Who: Vivian Gandillon [Open] When: Midnight Where: Central Park What: Werewolves of New York Rating: PG-13, nudity, language... Status: Incomplete
The autumn grass and brush provided apt bedding, and the crisp fractured remnants of an early autumn blanketed outstretched lying facedown beneath the shade of an old oak. In her comatose state, she'd gone and changed. Reverting back to a more natural state from Wolf to woman. Her head lifts, pupils dilate against bluest-green iris, limp body springing to life, as she slowly roused to crawl across the forest floor.
The craggy soil below made the woman more acutely aware of the heaviness of her own body. Cut off from the constant drip of sleep and exhaustion permeating from every pore still lingering in her system, which had rendered muscles and consciousness incapacitated in suspended animation throughout a long night, weighted her down to earth. Buffered by the stale tawny tall grass of fall, the gnarled roots and craggy soil had been a challenge for the most heavy of sleepers, but somehow, Vivian had managed. Every muscular sinew languidly burned vivid agony. Crouched down, shivering as the wind lapped at her naked body, veins budged, pulsing for a few heartbeats as she hugged her knees tight to her chest.
Greedy waves of leaves lapped hungrily at pale flesh. While storm-battered body rests, disorientated mind’s daunting task had only begun. Disorientated, her sleep-addled spirit pawed through the thousands scattered and disjointed images flashing through a blank mind. As the etherized haze began to clear, a barrage of thoughts came steadily quicker, converging on one thought.
Bolting upright, The Ordeal! she gasped, but stabbed with a sudden streak of pain rather than modesty, Vivian had thought the better of it. "Oh," she groaned rubbing her temple looking for bloodstains or signs of a struggle. It was coming back to her now. What a night. After Astrid’s ambush of Vivian’s mother, Esmé, had initiated the bitch’s dance, Vivian had snapped, tore into, and rode that bitch like a rodeo bull, popping Astrid’s eye like an overripe grape; inadvertently winning the Ordeal and by the Old Ways established herself Queen Bitch and Gabriel’s rightful mate in the process.
Everything she had been avoiding since... the Moon knows when.
Unable to accept this, Aiden’s rejection and the two murders, she had ran off into the night, through the woods until the drumming of her heart matched the fierce four-stepped beat, until the night bled into the day and unable to take one more step, until down she came. Her mud-caked feet and fingers could testify to that much. Yet sweeping a wolfish tongue, the faint taste of vitreous fluid and blood christened her pert red lips, she smiled defiantly.
Bitch got what she deserved.
But that had been weeks ago...
She dug through the earth besides the redbrick alcove, the searching for answers was on, particularly any answers in the form of any clothing she might have buried the night before. As she redressed, a sound rode on the back of her ear, slipping over the pale shell, and inside like a grouchy hermit. Stubbornly, she ignored it at first, changing the direction of her dressing, but as the noise grew more persistent, it cowing a reluctant glance in the direction of its birth.
But hearing the sharp crack of a branch, a telltale signs of life moving in the treeline surrounding her, snapped the blond from her reverie. Crouched down, peering out beyond her skewed flaxen tresses; scanning the woodline of oak, maple, elm, and evergreens, and put the big-bellied oak between herself and the noise to discourage the curious and the hungry creatures from getting too close, least she ripped their cute, fuzzy, little heads off...