Pray For The Wicked
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Marco He
Posts: 4
Pronouns: He

All Accounts Posts: 368

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Heavy footsteps fell upon the soft earth, the sand shifting slightly under the weight of the Fringe.  His head hung low, close to the grounds paws dragged through the sand.  He did not know how long he'd travelled through the desert, all he knew was that he'd make it out alive.  He refused to die, his rage and spite fueled him to move on, to place one tired foot after another in front of each other and walk, to move, to live.  

They had taken everything from him, they had stolen his very heart and soul right from under him as he lived and breathed, they had slaughtered the only thing that brought him hope in this world, and he had the chance to rectify it, and had failed.  While succumbed to the fury, he could not even remember if he had been able to slaughter any of his captors, of those murderers, those thieves.  Dry,  lips pulled back into a snarl as he remembered, only driving him further into survival mode, the need to spite them, to deny them their fantasy of his corpse lying in the desert heat, picked at by scavenging vultures, inflamed him to continue on.  Still, the rage he felt would not supply him with what he needed to live, if he could not find water or food soon, that fantasy would soon become reality.  

Days seemingly turned to weeks before the smell of salt water hit his nose.  He was not sure if it was real, or if the heat and starvation had finally gotten to him.  He lifted his head slowly, peering over a dune he had scaled, the smell of salt water hit his senses like a freight train, the sounds of waves crashing onto the beach blessed his ears, which finally perked for the first time in his hellish existence after Riala. The need to drink over took him, the thirst for water to nourish him drove him forward now, he had made it, he had survived, to spite them.  He allowed his legs to carry him, though they fumbled, and fell and gave way as he stumbled towards the water.  Dark blue and black paws met the water with grateful acceptance, the sand washing away and being carried on smooth currents out into the deep blue sea.  He closed his eyes, and took in deep, labored breaths, the sea salt on the breeze burning the back of his scorched, dry throat, but he made no motion to rectify it.  

He took the moment to relish this accomplishment, through everything, he had survived.  If he could call it that, without his mate, and without his family, this was barely surviving, it most certainly was not living.  Dipping his head, he took a long deep drink of the salt water, for the moment it satisfied him, the cool water extinguishing the burning dryness in his throat.  Only to be replaced by a different burn moments later, as he retched up everything he had just consumed, along with the bile of a stomach that had been empty for weeks.  

Standing on shaky legs, bile dripping from his mouth as he lifted his head, acid green eyes narrowed, and lips peeled back in warning as someone approached.  

He was weak in body from lack of sustenance, but an animal backed into a corner is the most dangerous.
[-] Likes: akante, DustyForgotten
Rove She/her or They/them
Posts: 3
Pronouns: She/her or They/them
Location [IC]: tortuga
Rank [IC]: watchman
Played By: vbscript


A job is a job, and Rove planned to do hers well, arriving early for her shifts, keeping an eye on the borders. Waiting. A hell of a lot of waiting. Patience was key, and before long, she would wander towards that narrow pass and stand herself firmly in the way, and behind the border, sizing up everyone who wished entry.

Today must have been her lucky day.

She is not far from the mouth of the pass before spotting this weak, shaking thing, stumbling around like an imbecile. From the desert he slowly makes his way to the water, drinking only to have the contents of his stomach splatter into the sand. She makes her way towards him, keeping herself firmly behind the borders. Perhaps he would meet her there, or turn back.

From the look of him, the stranger, while large, was a pitiful, starving thing, the scent of bile and seawater burning her nose. Empty stomach. Days without food. Longer, even, with the expanse of desert between Here and There. What was the point of coming out here, if he was so unable to keep himself fed? She was not sharing her food with this creature, and certainly she knew no one else would. She sneers at him, her gaze hard, piercing through him.

He seemed to have noticed her, glaring up at her and baring his teeth. A threat display. Cute. She stared at him blankly, not moving.

"Can you tell me what your business is here, or are you not done heaving up your guts?"

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profile | player: vbscript
[-] Likes: DustyForgotten, Gyr
Kyron he/him
born of sea salt and driftwood
Posts: 6
Pronouns: he/him
Location [IC]: Tortuga
Rank [IC]: Quartermaster
Played By: Akante

All Accounts Posts: 1,340

They couldn't keep him from the borders if they fucking paid him.
Well, in a sense he was paid. But that was beside the point.

Kyron quite enjoyed the simplicities of maintaining the borders, just as he had back when he had been a Watchman all those years ago. This new terrain made it even easier, in a sense, and far more enjoyable. The Quartermaster had taken up post in the southern sector of the Crossbones Pass, leaning up against a palm tree that decided to grow horizontally rather than vertically. It provided an excellent rest while he was able to keep a close eye on anyone venturing too close to the mouth of the Pass. In truth it might have been said that he was simply spying to make sure the Watchmen were doing their job, but truth be told he enjoyed the whole deal.

