Gritting down a wince, Caine rolls his shoulders back and forth, back and forth, the pain florescent, until he realises what he is doing and stops. A line of bright blood oozes out of the sutured flesh, down his leg, and into the wilting grass.
He has descended halfway down from the Veneror, and he thinks—though he doesn't know, with any certainty—he is approaching the border of Dusk. It is difficult to navigate, when everything is so close together. When trees loom above you instead of shrink below you, a ripple of green, red at the edges. Paths fork in and out of the forest like snake tongues, strips of brown against green, and with only a glance and a tilt of his wings he knows he is flying north, towards Solterra, or south, towards Denocte, or southwest, towards the marshlands of Terrastella.
From the ground, he knows nothing except that paths eventually end somewhere.
For a time he walks, ignoring the way his blood marks his passage like a trail of melted licorice. He could try flying again, though that would only tear his scars open more and Caine knows that doing so would not be ideal.
He has slit enough throats in the past to know how vital blood is to the body.
It would also hurt, and while he has never been averse to pain, when there is only himself and the little spotted rabbits that dare to peek at him through thorny blackberry bushes, they are too small and flighty to work as good distractions.
There is one looking at him now, its pink nose wriggling nervously in the air. He extends a wing out towards it. When it flees, white tail bobbing, he cannot help but feel a stab of melancholy.
I should have brought bandages, he thinks to himself dryly. The top of his wings are coated in blood. But he has only his shadow cloak, draped carefully behind his wings so that blood would not seep into it, and the cloth is entirely too fine, entirely too magical, to be used for such a benign purpose. It would be like using Saint Volta to gut a rabbit.
Sacrilegious, Caine thinks, and his mouth quirks into a glancing grin.
His head bobs heavily on his neck. He has walked from dawn and it is now near night, the sky painted in sleepy lavenders and pinks. If he squints his eyes he thinks he sees Terrastella, its ivory gates shining like a beacon at the end of the road, where trees thin to rolling meadow.
But it is still so far, and his head is heavy. Groaning, Caine presses his cheek into the trunk of a maple and breathes in the sharp, honeyed scent of its sap.
When he closes his eyes, he imagines himself wading knee-deep into a sea of blood.
A day she spends fighting fires with her own flames.
The world, it never stops burning. There are too many with fire in their eyes, and not enough who are brave enough to face the flames. They don't care who they burn, what they burn, who gets injured. Elena feels her entire body rock with the pain of it all. But they will never stop burning each other until there is only ash. So Elena does what she cant, picks through them tries to find the phoenixes, heals them, and tells them to rise. Rise. Rise if you can.
Elena is not empty, not yet. But the years keep carving pieces out from her. Her parents’ deaths took her stability. Aerwir, Underworld, they took her childhood. Broch took her independence. Val took her trust.
And Tenebrae?
Tenebrae took her heart, her love, broke every rib bounding her chest on the way to pulling it out. And this child, this child was taking her heart too, in a different way, a different love, the way mothers love their children. She wonders what is left.
And then she remembers, every morning when she wakes up, she remembers that little glowing warmth beside her. And Elena thinks she would do anything for that little bundle, absolutely anything. Even hide the hurt, even hide the agony. Elena smiles and smiles and smiles and smiles because if you are smiling then nothing inside you can fall apart. She would hold herself together if it meant protecting Elliana. She would stitch herself up every night, paint a smile on every morning, if only to keep the illusion that between her, Azrael, and now Elliana they were the happiest family, the perfect family. That there was no one else. There are no shadows. There are no shadows until Elliana wakes Elena in the middle of the night. “Mommy,” she says in that little voice that manages to break her more than any man ever could. “The shadows—they’re breathing.”
She drops Elliana off at school, she says she has art today, and how excited she is. Elena tells her to paint her something pretty. Her daughter says she crosses her heart, the shadows are forgotten for now, Elena hopes at least. She kisses the top of her head as she skips off, and Elena turns to the hospital, there were patients she needed to check on today. She doesn't get far towards the swamp—
She finds the blood.
