Bow before Shakespeare

A Deafening Silence

Perth was... a forest. Indeed it was a forest. The most foresty forest he ever did see, resplendent with snow-laden trees and delightful cottages set into the thick foliage. But it was, without a shadow of a doubt, a scene he'd witnessed time and time again. He'd grown a tad bored of the Highland's quaint, rural charm. What separated a town from a small, outlying village was perhaps an extra cottage or two. Maybe a singular main road, or a throng of shopkeepers interested in bartering for herbs and books and scraps of fabric.

And it was cold, painfully so. Having lived his life in the mainlands, he had often felt warm in the winters. Here, his toes were growing numb and he complained of the wind. A flurry of snow decorated his brow and back and he scowled at surrounding trees for having the audacity to not shield him. Roisin, to her credit, had warned him of this. He had waved her off and carried on.

Now, he bitterly thought about demanding their return. But they'd come so far, damn it!

So he'd stay here within this little tavern whilst Roisin went to fetch something to trade for food and water.

The floorboards creaked beneath his paws as he found himself a spot by a crackling fire, one tended by an old wolf that had a tendency to laugh to himself. Elias' lip curled slightly at the sight, but he was desperate enough to linger if only for the warmth.

code by claerie , image by Aaron Burden

@Kilnus

Ah, to be a yearling again and dreaming to travel the world. Even now, much older and more conscious of the world around him, the ardent heart of the artistic adventurer could not be smothered. From the moment he had arrived at the dreary Sussex, Kilnus’ senses seemed poised to carry the wolf wherever inspiration might be hiding from him. Yes, it was as if he were a parasite, seeking to become more than a mere nuisance, but to consume all that he could now lay claim to. Why shall he wait with patience, when his muse knew no such word? At the mere mention of the different wolves and their ways of life, of the struggle of voices and thoughts, the incessant clashing and clamoring, oh what wondrous music it seemed to make. And, having the ears for the arts that he did, he knew his role was to be an audience, a listener to a most subtle concerto. That, he surmised, would be how he would find the blossom to his legacy, his magnum opus.

They spoke of the Highlands, the whispers, as a rugged place, yet one not without its own charms. Hardy, the people were said to be. Exotic, their customs. Passionate, their lovers. Delicate, their dancers. Untold, their stories. No wolf needed to put it in such a way, surely, because such words they could not seem to find for the quotidian. After all, why should one think critically about that which they see each and every day, if they are never pushed to question it, to reconsider it? A novel perspective, one of a foreigner, one whose passions might direct him to attempt such a brave task, it just might work. He had done some wandering around the lands they called Perth, noting their grand trees, crumbling mounds of mystery, destitute dens and quiet wolves. One could only pretend to think that this snow and this cold could so effortlessly hide its hidden beauty! Especially from a conduit of the arts, no less.

But, ever was it tiring, freezing, to gawk from place to place, onlooker to onlooker. The wiser, or perhaps less adventurous, knew to stay out of the biting cold, even if there were signs that change in the weather were upon them. While the biting chill should have bothered Kilnus more than it had, he acknowledged it for what it was, a spirit of promise, of sign of encouragement, to go further and further on. He would find what he would be looking for, but… a break from this ambling was in order, if but for some time. And what better way would there be than a brief stop at a public house. Perhaps, the fireplace that bellowed signals to the heavens might not be the only source of kindling for the fire that lay within his heart. Oh how fun it would be, to truly be within the realm of these so-called Highlanders, and to learn more of their curious creed.

It was a diminutive space, sooty, scenting far more different than that picaresque Drunken Seagull he had beheld not too long ago. He might have been drawn to the promise of nourishment or of substances known to aptly broaden one’s thoughts. But, the fire, that was what he had sought to be near, and he was not alone. Besides the cream-colored wanderlust-stricken playwright, other wolves had made their comforts known beside the flames. An older looking wolf, for one, and his younger, thinner companion, a pelt not too unlike the weather. What had brought him to this place, Kilnus wondered. Was he too one of these Highlanders, or was he a traveler not unlike himself? Oh what might the audiences wish to see him cast as? Would be the hero to a tale of triumph or of downfall? A steadfast supporting role, a friend who gives his life in sacrifice, or his sympathy in betrayal? Yes, he was a curious one, the thin wolf. But, patience, dear Kilnus, patience.

Making his way slowly towards the embers, Kilnus found his spot amongst the already cramped masses, not so much begging for a warmth to his body as that to his muse. The older male, the vestal virgin to the flame, he found the scene amusing. A metaphor, perhaps, that only he saw, when he gazed upon the room. And the other, his little seed? Nothing, not a word, just a gazer into the flames, perhaps. Or, was he blissfully unaware that his silence had caught Kilnus’ attention? Or, perhaps this was his speech in its own right. A shame, that he had to lacerate the display with words of his own. “And what do you think he laughs about,” Kilnus whispered quietly, following the moment of silence.