[ P ] The Edge of Glory

Is ait an mac an saol -
Life is strange.

The scent of blood still lingered in the Fae Forest, but the mysterious woods were now vacant. Those who were hurt or even killed were gone now, dead and buried, or limping away to tend to injuries both physical and mental, not to mention their egos. Both the winners and the losers were nowhere to be found today. The only sign of lupine life was a lone wolfess, her head bowed as she walked through the scarred landscape, and the metallic smell of wolf’s life blood shed during the battle.

The war had finally found its way to the Highlands. Tales of glorious conquest, of fallen Imperial scum that had littered the battlefield after, of the Royalist prisoners paraded away. This time, the Highlanders had been victorious. A true victory for Prince Jacob and Queen Aileen.

But Blythe had missed it all. She had been a moment too late to join the fray. The white wolfess had finally been rid of the youngest pup she had birthed, and the ivory femme had excitedly set her sights on the future, the war she had been so eager to fight. But it was over before she arrived in the Fae Forest, with tales of valor left in its wake, along with torn earth painted with crimson.

A growl rippled through her throat at the realization that young Tybalt – and Tiberius – had now twice stolen away her autonomy, her ability to fight. She loved neither of them, child or sire. But they were not the enemy, and the absence of love wasn’t necessarily hate. It was… nothing. The ivory woman felt a new wave of bitterness washing over her as Blythe continued her aimless journey from the forest to the northern woods of Perth.

No, it was not Tybalt nor his father that she despised most. It was, and would forever be, the Royalists: their false king, and their foolish willingness to die for a wicked cause. The very thought caused the fur along her scruff to rise on end, a single amber eye narrowing in disdain for the Mainlanders. Blythe spoke aloud to herself, the only company she could bear to keep. The ancient language rolled off her tongue as poetry, and her once gentle voice was haggard and rough: ”Níl luibh ná leigheas in aghaidh an bháis.” - There is no remedy or cure against death.


For a minute there
I lost myself, I lost myself

@Sylvain

The Tainted Victory

Though she'd spent her entire life in Rionnach, having only left in due part of inquisition and scouting missions, Sylvain still found it odd to speak the language of her ancestry. Kalen had urged her to learn, taught the young daughter their traditions and sagas - smiled at her fluency from such a youthful age. In his final days amongst the living, her father had dropped the usage of Common speak and fluently spoke his mother tongue. A bitter relief had fallen over their family as Sylvain comforted his sickly woes, translating what she could to her siblings.

Maybe that was why it'd pained the soldier to hear such familiar lilts, years later. French had been utilized the most amongst her Friseal cousins and blood-kin, suave tones that'd reminded her of poisoned champagne. Romanian felt dearer to her heart, another gift of Kalen that'd he'd left with her since birth. She could still see him, cooing his daughter softly as she'd weeped at night. "Spune-le, micuțule leu al meu." The plush fur of his chest would smell of smoked salmon and rich hickory, "Roar, dragostea mea. Te va face puternic...

For these reasons, one could not blame Sylvain for the alertness that'd taken over her as she'd heard a withering voice in the distance. Perth's dense forestry warped noise along the crowded area of trees, knowledgeable toes traversing over fallen stumps and twisted, eldritch thorn beds. In the haze, quicker than a flash, was athe back of an ivoryborn maiden - black, torn brandishing distorted her face as Sylvain narrowed inquisitively.

Níl luibh ná leigheas in aghaidh an bháis...

A single sun sat along the cheek of this pale phantom, cracking out the Highland words with a sadness. Sylvain was struggled to recognize her, a dutiful glower taking hold anyway. The woman was far too close to the cabin's acres, intentional or not. Thus, the Eurasian would answer her solemn voice with the steely cut of her own. "Tha sinn uile air ar sàrachadh leis," Sylvain said, "Bho sheann daoine gu òigridh. Is fheàrr na dèan e nas duilghe dhut fhèin..."

Then, she'd taken a moment to squint at the ghastly Highlander. "Wait..."

Notes
Spune-le, micuțule leu al meu - Tell them, little lion of mine.
Da, dragostea mea, spune-le. Te va face puternic... - Yes, my love, tell them. It will make you strong...
Tha sinn uile air ar sàrachadh leis. - We are all plagued with it,
Bho sheann daoine gu òigridh. Is fheàrr na dèan e nas duilghe dhut fhèin... - From the elderly to the youth. Best not make it more difficult for yourself...


"God doesn't hear deadmen."
But, I do...

Is ait an mac an saol -
Life is strange.

She wanted no company – no friends remained to count, her sons were now scattered to the wind, out of grasp now. But the scent of the Mainlands caught her attention, eliciting a snarl that came as naturally as breathing to the pale woman. A giant of a wolfess appeared: This was not a Highlander, despite her appearance there. She reeked of the south, the Mainlands that Blythe despised with all of her soul.

The scarred woman addressed her boldly, earning a low growl from Blythe as she glared at the Royalist who didn’t belong in her homeland, where Jacob was still their monarch – nor did this stranger deserve to speak the ancient tongue of her ancestors. But that didn’t deter the soldier from addressing Blythe: ”Is fheàrr na dèan e nas duilghe dhut fhèin…” A threat spoken by a stranger – a stranger whose side had just been defeated in a neighboring land. Defiance painted her ivory features, a single amber eye glaring. A strange laugh bubbled in her throat, escaping in a hoarse voice as she regarded the soldier with animosity. ”Chan eil fios agad air na duilgheadasan agam.” – you know nothing of my difficulties.

”Wait…” The stranger beckoned Blythe as fury burned within her core. Blythe made no movement. She didn’t intend to walk away. ”Why are you here, sgudal?” – she addressed the wolfess as trash in her native tongue, for this Royalist guard was no better than the rest, and each and every one of them was despicable. A sworn enemy. ”Your side lost. Go back to where you came from.
Or else....” A threat of her own.

All of her life, Adamh’s fools had been her foes, even before this latest incarnation of war had erupted like a volcano. If there had been no false king, Kiel would never have been killed in the last war, now years past but not forgotten in Blythe’s mind or heart. Without Adamh and his cruel and unjust grasp of power over the north, her homeland, how different her life could have been…

The battles were over, but the war was not. She had missed the fighting, but now, she had the opportunity to destroy one of Adamh’s soldiers on her own. Without warning, in a flash of white fur, Blythe had thrown herself with all of her power at the other she-wolf. Their size difference was clear, especially now that Blythe had filled the space between them with jaws parted and fangs bared as she sought to sink her teeth into the Imperial scum’s throat.

They did not call this woman, shattered but still standing, Blythe the Mad for no reason. With nothing more to lose, she would seek to inflict any damage she could upon the Royalist with reckless abandon and primal anger.


For a minute there
I lost myself, I lost myself

@Sylvain