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Link to Wolf: Mercy!
(Optional) Lore about your wolf:
(Optional) Desired vibe of poem: dramatic ig, but you can do anything you want
LORE:
She was born then, in the darkness of the night. Twice the size of any other pup in the litter, and eyes so bright they could compare to the moon.
“Mercy.” Muttered a wolf.
And then, a bright, blinding flash. There came the reply. A flash, a shriek, and a mournful howl. There it came, a bird, not just any bird- it was a crow.
“Mercy,” the word meant nothing to the wolf saying it, but to the pup? It meant death, yet they didn’t know it.
And so it began, on that fateful night, the return of the lost fae queen.
The wind howled, the pup howled with.
Fur so silver, so bright, so pure, that one strike could change it forever. It shimmered like snow in the morning light. Even the stars seemed reluctant to look away as if they remembered, remembered the old fae queen, buried beneath the thorns and roses.
The crow landed,
Not upon the Earth,
But upon the nest,
In which Mercy was born.
It tilted its head,
And began to caw,
Once,
Twice,
And lifted to the skies.
The forest was silent without the call of the crow. Everyone waited for it, for the wail of the newborn pup, for it to wither and die.
She didn’t. None had survived the call of the crow, but she did.
“The queen rises.” One wolf muttered.
Another wolf sniffed. “The storms brew. The lightning shall strike the moment she howls.”
As though the heavens were listening. She howled as the clock struck midnight. The skies darkened, the clouds gathered. A strike, a fierce white strike struck her.
A thunderous boom echoed through the night sky. The wolves gasped and held their breath.
One second passed, then another, until the pup took in a breath.
The tension was broken by a spotted wolf, “She survived! The queen of the fae rises once more!”
“These fools.” She thought, “How ignorant they are. I am not her. I am not the Red One. I am Mercy, and they shall laugh at the irony of how I shall never give anyone mercy.”