Why is there always blood?
It follows her like some twisted, crimson shadow. She starts to wonder if it isn’t her own heart bleeding from her chest.
There is a loveliness, a fragility, in her slender, angular frame, in the delicate shape of her head as she bends down over her work. The blood begins to coat her as she works, makes its way onto Elena’s golden chest as she tries to stem the bleeding. She doesn't have her typical materials here, she is so far from the hospital. But the swamp has always been generous towards her. Yarrow grows close by, she can see it sticking up from the water. She is holding the bleeding of his injuries, debating how much damage it would be to let go.
Elena, bold as she is, she risks it.
Blood pools out from him once more as her golden body splashes through the shallows of the swamp to grab the yarrow. She is nearly breathless when she returns to him. “Hang on,” she says. Her voice is softer than silk, softer than starlight, she remains calm though, without worry. She doesn't know if she can hear him, but creating that connection with her words has always soothed the healer, allowed her to work.
She grinds the yarrow quickly before starting to place it on the wound, letting the blood clot at the surface, stemming the flow. It is slow work, slow to clot, even as she places more and more. Elena doesn't know how long it takes, it wouldn't have mattered anyway. She would heal and heal until she brought them back, time had never mattered when an injury was set before her. Elena was a medic. Even if she did not know this man, this was more than her duty, it did more than that give her purpose, it saved her soul.
Her golden body eases back once the blood clots and she no longer sees active bleeding. He still needed stitches, needs bandaging, but she couldn't move him, not on his own. She settles by to watch him, leaving an injured man wasn't an option. “Can you hear me?” She asks him, touching his cheek, trying to gently rouse him. “Can you hear me?” She asks again. “You lost a lot of blood.” She tells him. “I’ve stopped it for now, we need to get you to the hospital.”
those are the kind of girls who try to save wolves
instead of running from them
@Caine
let's light this house on fire
we'll dance in the warmth of its blaze
pixel made by the amazing star
08-10-2020, 09:27 PM - This post was last modified: 11-07-2020, 10:24 PM by Elena
The horror about losing the ability to dream, is that everything is always real.
There is no refuge. There is memory and there is reality and there is a deep, black emptiness—sleep, without its Sandman—that feels like dying. Caine has never done it, died, but he has waded along its murky backwaters many times before and felt less like an intruder than he ought to. It was deep, and it was black, and it was empty. It was sleep, without its Sandman.
So when a silvery voice pierces like a shard of light through his haze of dreamless emptiness—hang on, hang on—Caine knows at once that she is real. He is not dreaming. He might be dying, but he is beginning to question if living and dying are really even worth differentiating. You are either alive or you are dead and everything in between—living, dying, living, dying—is like the moon pulling the sea and the sea pulling back.
So everything is always real. So everything is always happening. Sighing, Caine pulls himself out of the dreamless emptiness and wades back across the sea of blood.
“Can you hear me?” She is pressing something against his wounds; there is a sharp scythe of pain and then there is a spreading numbness, almost warm, certainly golden, that surprises him so much he yanks his cheek up off the rough tree trunk and barely avoids collapsing into her—his wings flare out to steady himself (and her; feathers wrap roughly around her shoulders) until a fluorescent wave of pain pushes the golden warmth out in heartbeat-pulses and everything is right again.
Caine breathes out in pain-drunk relief.
He blinks slowly; there is a golden girl’s face right next to his, her eyes large and forget-me-not blue, and she is asking him if he can hear her.
“... Yes.” His voice is a murmur and rough from days of disuse. There is blood down his sides and blood striping his hair and Caine considers wading into the knee-deep swamp to let the water carry it all away. Instead, he looks to the girl and says, with dead-eyed amusement, “Are you trying to save me?”
