Feral Heart

For those that we love, we must... Get away.~
A story by Kekitan, or rather, myself; I hold all copyright to this story and you may not reproduce, modify, or repost it without my permission. Nor claim it as your own, at any time.
If you wish to share this story, please redirect them to this post.

I'll be updating this periodically. When I have time, of course.

-----------------------------

"Shall we tell them the story of Italy hill?" A gentle voice asked, as gentle as the breeze wisping fur, and twice as beautiful.
"I would 'supose..." A gruff voice replied, his tongue moving like sandpaper over the words that he spoke. Withering them away into dust.
"It is a story of many twists and turns, well, not really. More like a legend told to kits during they're first nightfall, one they will not soon forget."
"Anyhow, there is a wolf on Italy hill. You may call him, a guardian. Some call him the lost traveler. Others, well... They just tend not to associate with him."
"Yes, he's quite interesting..." Came a third voice still, he made jest and merriment out of this sad story in telling, and as he said it. His voice slowly drummed off into laughter.
"Mind your manners!" The second voice snapped, gruff as ever with a edge like that of the sharpest claws. "You cannot use this for your merry making!"

The voice continued to laugh and laugh, as it slowly faded into nothing. It was as light as a feather, skipping on the breeze.

"Anyhow..." The first voice continued, "Some tend not to associate with him, and for good reason. He is like me, kind... And he is like him, as gruff as sandpaper on fur. He sits on that hill, waiting to be found."

"For, it is the hill of the lost!" Interjected a forth, more knowledgeable sounding than the others; A crowd joined to meet him at this.

"Quiet down... Quiet down... Too much commotion and we might wake him!" The first voice called to the others, and they all quieted in respect.

"Now, where was I? Oh, yes... He is waiting to be found! Italy Hill is the place where lost souls are ensnared. Those poor, lost souls..." The voice trailed off as another tattered into existence

"They're obviously not poor enough! They're not dead yet..." This voice sounded gruff and wet, like a river of hate that slowly wound though the trees in a forest of sorrow. He was, indeed, Misery.

The first voice sighed, "Misery, your part is well played. But, not yet needed." It said and was soon snuffed out.

"Why ever so not?" Asked Misery, no reply was heard. "Oh, right..." He snickered. "I shall continue the story then!"

The other voices gasped at what he had done. No one dared say anything however, the fits of the one above could be felt throughout they're small, bleak realm.

-----------------------------