He hadn't noticed the stranger, to be honest; he'd only noticed that the Watchman that'd caught his eye had noticed. As the brindled brown sentry moved to approach, Kyron leapt up and shook loose the sand that had become embedded in his fur. With a brisk pace he followed suit, ready for an interesting encounter - either overseeing the Watchman in her duties or helping her wrangle an unruly trespasser. What sort of goodies would Fate bring the two Tortugans today? A crooked smirk hinted at the mischief that Kyron hoped would come about, he was always a sucker for the drama.

But as he came closer... as the figure before the two became clearer... more distinguishable... Kyron felt a jellied sensation through his limbs as he all but wobbled to an unsteady halt just a few paces behind Rove. His face had been swept blank, lower jaw agape ever so slightly, his eyes staring an widened and disbelieving. He... he knew this wretched being. This pelted skeleton of a wolf, retching up biled seawater and dying on the blood-red sands of their empire's shores. This shuddering, shivering, shaking mass of ruined fur and empty muscles and hollowed eyes.

Orange eyes flashed to a past he'd long since abandoned.


Whatever words Rove had spoken, whatever confidence and authority she had conveyed - rightfully so - at the dying stranger, it was all droning in his ears as he burst forward and past her. Kyron's legs stumbled and wobbled as he did whatever it took to close the distance between himself and the one he'd lost so long ago. Words were lost and he could only stammer, his eyes beginning to well with salty tears he'd rather not show up. But what use was the effort to hold them back?

The Quartermaster cared little for what the fangs of his kin might do to his swift approach. Instead, as he bolted forward, he quickly dipped his head to curl himself under the chest of the father that'd been ripped away from him so many years ago. If successful, Kyron would feel the weakness shaking through Marco's body, and feel it mirrored within his own, though fueled by utter shock and disbelief. "H-he-h-help! Get him help!" desperate barks and yelps at Rove, urgency screeched out as aggression, "He needs food!"

And water. There was no freshwater here. Only sea. Shit. Maneuvering himself around as desperately as he could, Kyron would try to wrangle one of Marco's forelegs around his shoulder, so as to use it as leverage to keep the rest of his father's body up against his back. If able, he'd mumble incomprehensibly, some words of reassurance possible, as he'd turn and strain to carry his limp form up the Crossbones Pass.

"H-home... I'm g-gonna take you home... Dad."

ooc: set after he gains his quartermaster rank. HI DAD.

text speech: #8e8322

[-] Likes: DustyForgotten, Gyr, waka
Marco He
Posts: 4
Pronouns: He

All Accounts Posts: 368

m a r c o //

Her gaze, judgmental and cold, one he knew all too well.

Still, he stood his ground, knowing the type that this one was appearing to be.  He had gotten away from them, given them everything, they had taken everything, and he was not going to let this one do the same.  All her kind did was take.  But she wasn't going to take anything from him, and he wasn't going to give it willingly. However, if it was a fight she was looking for, he would very willingly give only that to her.  He did not care for her sympathies, or her looks or passing judgement on him.  What he cared for now was to get some kind of sustenance so that he could continue on another day.  

If she couldn't understand that, she could fuck off.  

"Can you tell me what your business is here, or are you not done heaving up your guts?"

Marco's eyes narrowed, and his head lowered back down, too much of an effort to keep it up.  Plus, she didn't deserve to look him in the eye.  Who was she to say what he had gone through, what he had lost.  Who was she to him, but some bitch?  No.  Marco did not care to answer her, she didn't deserve the breath.  He huffed out his nose, and a mixture of bile and blood shot out towards her feet.  No words uttered, but the message was clear.  Fuck off.  Acid green eyes only wavered from the bitch for a moment, when another, more familiar face wandered onto the scene.  For a moment, in his paranoia and dehydration, he thought, briefly it was his dearest Riala.  

Just for a fleeting second.  He felt relief.  This was it, he was finally reunited-

He closed his eyes, and felt his legs give out from under him, but instead of landing on the harsh sand, he had been caught.  Riala had caught him, and would soon be carrying him home, with her.  

"H-home... I'm g-gonna take you home... "

Home.  What a welcome word.

"... Dad"

Eyes peeled open slowly, but his nose took in the scent, and flashes of light took him back.  Suckling puppies, laughter, and growls.  Smiling, and giggles.  Home.  

Eyes shot open now, as he managed to figure out he was being carried.  But who if not Riala- she was gone- home.  Who?

A blink, and a face, grey and happy.  

His son-  

Their son..

"Ky - ron.."

His eyes close, his body falls limp.

He was home.

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