The air is thick with the smell of herbs. Mechanically, Caine swivels his head to watch as she packs a thick paste into the gashes splitting apart his shoulders. From his sickbed he had watched the healers of the Hospital do the same every morning and night, their enterings and exits the only way he could tell time. When he had still been more bandage than flesh, he had been kept in the wing cut deepest into the heart of a tree. They were windowless and bleak. He had almost missed Raum's prison cell.
“...we need to get you to the hospital.” He shrugs and swallows a wince. “They're familiar with me there.” Slowly, Caine eases back against the rough yet steady tree trunk, his eyes slitting cat-like silver in the deepening dusk.
“You've done a lot for me already, miss healer, and it's getting dark. Best to hurry along home.” His smile is there and then gone, a bare courtesy, a nod of thanks. He is sure that she is needed by someone, somewhere, soon. He has learned to tell these things from a glance.
She had learned how to clot blood, she had learned how to set limbs, how to ease anxiety, how to banish infections from the body. Elena had learned so much following that obsidian unicorn around the battle fields of Windskeep, greeting the injured soldiers who managed a smile for the little girl of sunshine, hiding their pain. It was only when she grew older, healing in Paraiso and then the Woodlands and Culloden, that they stopped hiding their pain. They would cringe, cry, strain, scream, all in agony as the golden healer approached them. Elena realized in this moment that there was no grace in pain, only masks that they would wear.
In death though, now there was a sense of grace Elena can only imagine. There were the ones in agony, fighting to get better, but then there were the quiet ones, the ones with a wound that would not close, with damages that would not heal, they were the ones who looked as if they were dancing while standing still. So no, there is no grace in pain, but it can be found in death, in the ballerina turns of the grim reaper, and the elegant leaps into the gravesite. There could be grace found in death.
He moves abruptly away from her and had Elena not been experienced she may have been caught off guard. But as it were, she pushes a ‘shhh’ through her teeth. “Hold still,” she commands gently. His feathers catch her shoulder, keeping them both balanced as the sunshine girl works steadily. She can feel how harsh they are as they hold her, and had his blood not decorated them both like war paint, maybe they could be confused for lovers rather than strangers. She doesn't blame him, never blames the patient, but neither does she end her treatment.
He breathes.
She breathes.
He can hear her. Elena looks to the blood drying on his skin, looking for anymore sites of active bleeding but it all seems stopped for now. “I did save you,” she says and smiles at him. Blue eyes look into his own. “Are you questioning my abilities?” She asks him, mimicking his own tone, although there is still the warmth in her eyes of a healer when she looks to her patient.
She finishes placing the last of the yarrow on the wound as his head swivels towards her. A shrug, a wince, words. Elena moves closer to him as he leans back. While she keeps concern from the lines of her face and the blue of her eyes, she thinks she can taste it on her breath every time she breathes. “You are ridiculous,” she says in response. She had a stubborn streak with all her selfless nature. She would always do whatever it took to heal the hurt, even if it meant battling themselves. And she can see in the movement of his jaw, in the set of his shoulders, he would not be so easily won over. “You need to be monitored,” she says to him, eyes glancing once more to his injuries. “You need to be properly bandaged and I need to guarantee there is no infection of chance of.” She looks up to the sky and how far the sun has moved across it. “I am already late picking up my daughter from school, do not let me be a late mother who doesn't have a happy story to tell,” she says with a sense of finality. “Come with me,” she says and moves her golden body closer to his own, ready to help and hold his weight. “You can tell me your story along the way.”
those are the kind of girls who try to save wolves
instead of running from them
@Caine
let's light this house on fire
we'll dance in the warmth of its blaze
pixel made by the amazing star
08-28-2020, 06:10 PM - This post was last modified: 11-07-2020, 10:25 PM by Elena
and every girl that I walk around / seems to be more of an illusion than the last one I found
If this is a game about stubbornness, the golden healer will lose.
