Raised by Wolves

Gaki: writing myself Real

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Leave Them Hungry for More...

A Twilight Realm story, cross-posted to mayven

"I'm hungry."

The voice brings her back into focus, a quiet sonic beacon in the night, bouncing off her consciousness, locating it in a world that was previoiusly void of detail. It causes her to Echo.


The thought fizzles; static interference. Words begin to coalesce, each one birthed into existence as if for the first time, etching out the initial details of a blank slate becoming something more. She draws a breath, holds it, afraid to call into being a voice that she has no recollection of ever using.

I'm what? What is this? I'm here... where is this... where are we?


What is happening?

The boy sits beside her, cross-legged, brown hands folded over his tummy, a frown sprawled across his features that is comic in its' exaggeration. He is lean, with the wiry musculature of a small wild creature, and indeed hunger is inscribed into every line of his young frame, focused to a keener edge by his sharp and questing gaze. His attention is fixed so keenly upon her as to cause prickles of alarm to begin a needling march up from the base of her spine. The echo still plays around the base of her mind. "I am hungry."

a flicker of white noise kills itself in the background

Unconsciously she lifts herself into a crouch, and a curtain of blonde dreadlocks sweeps across her field of vision, bisecting the view with ribbons of darkness. She lifts a hand to brush them away, slowly, careful not to make any sudden moves, and as the curtain is drawn aside to the right, a bit of magic is revealed. A tiny wrinkle disappears from the boy's brow, softening his expression in a barely perceptible manner, changing a feral grimace into a gleeful, feral grin.

"Finally. Sister, I am hungry!"

"... Sister?" The echo leaks past her lips unbidden.


"Sister, spare a tune for the downtrodden?"

The light is greenish, lending a forestal cast to a place that is somewhere between a club and a coffee shop in nature. The atmosphere is heavyset, fat on coffee and burning leaf, thick with dreaming that looks towards the past instead of the future, for all future dreams have already flown or failed by now.

"You don't look all that downtrodden," she hears herself say. Her own words sound distant to her, as though heard through a tunnel.

Indeed the traveler carries his head high, his feet wide-set, and his smile half arrogantly, as if daring the world to set him a challenge. But there is something unnameable in his dark brown gaze, something tragic in his one-shouldered shrug. Foreknowledge, the poet within her whispers, labeling the man's vulnerable aura for reasons she accepts without understanding.

He returns to his seat, with the relaxed yet ready energy of a predator. But the menace in him remains coiled and peaceful, hidden within the folds of a worn black trenchcoat. She nearly goes back to her coffee and her pipe, but for the sight of a simple tattoo, the head of a black dragon resting upon his neck as though the actual creature were nestled in his lap. Fifteen years to her credit, she has a weakness for dragons. In that inanimate gaze is the suggestion that, buried within the layers of his self-assurance there remains a hint of imploring, and it is this hint which drives her to ascend the two uneven steps to the stage, where the microphone, as always, is waiting for her hand.

The crowd's mixture of tenors and bassos quiets as she inhales, satellite tables and chairs winking into silence, audio constellations pausing in their dance. She is one of the only poets to typically receive such a distinction, here. Time pauses for a moment to leave the audience focused in the breaths between, poised in an ellipsis. The name of this place is the Limit.


"I don't see any other sisters here, do you?"

An impish smile steals most of the sting from a flippant reply. This boy is clearly not the same being as the man from her daydream (memory?). He is at least a decade younger, maybe two. But something in him Echoes fiercely.

"They are hungry, too," he murmurs, an afterthought punctuated by a foxfire green glimmer in the corner of his eye.

On her knees, arms wrapped around herself provide little support for her thin poet's shirt, against the teeth of a suddenly chill wind.

The boy is bare-chested and barefooted, ragged shorts providing all the warmth he needs, apparently. Little armor between the two of them, leaving only distance shielding them from the countless pairs of yellow, lidless eyes lurking amidst the red dunes, receding beyond sight's limit in this shadowy, sunless place.

A lone guttural noise, like a growl but not a natural one, tumbles across the plain. An audience of teeth is eagerly anticipating the end of the ellipsis...

Bleeding goats, this client turns all my quote marks and apostrophes as upside-down commas, which turn into "?'s" when it posts, that's a horrible editing chore for me, blech. You're welcome.

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::hophophophop.:: Lies! That's not finished! ::hophop.:: Cruel, cruel man! But I love it so. I must mull it for awhile so that my mind might ferment a few concrete ideas. (Humming...) "Rain, Rain, go away come again another day..."

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