[G1] Larkspur

Check out his Toyhou.se folder!

2023-12-31 23:51:42 Congratulations on your first week selling out, Larkspur. What a great way to start off 2024. I'm proud of you!

2024-01-07 21:32:40 Sold out again. Look at you go

2024-01-13 18:06:11 Third week in a row selling out Even refreshed a slot for someone. Did not see this coming for you at all Lark. Damn.

2024-01-28 00:42:22 You didn't do so well last week, but this week you sold out again You also had a refresh request!

2024-02-04 21:18:00 Sold out again

2024-02-18 11:16:44 Sold out + had a refresh request!

2024-02-25 14:09:14 Sold out

2024-03-03 18:09:33 Sold out

2024-03-07 Hit 2000 pups bred! Absolutely blown away by you Larkspur

2024-03-10 11:56:33 Sold out

2024-03-16 Surpassed King of the Faeries' highest puppies bred record!

2024-03-21 22:07:21 Sold out + refresh request

2024-03-28 11:46:11 Hit 800 stats

2024-04-19 15:03:36 Sold out + refresh request x2

Lore written by the amazing Shunkana (#110039)

"Gather round, young ones," Toadstool calls out as he settles down upon the boulder outside the mages' den. Though the sun is now setting, painting the sky in a swirl of purples and pinks, the surface of the stone is still warm as the little toad stretches out across it. He listens to the yipping of the pups a moment longer, watching them pull on each other's tails and ears as they tumble about, before letting out a low, booming croak. "Come now, don't you wish to hear the story of the Cursed Grove?"

This catches their attention. The wrestling youngsters finally break apart long enough to pile up at the base of the rock, disrupting Toadstool's storytelling with only the occasional yip and snarl as they jostle against one another for the best spot.

"That's better," he says. "It was two autumn's past when word of the Cursed Grove was first carried to me on the whisper of wings…"

A lone loon had stopped at a lake in the mages' territory during its migration south. From its beak, Toadstool first learned of the curse ravaging the land to the north. Loons, however, were known for embellishing, so Larkspur's loyal companion dismissed the claims as a tall-tale. And when a week had passed with no further word of the spreading waste, the little toad was confident in his decision to keep the information to himself.

It was not long after, however, that the whispers began again. Migratory birds of all sorts had watched their compatriots fall from the sky, as if struck by some unseen affliction, and each one mentioned the same blackened, dying forest.

It wasn't until the jays arrived, seeking refuge from their scourged home, that Toadstool became certain that the loon had not been lying. The curse was real, but that wasn't all. It was spreading.

Larkspur was startled to learn of the rot permeating the lands to the north and knew that something must be done to contain it. At first, he searched for another mage, older and wiser, to take up the job, but they were either too busy or too old to make such a journey. While he was young and inexperienced, he was also strong and full of life, making him the best wolf for the mission.

As he prepared for his journey, Larkspur ventured to the den of another mage, Sylvansong, seeking advice. The she-wolf was expecting pups any day, and her paws were far too weary to attend him on his voyage, but she was happy to help in another way. She provided him with a bundle, wrapped in damp leaves and tied with delicately woven clover stems. "This is Hope," the she-wolf told him, "And you will know when the time comes to use it."

The young wolf set out with Toadstool perched upon his back, and together they collected numerous herbs and flowers along the way. They made quick time on Larkspur's strong wings, but nothing could have prepared them for what they would discover.

The grove looked like it had been consumed by fire, the trees reduced to blackened timber and the undergrowth eaten away. Only everything was covered in a sickly, tar-like substance that dripped and oozed from the pores of the very earth. And just as the birds had warned, it was spreading. Half a prairie had already fallen to the scourge, its once lush grasses reduced to a thick layer of ash upon the ground.

There was no life to be seen anywhere. Mice did not dart amongst the foliage, nor birds circle the sky. Only the lonesome song of a few grasshoppers still clinging to the surviving strands of tall grass remained just outside the reach of the decay.

