May 11, 2014 22:24:20 GMT -5
Post by »Image on May 11, 2014 22:24:20 GMT -5
» C H A L A N D R A
"What is your name?"
As she sat beneath the sun considering her response, sheer anger with the place practically consumed her. Einheit, as she'd been quick to determine, was nothing more than endless stretches of sand and even longer lengths of empty, empty time. Everything lingered here. There was nothing to be done with a respect to typical constraints, and the stifling air weighed activities down as if driven steadily heavier by the beating sun. To top the whole thing off, the damn heat was everywhere. It followed her when she hunted for her appointed alpha and when she laid down for an afternoon nap, should Sinead the Great be so considerate of her sklavin's needs. It was both in the depths of the dens and above the cavernous ground, in her thick forest fur and in every long, scratching breath that was equal parts necessity and want. It was, like Sinead's current reign, inescapable.
The voice was like rocks as it spoke, grating and hoarse against the stillness of the desert. It almost sounded like a cry for help, a quick staccato note where three long syllables had once been slurred. There wasn't a trace of reverberation either and the noise simply ceased to be, swallowed by the great vastness of the sand and grains that stretched out around the pair of wolves. From above, the harsh sunlight beat down relentlessly if not unnaturally strong, yet the she-wolf's blinks were slow and her breathing slower still; she had in some way become acclimated to the environment over the weeks of her enslavement. With her blue eyes narrowed downward, Chalandra explained further before waiting for a further command.
"My name is Chalandra."
From the beginning of the whole process, she had avoided giving Sinead her name. Chalandra herself wasn't even sure why exactly, but she held it unreasonably close to her, as if to share it with the Einheit alpha would spoil it or change it in some fashion. Maybe in some way, it had been her one last stand for freedom: deny what her oppressor wanted the most. Every morning Sinead had asked her the same question. And every morning she had been greeted with the same, stinging silence that only Chalandra's arrogant brows and challenging stare could contrive. She had been beat, she had been scratched, she had been run--run until her lungs screamed wildly and she collapsed from the effort. But she had not given in. Not until now. This morning she'd woken up with different thoughts on her mind, thoughts of compliance and less agony at resisting the inevitable. There was a strong, beating desire to save not only herself, but the rumblings of life she felt growing within.
Two whole moons she had been stuck in this god-forsaken land as a true sklavin through and through, with nothing more than her own grit to survive with. She'd been on her own in dealing with Sinead's temper and wild demands until quite recently, although she wasn't sure the new sensation was anything but a rather negative addition to the whole scenario. Chalandra, with all the current mix of misgivings, wasn't even sure it had been real. She'd first felt the kick in her stomach a few days ago (although it could have been more, since she always lost count of the rising sun after three or four times before she'd be resigned to begin the count anew for sanity's sake) and the suddenness of it had startled her so bad that she'd yelped out loud during a hunt. The annoyance had cost her a sharp swat over the ears and Chalandra's pelt had burned with a mix of self-pity and anxious uncertainty. She couldn't be. She simply couldn't be. The possibly of being pregnant had never been a fear of hers previous to then, and the sheer surprise of the whole ordeal threatened to knock her over like another dreaded heat wave.
Whatever the outcome would be, Chalandra forced herself to think of other things. Her mind almost immediately drifted to thoughts of water. She had been a whole day without water, due to her inability to hold back a snarl at Sinead for one thing or another the day before. It was always something she messed up. She didn't greet her dominor correctly, she was too slow at daily sprints, or the inadequacy of a hunt was her fault--even the lack of a real pack could be attributed to her presence. Chalandra inhaled quietly, now trying to ignore the black speckles that danced at the edge of her vision. The desert's glistening golden grains shifted and tilted in her vision for a moment before realigning themselves. And still, she waited. In a sense, she'd not only grown comfortable with the environment in her time here (if comfortable was what this kind of functioning was), but almost wildly accepting of her role in Einheit's ranks. And amongst everything else, her previous thoughts and temptations regarding Nirco had dwindled to nothing other than a faded, dark figure that slipped in and out of her dreams. He was without a face, without features, without that silent, brooding personality that she'd relished all those breaths ago. He was nothing, and here, in this place, neither was she.