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a migraine-infused entrance post ;-; CW: mild mention of blood

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Stillness devoured him, slowly and meticulously, and where once there had been darkness, only a thin line of light remained. Beneath the dense bramble of a forest he could not recognize, Arkyn awoke to the velveteen melody of birdsong. A quiet chatter that had his ears twisting and his eyes refocusing into the dimly lit day that lay ahead. He knew not of this place, a fact that became more evident the more he turned to drink in his surroundings, but with each tentative breath he inhaled, the more at peace he found himself becoming.

He took a wobbly step forward, unaware that his two legs had turned to four, and that his body was no longer covered with the fresh linen of fabric, but instead was composed of fur.

Hello? He called out against the chatter of chirps and the whistling breeze. His voice, although familiar to his ears, was hoarser than he had expected. Unused, he imagined, and rough. He cleared his throat once and then twice before encouraging his body into movement once more.

The forest shifted easily with the purposeful strides he took, though where once he saw greenery, now his eyes had focused on the budding red that swarmed the horizon. Trees of unnatural colors he had yet to see before spanned out before him, drawing limbs of rose-colored petals down to the earth below.

They looked like tears, he thought as he drew his gaze toward them and back toward the weeping forest ahead.

Yet, his attention was quickly displaced by the iron-tainted smell that wafted toward his senses.

Blood.

He glanced down. Carefully.

And with a hesitant, sharply inhaled breath, Arkyn spotted not just his canine-like body—the legs and chest of a wolf once prophesied—but the dried trail of blood that appeared to have begun at the base of his neck and seeped down the length of his chest.

What the—

These lands felt more cursed than enchanted. From the river of blood to the endless stretch of crimson trees, Sarge was growing sick of the color red. What was the purpose of this place? Some kind of limbo? A realm built for torment and decay? He didn’t know, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to.

Still, he wandered on, searching for logic or meaning amid the twisted rocks and alien flora. His brow was knotted in a scowl of frustration when a voice cut through the silence. He froze, ears swiveling toward the sound, gauging the threat. For better or worse, he moved to investigate.

His steps were slow, measured, each one placed with care to avoid the whispering undergrowth that might betray him. Then he saw him: a wolf, dark as soot and ash. Sarge observed from the shadows, catching the iron tang of dried blood on the air. Injured? That seemed to be the theme around here.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, watching as the strange wolf seemed lost in thought, studying himself. Sarge knew better than to get involved. He didn’t want to. But in this bizarre place, curiosity had claws.

Oi.

The word snapped from him like a twig, neither friendly nor hostile, just a sound that demanded acknowledgment.

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headache persists, bear with me as I try to make words ;-;

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Contemplation rose in the form of mild agitation, blossoming like a burn throughout his head as Arkyn traced his gaze across the darkness of his chest. Rivulets of desiccated blood marred what should have been pristine fur, and altered his shadowed colors of gray and black into a palette of darkened red.

He didn’t understand.

—What had happened?

First, there had been the gathering…a memory that came easily to his discombobulated brain, but then…

‘Oi!’

Arkyn froze.

His ears pinned instinctively toward his skull as he twisted a careful glance toward the source of the call. A man, draped in the colors of a local shepherd he would have seen gallivanting in the fields of his home, appeared to stand before him. Though this one was notably larger than the dogs he had witnessed back home.

Where the fuck was he?

I—uh, he mumbled out hesitantly behind a curtain of fluttering blinks.

Whether wolf or man, Arkyn was certain that the blood was not a good look.

He cleared his throat, Evening, stranger— He all but purred into the night, a vocal quirk he had learned from months within that silent group. Do not worry, this blood appears to be...my own.

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No worries! Headaches are the worst. I hope you feel better soon <3

Do not worry, this blood appears to be...my own.

He was met with a grunt, dismissive, uninterested. It didn’t matter. Curiosity stirred again, but he forced it down. Blood never meant anything good, no matter whose it was.

You don’t know? Sarge’s voice was cold, clipped. Covered in blood and you’ve got no idea why?

He watched the dark male with narrowed eyes, suspicion sharp behind them. His ears twitched as he listened for anything, movement, breath, threat. This place was hell, and he wouldn’t be caught off guard. If a fight was coming, he'd be ready.

You alone?

Sarge was on high alert, watching the stranger with an intensity that could easily unnerve the unsteady. Every muscle was coiled, ready, his mind weighing both peaceful and violent ends to this encounter. Better to be prepared than caught off guard.

A thread of arrogance laced his confidence; he believed he held the upper hand, though he had no intention of showing his cards just yet.