Toadstool and Larkspur set to work crafting a poultice outside the boundary of the cursed grove. After chewing the herbs and flowers into a pulp, the young mage laid down so that his companion could paint sigils of strength and protection across his face and fur.

From there, he entered the grove alone, for it was far too dangerous of an undertaking for Toadstool. But no sooner had he stepped across the threshold, placing just one paw down upon the rot and ash and ooze of that place, than he hopelessness took him. Sorrow so heavy, so smothering, that it weighed down upon Larkspur's back like the paw of a great and mighty bear. His legs buckled, faltering beneath the overwhelming feeling of his own helplessness so that his very nose was pressed down into the muck and grime.

As he lay there, sinking, it dawned on him that the only sound left in the world was that of his own frantic breathing and the pounding of the blood through his ears.

Life did not persist within the boundaries of this blight.

He could tell that his own life would soon be snuffed out too if he did not find his feet.

Panting, he looked over his shoulder, seeking to gain strength from the sight of Toadstool awaiting him, but instead what he saw only brought him further terror. The world he'd left behind had been consumed by the darkness and sorrow. The scourge had spread in all directions for as far as the eye could see in the time it had taken him to step into its grasp.

Had he truly failed? Only a few seconds had passed…

No. This had to be an illusion. The curse was trying to break him, to wear him down and make him surrender unto it. It wanted to take him.

But… not for nefarious reasons, Larkspur came to realize as he lay there, straining to keep his head above the muck that sought to ingest him.

It did not simply wish to devour and consume; it sought to be made whole. It did not want to be alone anymore.

This curse had been caused by pain - an immense, immeasurable pain - of that Larkspur had no doubt. Something here was hurting. Suffering. And whatever, or whomever, it was, they needed his help.

Closing his eyes and baring his teeth, Larkspur thought of all he had to live for and of the joy of living. He remembered the sight of his children, tumbling and prancing about as they played alongside a stream bed, and he raised one shaky paw from the black rot. He listened to the memory of his mother's heartbeat and her calm breathing as she cleaned his fur with her tongue when he was just a weanling, and he lifted his haunches from the muck. Warmth flowed through him, followed by the sensation of security, safety, and the love of his family as he remembered the time they huddled together in their den during a fierce winter storm.

Focusing on the good times past and of the hope for his family's future, Larkspur shook the scourge from his wings and walked onwards into the heart of the cursed lands. There he found a wolf made of stone, sitting hunched amongst a charred clearing. Black ooze weeped endlessly from her hollow, vacant eyes and soaked into the earth beneath her paws.

Another mage may have banished the spirit and brushed their paws clean of this nasty business, but Larkspur saw her not as the source of the curse, but as its first victim.

Determined to save her from her grief, he placed the bundle that he'd been given by Sylvansong between the she-wolf's stony paws before gingerly pulling apart the woven stems of clover to reveal the package's contents. He was surprised - and disappointed - to find that the 'hope' he had been promised was nothing more than a small pool of water. His spirits nearly fell once more beneath the weight of this sorrow, until the ripples across the surface finally stilled.

"Whatever you are grieving," Larkspur told the stony wolf, looking up from his own reflection with understanding, "you do not have to bear the weight of it alone." Smiling, he placed his head against hers. "I am here with you. Let me share your burden."


Toadstool would find him later, sleeping on a bed of wildflowers that had bloomed beneath him in rebellion against the blackened earth. Birdsong could be heard from that little clearing once more, and the toad swore that he could feel the memories of all the lives lost to the scourge were being restored. Their spirits were roaming the glade, bringing life back into it.

He and Larkspur followed the sound of laughter to a nearby brook where they found a black she-wolf watching two spectral pups splashing about as they played at the water's edge. She turned to them with a somber smile, thumping her tail against the ground in welcome, inviting them to sit with her. Together they watched the memory of her pups at play, clover and wildflowers springing to life beneath them.