death, and rebirth was something that would drive much of his fascination and curiosity towards the natural world. This thought passed through Mordred's mind as he wandered and wandered in the pure obsidian darkness.

Suddenly, a scent that is unrecognizable to the keen-nosed wolf. As had been the case on many nights previously, Mordred knew that new scents always meant trouble. Off in the distance a voice shouts into the void, "'Ey! 'Scuse me" Mordred appears puzzled but starts to lope off in the direction of the sound. When he arrived at the source, a wolf barely younger than himself stared back at him with a sense of urgency. "Are you... by chance... a healer?" the wolf asked.

"You've come to the right guy. Now show me the way and I'll do everything I can."

Brann, as he approached the man, looked him over. He didn’t seem like a healer, but this was who had been described. His pelt was unmistakable, assuming that he had not been steered wrong in this instance. ‘To all the Gods, I hope I was not,’ Brann thought to himself.

“You’ve come to the right guy. Now show me the way and I’ll do everything I can,” the man said. Brann felt his shoulders sag in relief.

“Oh thank all the Gods,” he said, finally managing to catch his breath. He gave himself a shake, sending dust and pine needles flying out from his earthen pelt — the product of a night’s mad dash through various areas of the Highlands.

“Please, come with me. My mother has fallen ill, and we… we need help.” The urgency was back in Brann’s voice as he spoke again. He turned, glancing once over his shoulder at the man before he began loping in the direction of home.


@“Mordred”

table code © ashon

Darting through the forest at breakneck speeds, the two wolves seemed to be one single fluid that swallowed up the trees in front of them and spit them out behind them. Every twist and turn anticipated by Mordred. This was his home and not a branch could be moved out of place without his knowledge of the fact.

Brann was following beside, barely a half step behind, when he suddenly stopped and raised his head in the air. "Something wrong?" Mordred inquired. There seemed to be something catching his attention close by, probably something they wouldn't be a fan of judging by the anxious look on the wolf's face. If there was a creature in danger then Mordred has a responsibility to do what he can.

Together they moved through the trees, Brann slowing only as they grew closer to the place that his clan had claimed as their own — that his parents had claimed, that his father’s family had claimed before the older man had taken his spot as chieftain of the MacCroin clan.

Brann’s nostrils flared, the scent of sickness weighing heavy in the air — beneath it, there was a sickly sweetness that Brann knew as the scent of approaching death.

“We must hurry now, it isn’t far from here. Just through those trees — I smell death approaching,” Brann’s words rushed out, huffed out with the force of his belly as he panted slightly. He turned slightly, taking a bit of a shortcut through the trees. They burst through the trees at full tilt, Brann leading the way to the den beneath the gnarled roots of a tree. The den that his mother had always had, the den he’d been born in. The den his Father had died in. He would not lose two parents to it. He crouched, leading the way down into it. He glanced over his shoulder before he vanished entirely into the gloom.

“In here, she’s in here,” he said. A cough punctuated his words, the sound coming from deeper inside the den. Down a short tunnel that he now had to crouch in, it eventually opened up to a small cave, with roots hanging down inside of it, wrapping down around the sides. They made a circle around the den, covering the floor of it. A spot opened up near one side, where moss and furs had been placed to create a nest. His mother lay, her body frail and thin now with sickness.

“Mother, I’m here. I brought someone that can help you,” Brann said, moving close to nudge her cheek gently. With a quiet groan, the woman’s eyes opened, although they did not shine a brilliant orange the way they once had. Now they were dull, almost sunken in from whatever illness had taken her so suddenly.


@“Mordred”

table code © ashon