aspiring-orla

[aspiring-orla]

@solitarygreywolf​

Striding towards Kasha’s pavilion, Orla reviewed the details of Methel’s death.

There weren’t many. It had taken some time to connect the incident to the Stranger. Some clansmen had speculated, of course, passing whispers around the nightly fires, but few had truly considered the possibility until the Magpie’s Nest found its way to Ragnok.

Now, Orla heard that Kasha was furious, and rightfully so. One of their own had been felled, with no one held accountable. The nature of the Stranger meant there was no outlet. No one to punish. Nothing to punch.

As Wolf Clan’s general, Orla used her mind as often as her fists, if not more. That was the seat of her power. A fight quickened the blood, but slow, intricate tactics fed her soul. She considered it part of her job to meet Kasha’s rage with the same level of calculated calm and equanimity.

Even before they each rose to prominence, Orla thought they made a good team. She was glad to see Kasha humble every other warrior vying for chieftan. If Orla was in the habit of making them, she might even call Kasha a friend. As it was, she was closer than most.

Furious and dauntless, Orla saw Kasha Greywolf as the embodiment of the Wolf Clan spirit. Right now, that same embodiment stood in a whirlwind of tossed books, splattered ink, and the splintered remains of a cedar desk that looked like it lost a battle with a large axe.

“Kasha,” Orla said to announce her presence. She inclined her head in greeting. “If you need something a bit more challenging to hit, you know I’m always ready to spar. Otherwise, I have the notes on Methel Strongshield ready to review.”

[aspiring-orla]

aubrey-crane​:

“Most likely.” Aubrey Crane, a slight young lad still learning to eat regular hot meals, walked into the clearing without a hesitation. He was growing confident in the wildlands now. Much like Nightshade Row, there were unwritten rules to live by and confidence was key.

“Aubrey Crane, friend of Kasha Greywolf and Rye Hawthorne.” He eyed the carving with a slight smirk, “Very imaginative indeed.” He pulled the fur around his neck as he drew closer to the other. HE wasn’t afraid of a little blood magic or any wolf clan practicing it. “I am not a pooka, just staying with friends until I recover.” One might notice how small he was for his age. He was thin and rather short for a fae. One would also notice the bandages wrapped around his hands and his aversion to using them to grip anything too tightly. 

Aubrey popped a nut into his mouth from a sack he was carrying. Food was always on him since he had spent so long being starved by his evil step mother. “I saw a fire, thought there might be something to eat being cooked on it.” He chuckled at his own stupid reasoning for venturing into the dark and wild forests. Fear was something he had long grown numb to. 

“ I have always wanted to see this magic. I would ask you to show me something beautiful, but I already have seen it in your eyes.”

Orla couldn’t help the surprise that crossed her face. She stifled it quickly, but not before she thought she saw Aubrey’s smirk deepen.

“Do you say that to all the fae, or just the ones with properly sharp knives?” she asked.

Expression back under her control, Orla glanced up at him. He was small and slight, but wore confidence comfortably. She noticed how quick he was to drop the names of well-placed friends. If Kasha took to him him, that was either a blessing or a warning, with no way to tell between them.

Her eyes fell to the bandages wrapped around his hands. It could have been shadows thrown from the fire, but Orla thought she saw old blood seeped through. He couldn’t carve like that. Couldn’t spar like that either, at least not very effectively.

Not that she felt sorry for him. Aubrey Crane struck her as a survivor. Orla knew, you didn’t pity survivors. You admired them, and, if you had luck and patience enough, learned from them.

Orla reached into her pack and brought out a loaf. The aromas of fennel and sage blended with smoke and night air, making her mouth water. She peeled away a corner of the wrapping to reveal a cracked, golden crust. Her favorite, and her dinner.

She held it up to the firelight.

”If you wanted food, you could’ve just asked. No need to bring my eyes into anything,” she muttered. “But since you did …”

Orla couldn’t help it. Her father warned her not to waste time idling with clan fae. Time was better spent devouring books or sparring til her own fingers bled. Still. She wanted a glimpse into his mind. She was curious about this strange faerie with the quick mouth and broken hands.

“I’ll tell you what. This loaf is all yours if you can tell me how to rescue this abysmal carving.”