There is an inherent strength to Caine’s mask of impassivity and this is why he has never found any reason to part with it, despite the mask’s increasingly obvious pitfalls. The reason, if you ask him, is this: impassivity resists coercion.
He does not do anything he does not want to do because he has no reason whatever to incline. There is no shame to refusal if you do not care. There is no sting to betrayal if you have no loyalty left to give. There is nothing, at all, if you are nothing, at all. It is exhaustive and circular and Caine has played these odds and these cards too many times for him to consider a more appealing alternative.
His head aches anyway, and keeping it raised is beginning to gnaw at him.
He obeys her directive to keep still because it is what he’d planned on doing anyway. She is a deft healer, and before too long Caine’s ripped-open skin has been sealed over with yarrow, and the familiar tang of medicinal herbs scents the dewy clearing like sap. He has grown to dislike the smell, however, because of what he has come to associate it with (windowless rooms and tasteless gruel and a numbing that begins in the mind before eating its way to the heart) and slyly pulls his muzzle away from its resting place by his chest to look dully towards the spring-fed pond.
“I did save you,” she remarks, and he nods to allow her the affirmation. “Are you questioning my abilities?”
“That,” he says drily, “I would not dare.” There is no barb in his voice but that of laconic impassivity. He drags his eyes down to her and manages a faint smile, before flexing his patched shoulders for emphasis. “Your handiwork is very fine. I have no critiques.”
He looks again towards the water, this time serious. There is very little Caine hates more than stinking of blood, and very much he despises about blood in his hair. It mats and gnarls and hardens, and the hair, even well-combed, remains gritty for days. It is why he had cultivated the habit of plaiting his knee-length hair into elaborate braids: to keep it out of range of arterial spray.
Gingerly, Caine shifts away from the healer and begins to peel himself off of the tree trunk, bark falling in clumps from his blood-slicked coat.
He ignores her when she calls him ridiculous, though it does enough to draw out a mild scoff from his lips as he walks steadily—punctuated with the occasional stagger—to the mossy edge of the pond and wades in up to his ankles.
“You need to be monitored... you need to be properly bandaged and I need to guarantee there is no infection or chance of it—”
He cuts her off mid-speech. “What is your name?” he asks quietly. He wishes to know it so that he can use it to thank her with, and she will gladly be thanked, and—duty done, stranger saved—bid her goodbyes. Names have the effect of cinching one up at the waist. Use it in careful doses, and it will spark a reaction Caine has yet to observe elicited from any other singular word.
Water drips from Caine’s muzzle and runs a line down his throat and chest. The pond laps at his stomach serenely, the crystalline blue water blooming in waves of red. He is careful to keep his wounds dry—he is impassive but not discourteous—and raises his wings, as if to show her this, like a docile pupil.
Her mention of having a little daughter to attend to has intrigued him but not moved him. He is a thing immovable; but his lips edge towards a frown that can almost be called apologetic. “I assure you that I am not merely trying to be difficult in declining. In this state,” he shrugs, “I cannot move faster than an ambling walk, and it will be true dark by the time we arrive anywhere significant.”
He looks witheringly at how the healer holds her delicate golden limbs, as if meaning to shoulder his weight. “Even if you do carry me all of the way.” Of his own physical limits, he is only too aware. It used to be half of his job.
Reluctantly, he wades back out of the pond—half of his hair and his fur up to his stomach cleaned, which is good enough, he supposes—and moves to stand besides her. The darkening horizon reflects in crescent moons in his pale eyes.
“... is she very young?” If there is concern in his voice, he negates it by the thin way he holds his smile.
Peace and conquering go hand in hand, someone once told her with a sense of finality, as if she would have nothing to say to it. Elena turned with something like fire in her eyes. She thinks it just as an excuse to conquer, to take what does not belong to you and hold it captive under your power. For Elena grew up in lands that were not conquered, but given, given to each new heart who found their way there. And she thinks if where she grew up was not peace, then she does not know what peace could truly be.
