Bright Moon - a land sullied by mystery and the ravaging scars of a terrible fire. Abandoned as a pack land for years, the terra has been used as a gathering place for the brazen and bloodthirsty drawn there by the lingering pall of death. Yet from the ashes there comes an unordained phoenix, the rainbow hues of hope glinting in her mismatched globes. Through the obsidian drapes obscuring the scenery, she alone was able to catch the perfumed aroma of new life on the breeze and hear the sluggish streams flowing ever swifter into the morning.
Thus, with a purpose, she set out to map the incognita, discovering daily the extent of the reawakening and unearthing within herself a desire to return the landscape to its former glory. Now she stands tall as privileged Alpha of the lands, lording over the rock-strewn prairie and bountiful forests with a firm but gentle paw.
Having finally realized her deepest longing to be a queen, Satowra is focused solely on the revival and maintenance of the Bright Moon Pack. Her question to each prospective warrior that comes to the border is simple:
"Do you have what it takes?"
IP: 76.243.46.249
Posted on February 1, 2012 at 03:42:48 AM by KERSHOV
 | |
“I had never believed Bright Moon to be a pack that handed out ranks indiscriminately. To be quite honest, I would expect she-wolves that take such pride in their territory to be ranked.” His voice dripped out in solemn icicles, no trace of insincerity or unctuous lying to be heard. Ker did not say nice things just to look like an ass. He complimented the faes while flattering their pack—usually a nice move when one was toying with the idea of an alliance. Regardless if whatever Bright Moon’s Alpha decided, Kershov might yet win supporters in another land. The bleached beast almost asked the name of their Leader . . . but fortunately he caught himself. He preferred not to offend the Bright Moon warriors by neglecting to inquire about their own titles; such knowledge would help him to forge positive relations on a commoner’s level. “What might your names be? I feel terribly rude not to address soldiers by their proper monikers.” Quickly, as if in distracted thought, Kershov let his pitch-glass windows roam just over his shoulder, back toward his kingdom. Sure enough, his wolves were crouched just inside the wasteland. Waiting for their orders. Good subalterns. Even Marx, the prisoner, was pulling his weight. The sight brought another strange, uncharacteristic pang to Ker’s chest, reminding him of the day he’d mandated the coal-dusted dragon’s imprisonment. Half rage . . . half something else, something similar to pride but too possessive, too freshly wounded to be anything purely good. The ivory gladiator decided it was vicious satisfaction he felt, satisfaction at having one of his own back, satisfaction at knowing such an admirable, strong, loyal soldier was taking his punishment like a real male. Marx could have easily challenged his Alpha, spit in the ravaged face, refused to comply. But he hadn’t. And at the determined expression on the silver-eyed brute’s face, Kershov knew that—though Marx might resent his fate—he had enough dignity to accept it. Good, good subalterns. A vague perfume of blood and danger wafted through the otherwise calm air. Ker’s bottomless black eyes were trained on the pair of Bright Moon femmes once more, so he sensed rather than saw ‘Lolani approach the scene. There was another wolfess the King would need to talk to privately . . . her fatal aura intrigued him, and it would be a lie to say Kershov wasn’t curious about her tundra past. Satellites pivoted to hear the princess take her position with the other Abendrot fighters. That meant Kershov also detected one of the first things Marx had said this entire time. Surprise passed as a mild blink past Ker’s subconscious before his concentration was interrupted by a different titan, this one earth-toned. The poor male stumbled upon the meeting with acute anxiety written across his face. He probably thought that Abendrot was staging an invasion or something. Why not? Kershov had an impressive gathering of tough wolves behind him: this poor guy had two. The King parted his torn jaws to soothe the stranger—only to fall silent as Marx spoke up yet again. Emotionless obsidian stare slid slowly toward the charcoal stud. Not judging. Not angry. Simply . . . observing. Marx was wagging his tail: an action Kershov had thought up until this point was physically impossible for the stony soldier. Well played . . . . When Marx stepped closer to Bright Moon, Ker didn’t even flinch. Still watching . . . . Marx glanced toward his superior, and still Kershov didn’t react, posture calm and mask coldly bland. He might have been furious. Or, more likely, the alabaster gangster didn’t care. Ker allowed Marx to see that he wouldn’t get his handsome mug ripped off for talking. The deserter had been punished for deserting. If anything, Kershov wanted Marx to make more of an effort to speak with his packmates—despite the fact that they’d all basically been given orders to scorn him should he try. Once Marx had turned back to his conversation with ‘Lo, Kershov drew a subtle, glacial grin across his maw. What did you think would happen, Sir Marx? Did you anticipate retribution from your Alpha? | |
Replies:
There have been no replies.
Post a reply:
<--
-->