ira
The wolverine was at it, again. Ira’s friends always surprised him with their naivety of the forest’s animals; they always believed a bear or wolf to be most frightening, most dangerous... when in actuality, the only animal that had ever harmed Ira with malice had been a wolverine.
The pelts were in high demand from a tribe in the Arma Mountains. They had among some of the warmest coat of any animal; nobles in Delumine particularly cared to use them as rugs. Ira, who disliked no animals, came dangerously close to disliking wolverines only on principle. That said, they were his least favorite animal to trap, for this very reason.
He enters Gareth’s home announced, with only a subtle knock on the outside of the cottage door. “Gareth? I’m sorry to bother you again, friend—“ Ira’s voice resounds. He worries, for a moment, the other man might be busying himself about Denocte. Ira clears his throat. He does not enter the house fully, but remains just at the entrance, holding his leg gingerly off the ground.
“Before you ask—yes. It happened again. Those damn wolverines, they’re just—awful. Just plain awful. The meanest creatures to grace Caligo’s mountainside.” By now, Ira is familiar with the warm, almost pleasant sting of pain that resonates up his limb. He knows tonight, when he tries to sleep, it will manifest into a bone-deep throbbing, one that he cannot surmount. He will be up, tossing and turning.
But for now, the pain is only familiar, and oddly so. It grounds him as few things do.
The pelts were in high demand from a tribe in the Arma Mountains. They had among some of the warmest coat of any animal; nobles in Delumine particularly cared to use them as rugs. Ira, who disliked no animals, came dangerously close to disliking wolverines only on principle. That said, they were his least favorite animal to trap, for this very reason.
He enters Gareth’s home announced, with only a subtle knock on the outside of the cottage door. “Gareth? I’m sorry to bother you again, friend—“ Ira’s voice resounds. He worries, for a moment, the other man might be busying himself about Denocte. Ira clears his throat. He does not enter the house fully, but remains just at the entrance, holding his leg gingerly off the ground.
“Before you ask—yes. It happened again. Those damn wolverines, they’re just—awful. Just plain awful. The meanest creatures to grace Caligo’s mountainside.” By now, Ira is familiar with the warm, almost pleasant sting of pain that resonates up his limb. He knows tonight, when he tries to sleep, it will manifest into a bone-deep throbbing, one that he cannot surmount. He will be up, tossing and turning.
But for now, the pain is only familiar, and oddly so. It grounds him as few things do.
@Gareth / speaks / notes