But then again, maybe the best kind of conquerer is not one who rides in with swords and shields, but with love and compassion.
He tasted like the wild, but with something else.
An edginess—as if the wild was trapped in his chest, as if he denied it.
“You can rest your head, you know,” she says to him as she works, noticing the strain in his neck. She smirks at his response, but those blue eyes do not move from the work she performs. Elena tries not to think of how much blood he lost, of what could have happened if she had not appeared. “Good,” she notes, before adding. “Because you shouldn’t have any.” And there is a note of laughter in her voice, but there is honesty too. Elena was experienced, she was skilled. She wishes her new position came just as easily as being a healer did.
He scoffs, she scoffs back, but the smile in her eyes says something otherwise. He was being ridiculous, but the golden mare has been known to fall victim to such behavior as well. She watches as he walks to the pond, following him closely behind, chattering on about his care until—
What is her name?
There becomes a small gasp trapped in her chest.
It is not the first time she has been asked this, but then why does she feel so surprised by his question? This gives her pause for a moment before watching him closely, and for a moment it is not this man standing beside her, bloodied and healing, but another, with bonfire ash in his hair and the reflection of embers in his eyes. ‘A dance for a name then,’ he had said to her. “My name is not so easily earned,” she says to him, because it is gained through countered steps, rolling shoulders, and shifting hips.
It escapes her then, like the whoosh of a loosed arrow, just as water tilts down his chin. His wings raise, he is the perfect patient, in theory, if just watching them now. She goes to his side, close, if only because there is a certain intimacy that comes with healing. “I will not leave you,” Elena promises him. “You can walk yourself and I will merely supervise,” she offers sternly. She moves from the water before him, a chill runs down her spine as the wind brushes against her. Night was coming.
He comes to stand next to her, there is still a sternness as bright as ice in her blue eyes. It is the question of her daughter, over everything else, that softens her once more. She laughs, it’s small in the given circumstance. “Young enough to still need someone to walk home with her, but old enough to believe she does not.” She says and shakes her head before looking back at his wounds she had patched, she does not touch his cuts, but traces the outlines of it. “I will send a bird from the hospital to my home, informing my ward to attend to her.” Nic. Nic the most wonderful of finds she has ever found. Elliana was accustomed to spending time with Nic, and the girl adored her just as much as Elena did.
“Now you know of my daughter, perhaps you should tell me of why your blood was spilled, did someone do this to you?”
those are the kind of girls who try to save wolves
all i kept thinking about, over and over, was 'you can't live forever; you can't live forever.'
“You can rest your head, you know.”
He nearly turns to her, then. The chiding familiarity of her voice catches him off guard enough for a smile to touch his lips (but not take), words forming suddenly like skeins of silk waiting to be woven into speech. If he were bolder, he would surely reply, Then, miss healer, allow me use of your shoulder.
But it is not a matter of boldness. Perhaps it will make me well again. It is a matter of making, and the truth, when he sees it, is simple: Caine was never made for this. To weave skeins of silk into words. To tease when he is only ever serious. (To be anything but militantly impassive.)
He closes his eyes and reminds himself that there is nothing, at all, if you are nothing, at all.
The silk unrolls before it can be spun.
Caine's head scrapes back against bark, and yarrow fills his nose like wildflowers in deep summer. He doesn't realize how dry his throat is, how many days he has gone without a drink (the kind that blurs the world into watercolor), until his gaze drifts again to the lake and the water and the river stones as smooth as scales.
He exhales in a plume of silvery breath. “If I rest my head it will turn to sleep, and then I will not wake until the winter,” he says pragmatically, before angling to survey her progress. She is done; the yarrow is smoothed, the bandage knotted. Caine flexes his wings slowly as she steps away, marveling at how easily the wings and joints obey him. Perhaps they would heal better this time, leave behind less of a scar.
