[ AW ] ψ Forget-me-not

the moon will swallow me whole

A crisp spring breeze drifted through the otherwise quiet grove, its depths comforting rather than unnerving in its calm. Birds chirped, insects made their own songs, and so Meissa was unafraid.

Her paws carried her along a stone path, claws clicking against hardened earth.

She had no true goal in this pursuit, moving along well-traveled paths from clan to clan. Perhaps in another life she would have been a merchant, but what Éirelander in their right mind would put that much trust in a Faetouched?

Her tails swayed behind her, a pair of ill-fitted twins that moved in sync. They smacked away a pesky moth that had decided that she was interesting, sending it fluttering away for a time. If it came close enough, she would bite it... but then again, the taste of moth was not something she wanted to experience if she could help it.

As she moved, her mind drew back to the time she had survived.

The Fae Fog.

She had been curled up alongside a strapping ember òganach with a coat of smooth gold and cream. He'd been drawn in by her delightful coat of white, but in the end, the fog had frightened him. He had run, fleeing to—the family he'd seen him joining.

She'd watched him take up his wife and children and rush them away into their home, a home he'd promised her with a wife he'd sworn he didn't have.

So, Meissa had waited out the fog alone.

When it had gone, it was the strangest thing. She felt loss, not at the man who had trod on her emotions and dreams, but for the fog that had comforted her in the time after. The time after had been in fits and starts, experiences with the Fae. She had avoided other wolves, for the most part, fearing they would believe that she were just an illusion or an omen from They that had the land in their teeth. It was certainly a possibility, one she considered during the darkest of nights.

Time had passed... she did not know how long. She did not feel older, and yet the seasons had passed.

She had heard whispers of the mainland beyond, the way they had bubbled and fought among themselves.

Cries of witchcraft, of monsters.
Wars and kings dying and rising.

So long as they remained far away, she did not care.

She sighed, eyes focusing on the path ahead once more. It would do no one any good if she walked smack into a tree while her mind wandered.

The past was gone.

There was only one option: to move forward.

Thought — Scot Gaelic — English (limited)

moves through the Ancient Grove on silent paws, her presence melding seamlessly into the hush that blankets the land. Here, the world breathes in slow rhythms, the scent of damp earth and moss clinging to the air, grounding her in the quiet. The canopy stretches above, filtering sunlight into shifting gold, dappling her silver fur as she treads carefully through the undergrowth.

The trees are old - watchful. Their gnarled roots twist deep into the earth, their whispers carried on the breeze that moves like a careful hand through the leaves. The creek carves a steady path through the grove, its waters dark and smooth, reflecting the fractured light that filters through the towering branches. Near its edges, mushrooms cluster in secret conversations, their presence humming at the outskirts of her awareness.

Thalassa halts beneath an ancient oak, lowering onto her haunches, letting the Grove settle around her. The silence does not unsettle - it cradles, presses gently against her senses, offering something close to solidarity. She has always found comfort here, in the solitude of towering trunks and whispering winds, where no expectation reaches her, no command binds her.

Then - something shifts.

The breeze falters, hesitates. The leaves overhead, once swaying in steady rhythm, hold still. Something else is here. The weight of another presence presses into the Grove, threading through the quiet she thought was hers alone.

Thalassa does not bristle, does not bare her teeth. She simply listens - feels it, the presence of another stirring the stillness. It is not a threat, not an intruder. Just something new.

Notes:: Howdy! Hope you don't mind Thalassa bothering Mei!

Table @Calatiah, Art @Usieag

the moon will swallow me whole

The gentle breeze calmed, leaving a void to be filled.

A scent drifted across Meissa's nose, carrying hints unfamiliar and surprising. Some parts of the scent were familiar: pine and mint. Another... seaweed? She slowed, lifting her nose to breathe in the scent and try to pinpoint it.

Her eyes drew towards her left and her paws followed, leaving the path with hesitation and poking her head into a clearing, where...

She didn't understand the mass of fur at first, did not recognize limb from form from tail, but after a moment's hesitation it fell into place, leaving Meissa dumbstruck for a second.

A stranger, pale and beautiful.

Ah, her mouth opened in surprise and she blinked, embarrassed for a heartbeat. She shook it off just as fast, offering a dip of her head to the stranger. Tha mi duilich, a bhean! Apologies, miss!

She offered a polite smile, her snout dipping slightly to betray some sheepishness. Cha robh mi ag iarraidh cur dragh ort. I didn't mean to disturb you.

She stayed partially hidden by the tree she stood beside, her tails flat behind her so as to not be visible. Her rope was less so disguised, but that was something she didn't bother to hide most days. It was a memory, a sign of the day she had come into her family's lives.

Meissa was uncertain of what to say, but she considered the woman. 'S urrainn dhomh fàgail thu a bhith... ach a bheil thu ceart gu leòr? I can leave you be... but are you alright? If she were injured or otherwise in distress, the earthen woman did not feel right leaving the coastal stranger without at least offering.

Thought — Scot Gaelic — English (limited)

The hush of the Grove cradled Thalassa in its quiet rhythm, the absence of the breeze leaving a stillness that felt sacred. Then - an unfamiliar scent curled through the air, threading itself into the familiar tapestry of pine and earth. Salt. Something wild. Something new.