[aspiring-orla]

Orla slumped near the camp fire, closing her eyes against the smoke. It had been a long day. Her muscles ached from training, and her eyes burned — not from the smoke, but from watching her father draw and re-draw nonsensical diagrams on the tactical board, while Orla scribbled everything he said in one of his notebooks. More and more, the days were like this. She needed an outlet, and that meant something sharp. Focused.

She slipped a piece of cedar and a knife from deep pockets and began to whittle. With carving, you had to see the shape in your mind’s eye. Carving was really just making an unrealized goal attainable. All she had to do was move the knife this way and that, angling the blade here, applying pressure there, switching between delicate shavings and rough gouges. She tossed the shaved bark and wood chips into the fire, admiring the way they caught quick and burnt in a flash.

Slowly, the face of a wolf took shape in the wood.

“Very imaginative,” Orla scoffed at herself. She was puzzling what she could add to the carving when she caught a glimpse of a person out of the corner of her eye.

“Careful,” she said. “You’re in my blood circle.” She held the knife in her hand, fully extended, and slowly traced it in a radius around her. She stopped just short of hitting a leg.

“See? Unless you’re eager to try some blood magic, watch out.” She looked at him closely, trying to place his features. “I haven’t seen you before, have I?”

@aubrey-crane

[aspiring-orla]

Paid in Blood | Self para

The moon crested over the pine ridge, just a sliver showing. Orla knew what that meant.

Once a moon, Orla made her excuses and slipped away from the Wolf Clan encampment. It was a long walk through Ragnok, and she liked it best in the darkness.

She wound through trees and scaled scattered boulders as much by feel as by sight, her senses blurring together in the dark forest. Stars emerged overhead, and pine needles cushioned her footfalls. This night was clear — clear enough that Orla could see the shadowed side of the moon too, just a shade darker than the sky.

Only on these walks did Orla ever feel properly alone. There were no corridors or alcoves to hide in, only tall trunks and full leaves. Eyes watched her in the darkness, but they belonged to hungry spiders and sleek foxes, nesting birds and sleepy toads. No one scrutinized her every detail of dress or turn of phrase. In turn, there was no one to watch but herself. Oh, she liked the wicked games of court as much as the rest of them. But in order to breathe, she learned, one needed to be alone.

Orla sighed and slid down a mossy slope and landed in a pebbled outwash. A stream  slowed here, taking a moment to whorl around downed pines and drop smooth stones on its bank. Orla found a round one, speckled like an egg, and placed it on the growing pile beside her father’s grave.

The grave itself was plain, as far as Sidhe tastes went. It was not what her father imagined for himself. Its base was a wall of stones, some smoothed by the river, some tumbled from the mountainsides. Instead of rubies and sapphires, smoky quartz and mica chips glimmered. Instead of etched gold, a slab of fragrant cedar laid over top.

At the time of his passing, her father had earned the respect and admiration of the clan. Many skilled hands had adorned the wood, carving wolves and moons and swords in striking detail. The name, Orla carved herself.

Azriel.

Not Fang. Not Black. As he once warned her, “You cannot be both.” At the time, he meant that she was a Black before anything else. Now, he was neither.

The fallen evergreens in the stream reminded her that time, even when held in abundance, never stood still. Not for anyone. It rushed over them, quick and cool as water, without a moment’s care for how long they had stood tall.

Especially not for those recently felled. Morell Moret. Thrystan Baker. Ethel Grancourt. Methel Strongshield, whose loss Wolf Clan mourned. Very nearly Vera Pike and Harland Briar. Though they seemed to be recovering from the attempts on their lives, the courts were clearly shaken. Who was this person, who sent assassins after one target and attempted to poison another? Who had enemies across courts and clans? The Stranger grew bolder. Perhaps it was time for Orla to do the same.

Fear meant secrets stirred up. Blackmail was useful in its own way, for keeping enemies in check. Ancients knew, Orla used it well. But secrets also meant problems. Solve the right problem for the right person, deft and quick and quiet, and it could change everything. A powerful friend, especially one with a debt, was worth a thousand quelled enemies.

Yes. It was time.

Orla picked up the speckled rock. Feeling its weight in her palm and a shiver running down her arm, she watched its grey exterior crack and fall away in flakes, revealing gold beneath.

Orla had never been very talented at glamour. In all likelihood, the transformation would fade by the next moon. Still, she placed the glamoured gold on top of the cedar slab in the space where a family name would be.

As she headed back to camp, she broke into a run, chased by and chasing the waxing sliver moon.