His expression flickers, as it is wont to do when he is reminded that his skin can now be scarred. Raum's parting gift. The only one, Caine thinks dryly, he has ever received.
The healer trails behind him, her blue eyes watchful, as he sinks into the cool waters of the pond and begins to work at the blood in his hair. Red plumes like warpaint around him; he watches it fade, silt sucking at his ankles, with a frown so mild it is almost serene. Nightingales croon softly above him in the deepening dusk. A hare with white spotted fur slips from the bracken to ease onto its haunches, watching him as he puts his damp hair into braids, his eyes moon-pale and weary.
“My name is not so easily earned.” He turns to her; the mild frown deepens, before it is thrown away entirely. “You do not need to give it if you do not wish to,” he says after a pause. As an afterthought, he adds, as if a student in dispassionate recitation, “Names have power. Spells, hexes, curses. None of them work without the true name, the one you carry with you from birth, unless —” he stops, thinking of Agenor and black magic and the taste of his blood in his mouth. “— you are creative.”
Water streams from him like raindrops when he wades out of the pond, his black hair in two trailing braids. When she steps up to him again he does not move; merely lowers his chin enough to meet her eyes. “My name is Caine.” A fleeting smile. “It is the least I owe you.”
But she is determined for him to owe her more. He stifles a sigh when she insists upon accompanying him, though with a glance towards the star-filling sky he knows it now too dark for a girl to walk alone through the forest anyway. There is still an hour's journey to the ivory gates of Terrastella, and though he would scoff if anyone called him mannerly — Caine is not that kind of inconsiderate.
Not when he knows too well the creatures that lurk the night.
He arranges his wings so that there is a space besides him for her as they begin the long walk back. He nods along as she tells him about her daughter, careful to keep the interest from showing on his face. A mother. Has he ever met one, like this? He knew of their existence of course, saw them on the streets herding children around their skirts, but to him they had always retained a near fable-like quality. He never knew his own; he forgot he even had one, often, though Agenor had assured him that he had been birthed naturally, and merely left behind to die.
It is also not wise to dwell on the subject of mothers, when one is (was) so often sent to slip a knife between the ribs of their sons and daughters.
“Good,” he says, when she tells him about the ward. “And I suppose when you get back, you will at least have a story to tell her.” A grin flashes across his mouth when he halts to sweep a low branch out of their way. “Have I made it an exciting one?” If it wasn't, he still had time. Under the soft glow of the moon, one could almost swear that Caine's silver eyes flashed a ghostly red, for the barest of moments.
“Now you know of my daughter, perhaps you should tell me of why your blood was spilled, did someone do this to you?” Branches break beneath their hooves as the dirt track becomes a blanket of pine needles. His shrug is noncommittal. “Someone did, a long time ago. Sometimes, I think I deserved it.” The months since had passed like years. His grin grows tight; there is only so much he can reveal, before she starts filling in what he leaves out. The whole affair had unfortunately spread through the papers like fire.
“I merely tore open the scars, trying to fly. Relearning it is difficult, but walking — ” Caine gestures loosely to the thickening trees, “ — is such a hassle. I can barely tell where I am going.”
At the beginning of this story, there is a little girl who smiles.
She smiles, a small smile. It’s simple and hardly attractive, but it is Elena.
She watches his head fall back, Elena wonders what does he fight to fight against sleep as such. She has tried to make herself hard, stoic, daring them to push her, to hurt her. But it is so difficult to hold it on there. She thinks the solemness of his face is one he has developed over time, with great practice. She has to think this as she looks at him, because to not think such a thing means he would have been born with it. Angry at the world before it had the chance to disappoint him.
“We wouldn't want that now would we,” she laughs. “We would have them thinking you some great, strange bear, who has forgotten when to come out of hibernation,” she teases him. He reminds her of her stoic, silver black cousin, all frowns and stern glances. The reminder makes her fight the urge to bump his cheek and place an annoying pretty flower in his dark mane.