She did not move at first, only let the scent settle against her senses, let the moment stretch. Then, as the red woman spoke, her words soft but steady, Thalassa shifted her gaze. The stranger lingered in the partial shadow of a tree, the dip of her head- polite, cautious - speaking of neither threat nor intrusion.

The Grove did not resist her. Neither did Thalassa.

She let the silence between them breathe, studying Meissa with the patience of a creature who had always watched, always listened before acting. The words came slow, unhurried, her voice as quiet as the world around them.

You have not disturbed me.

The truth of it sat steady within her. The Grove was vast, ancient - it did not belong to one creature alone. Still, the presence of another did not often reach her like this. It did not often linger.

I am well, she continued, aquamarine eyes tracing the shape of the stranger's form, the hints of something woven into her - tails concealed, the rope left unhidden, she'd assume it was a memory & one worn without shame. You do not have to leave.

Table @Calatiah, Art @Usieag

the moon will swallow me whole

The stranger inspected her from afar, quiet grace and curiosity for a long moment during which Meissa wondered for half a moment if the woman was mute or deaf. Finally, a voice reached her ears and they pricked, listening intently.

Oh, good.

The russet woman's head dipped gratefully. Chan fhaic mi leabhraichean air an t-slighe seo gu tric, I don't see wolves along this path very often. she lingered near the trees that led to the road, careful to keep her tails down and resting at her rear, almost as if they were simply one tail with colours split in two instead of the pair.

It was always a gamble, whether strangers would react negatively or positively to that which she had no control.

She would like to be proud of it, fly those flags high, but superstitions ran deep in her homeland and she knew better than to cause undue attention.

Still, there was something different about this woman.

A quiet intensity, a peaceful aura that reminded her vaguely of the older wolves who sat in peace—but this woman was certainly no elder. A bheil thu bho na h-àiteachan seo? Are you from near here? If she were a local, perhaps she would know of a nearby village that Meissa was unaware of.

Perhaps she could get some work or run with others short-term.

Thought — Scot Gaelic — English (limited)

Thalassa considered the question, her seafoam gaze steady, unhurried.

I am of the Grove. The words came as they always did - simple, without embellishment. She had known no other home, had never wandered beyond the quiet embrace of this land. Others came and went, passing through like whispers on the wind, but she remained, as she always had.

Her gaze flickered over Meissa’s careful posture, the way she tucked her tails behind her - a gesture of practiced restraint. It was something Thalassa understood, though perhaps not in the same way. The weight of expectation, of what is seen and unseen, carried differently from wolf to wolf.

You are not of these paths. A statement, not a judgment. There was no scent of the Grove upon her, no imprint of its hush woven into her steps.

Then, a pause. A quiet shift.

Why are you hiding? Her voice was measured, a gentle inquiry rather than accusation. She stepped forward, deliberate but slow, the soft earth beneath her paws undisturbed.

If it is shelter you seek, such a place does not turn away its visitors.

Table @Calatiah, Art @Usieag

the moon will swallow me whole

Of the Grove, a resident of this place. That didn't tell Meissa much more but she supposed that perhaps the woman was not from a large clan and thus preferred to stay on her own.

Her thoughts went back to her own home, the wolves there.

Were they doing well?

They were further south, where the trees thinned and there was more valley and hill, and the sea breeze came in to calm her nerves.

Here... it was a strange mixture of comfortably snug and suffocating.

Dh'fhàs mi suas ann an clan a deas, I grew up in a southern clan, she explained, not feeling the need to go into detail about which clan or where in particular she lived. The Grove was the furthest south named stretch, though she would bargain that where she had been raised was less Grove and more... purely Éireland. Tha mi a' siubhal nam aonar a-nis. I travel alone now.

Then—why are you hiding?

The words rang through her and she held her breath for a moment, considering the woman. She seemed... peaceful enough. Then again, peace could turn to war in a moment, if the wrong word was said.

Tha cuid de dhaoine eagal orm Some are frightened by me, she said at length, though she did not move, simply watching as teh woman approached. Bha mi air mo bhualadh leis an Fae I am Fae-touched.

Thought — Scot Gaelic — English (limited)

Thalassa watched, the weight of the woman's words settling into the silence between them.

Fae-touched.

She did not flinch, did not recoil. The Grove did not fear such things - and neither did she. If the world outside carried superstition, if others saw danger where there was only difference, then that was their burden to bear. The trees did not whisper warnings. The earth did not tremble beneath this woman's paws. She was here, she was real, and she had walked into the Grove as any other traveller might have.

Thalassa tilted her head slightly, considering the wolf before her. Fear is a choice, she murmured, voice calm, steady. And I do not choose it.

She stepped forward, unhurried, a flicker of light filtering through the canopy shifting as the breeze upon them stirred once more.

You carry it, this expectation of fear, this weight of caution. Her silver gaze traced Meissa’s careful stance, the quiet restraint in the way she held herself. But you are not a ghost, nor a shadow.

She'd pause, as if deliberate.

Now then, let me see you as you are.

Table @Calatiah, Art @Usieag