Skin of a Saint

There was only so much one could get away with whenever it came to encroaching upon territories claimed, those which housed as many faces as the depths of a clan once had. It was frightening. No matter the seeming abundance of prey such places held - beasts wandering both in and out of shackling containment - with it came undying tensions. Those which clawed deep within the recesses of the mind to stir forth thoughts of everything that could, and would, go wrong should he ever be caught laying fang or claw upon even the smallest of feathered or furred beast. It was not a risk he was consistently willing to take when circumstance were not dire.

He could still hunt, could still harvest distasteful vegetation to fill a void. Even a marred hound could still scavenge and root around for what lay dead and dying. So many lost their footing in these marshes. Ever more never found the strength to escape and instead discovered their final resting place… it were these unfortunate souls the crow searched for now. Even if life had not fully fled their eyes such beasts would be greatly weakened, on their way out of this realm to meet Nelithral in the afterlife. It would be a pity to let perfectly good meat go to waste.

So easily one could be yanked from that eternal embrace, given a chance at freedom, only for a flame to be snuffed out far more swiftly. At least that way they would not slowly drown when energy ran out and he would not go without for another night. Already skin hugged too tightly against bone, not even the lengthy tresses of a coat - where it still adorned him - enough to hide it all away. Though no matter what lay devoured, how often one could take larger meals, it wasn’t enough to sustain anything more long term. There wasn’t room for complaint if it teetered more toward decomposition than true flesh.

Ears turned back at the thought. Subconsciously swallowing back the fleeting taste that echoed upon his tongue in faint remembrance. It was hardly preferred but one had to take what they could get and these very swamps held the key to proverbial feasts. Nature’s graveyard just needed to be searched. A body found before he risked joining them first. However, these were lands known, those traversed time and time again. Woven trails near committed to memory, always testing shifted terrain underfoot before weight settled completely.

Action repeated until something more tangible snared his focus, this blind venture for felled prey coming to an abrupt end upon the simple snap of fallen twigs. It offered signal of something fresh and with it a direction. Diminutive frame froze entirely as attentions rapidly swiveled upon the sound, while he heard no signs of a struggle to follow it there still lingered enough to investigate what lay beyond his range of sight. If it were something he could not take or even another hunter, he could still retreat or trick them into one of the bog’s many pits. For now though, near silent steps crept over the sodden grounds until one could peer over a gully’s edge and witness whatever - or whoever - roamed this accursed marsh.

Although Roach didn’t pay much attention to local gossip, there was a peculiar rumor going around that had caught his ear—one about ships suddenly rising from the seas. Those brave enough to board them were taken to strange new lands, or so they claimed upon their return, having stories aplenty to tell to whoever would listen. Had his mentor still been alive, Roach was almost certain that he wouldn’t have believed a single word out of these wolves’ mouths—an old wives tale, he would’ve called it, for scaring children into behaving. He himself found it terrifying, but intriguing—enough that he wondered if it might even be true. Could these ships really be taking wolves away? If so, where to, and why? Were he to climb aboard one, would his safety be guaranteed or left up to the whims of fate…?

There was a certain amount of risk involved, when it came to following rumors, and Roach wasn’t one for taking risks. But the once-calming silence of the cemetery had become almost oppressive, as of late, and he’d found himself filled with a vague sense of dread as the seasons had changed. Perhaps it’d do him some good to get away from it all for a while, whether he found the answers he wanted or not.

It was a long walk to the shores, and an even longer wait for the rumored ship to appear. Just when he was beginning to feel foolish for sitting and staring into the waves, however, the surface rippled and he leapt back in shock, just barely missing the salty spray that came with what sprung from the depths. It looked ancient, with barnacles clinging to its rotten hull and seaweed hanging from its hole-ridden sails. He was reluctant to approach it, much less set foot on it, but a part of him felt drawn to it, and so he fought with himself until his paws seemed to make the decision for him, carrying his meager weight forward. Within moments, he was out at sea.

He couldn’t say for certain how much time passed until he was on solid land, again. But the very air was strange and unfamiliar, and before long, Roach found himself lost in a marsh of sorts. The stillness reminded him of the cemetery, and in a way that was distinctly discomforting; then came the sudden presence of another, faint yet unmistakable in how it tugged at his senses and made him more alert. Who knew what sorts of creatures made their home in this foreign realm, and how they might to react to a potentially unwelcome stranger such as him? He couldn’t afford to let his guard down any more than he already had, so he resolved to let it approach him first, if it wished. If it didn’t, he would make a hasty retreat—or at least try to, despite not knowing what direction he’d even come in, to begin with.

art by undertakeru