When he looks at her work, she is finally able to sit back. The blue-eyed woman watches her work carefully as he bends and move the appendage where his wound had been so great. She resists the urge to fly forward as he moves, to make he had some support nearby. She thinks this the man who keeps careful track over the debts he owes, and he wishes his from her to be no bigger than what it was.
She does not tell him when they are in the water how thankful she is of him. For the distraction. He was always at her calmest when she was healing. She likes to repair others in the way she feels she can no longer repair herself. A heart can only break so many times before it no longer pieces back together (there are pieces of her scattered everywhere, pieces of her carried by others that she will never get back). She is a girl born with a glass heart in a world full of people holding stones in the palms of their hands.
Elena stares down at the blood in the water. She imagines slipping below it, inside it. The blood becomes her own. Sometimes, she dreams she is drowning.
She thinks it may be reminiscent of how her great-grandmother died.
Alone.
A broken mermaid with lungs of water.
“I don’t think I am so creative,” she says, her voice is like the gentle and chiming sound of the rippling waters that ran softly and peacefully over a shallow bed for pebbles and stone and sand. “That is a good name,” she says, her eyes finding his as she smiles once more. She smiles a lot. She is not usually one to comment on a name, but she has thought differently once she gave her daughter one. Names are important. This why she gave a name that holds such notes as the girl’s godmother.
It is so easy to talk about her daughter. Could talk for ages about the look of concentration she gives when she paints. Could speak for eternity about the way the way she rolls her shoulders is in the same very fashion of a grandfather that Elena’s own shrug matches perfectly. Could spend forever to start talking about the blue of her eyes. It had been both a kindness and a cruelty that Elli should have received her mother’s eyes. (For though Elena’s match, they will always be her mother’s eyes and not her own.) It is a memory, happy and blissful, but it too is a taunting memory of what she will never see again.
“Oh I am certain I will,” she says. “I can tell her about the mysterious shadow I met in the swamp,” she says. “What happened?” Elena asks him because she likes to believe herself bold, that she can handle the stories to the big wonders.
She laughs, and of course, she smiles at him. “I am sure the world looks different from up there,” she says. and she remembers that there was a favorite game in her youth that she and Lilli used to play. Tell me about something good. “Tell me about the most beautiful thing you have ever seen from up that high,” she says as they reach the Hospital. “I have never seen the world from up there except in my dreams,” she says, dreams she has not had in some time. Since she left Hyaline behind.
those are the kind of girls who try to save wolves
![[Image: ddvotwe-59302ba6-6a81-47bf-9846-30c5a5db...0iFb4PvyXE]](https://images-wixmp-ed30a86b8c4ca887773594c2.wixmp.com/f/8026a53b-dc57-41ab-b574-9f8a8fe57ce4/ddvotwe-59302ba6-6a81-47bf-9846-30c5a5db0780.png?token=eyJ0eXAiOiJKV1QiLCJhbGciOiJIUzI1NiJ9.eyJzdWIiOiJ1cm46YXBwOjdlMGQxODg5ODIyNjQzNzNhNWYwZDQxNWVhMGQyNmUwIiwiaXNzIjoidXJuOmFwcDo3ZTBkMTg4OTgyMjY0MzczYTVmMGQ0MTVlYTBkMjZlMCIsIm9iaiI6W1t7InBhdGgiOiJcL2ZcLzgwMjZhNTNiLWRjNTctNDFhYi1iNTc0LTlmOGE4ZmU1N2NlNFwvZGR2b3R3ZS01OTMwMmJhNi02YTgxLTQ3YmYtOTg0Ni0zMGM1YTVkYjA3ODAucG5nIn1dXSwiYXVkIjpbInVybjpzZXJ2aWNlOmZpbGUuZG93bmxvYWQiXX0.ujCJH7FAbsQhfZlQniMmEd_vw-VmvaTDn0iFb4PvyXE)
