Many wolves looking for relaxation come to Blossom Field. A gentle breeze vibrating the blossoming flowers is quite a sight to see and it is quite a favourite for wolves to come with their mates.
A recent fire has ruined the scenery, half the field covered with soot and marked with scars of the flames. The other half is untouched, however.
IP: 70.56.224.240
Posted on November 29, 2013 at 05:53:01 PM by RAAVA
Ice. The dangerously cold, brutal element. As long slender stilts tread gently over the breakable glass that nature provided for itself, cracks erupted beneath the weight placed upon them. Instantly the ess danced away from the sound, moving to the left, then dashing forward, claws barely scraping the surface. Perhaps it would seem to an outsider that a ghost had risen from the lake’s depths, taken off and left a trail of disaster behind it. Like that of an old fairy tale, the ice jutted from the frozen lake, obstacles to overcome. Yet the woman did not hesitate to find herself in such a situation. This was no merciful mother that would warmly open her arms to a lost child. This was Wolfbane’s doing. Tor had sent her daughter to Earth once more, and the female goddess was grieving the loss of her daughter. Spring would return again when Sita finally was released from the devil’s grip. But for now, Raava was in a pinch. Ice is a varg’s most undesired deathbed. It is said that one cannot reach Tor nor Fenris if they are swallowed by ice. When the pale femme touched land, she looked over her shoulder with a hoarfrost gaze and watched as the ice began to freeze once more. A trap that’s what it was. Travelling onward, the mute moved with danseuse-like grace, only touching the ground when she so found it necessary to make noise. Perhaps this was just to let herself know that she was still there. That she was still alive and well off. That she had not fallen into the icy depths of the lake, nor had she been dismembered by foreign wolflings. White as freshly fallen snow, the miss moved with the needle of the compass, allowing herself to go wherever she may find herself going. After all, that was what fate was, was it not? It was a dangerous business in the first place to put paw upon the soil. Wherever she was going, it was by her own story. That was all she ever needed to know. She believed that was all she needed to know—and so it was. She found herself at the bridge between the forest and the field. And though the wind screamed in her delicate domes, she would not back down from wherever she was heading. So she pressed onward. Perservering pillars moved to the pace of her own heartbeat. Raava was a simple soul with a dark background, as almost everyone else in this world has, and a strange appearance. Her markings were given to her when she was first conceived. Though by what creature she knew not of, as she had not been raised by a family as most others are. They decorated her pale white sides with strange elegant strokes, much like that of a brush sworn to calligraphy. And on her dial was the most beautiful embroidery of all, yet it too was as ashen and lightweight as the nearly symmetrical ones on both of her sides. All white, with blue eyes. Raava was a sight to see. Especially being a kalak, this was strange. And yet as this ghost maiden travelled, the frost gathering on her damp pillars and encasing the wound on her shoulder with a sort of ice bandage, she found that she was not alone. In the midst of the field, right before her eyes, was a woman just her kind. Raava stared. She had never seen anything so wonderful in her life. Fur of crimson and charcoal, the body of a deer and the ears of a fox. Interesting. The high cheekboned miss stopped her travelling at once and cocked her head to the side, her listeners straight forward, willing to listen to whatever this creature had to say, if anything at all. She looked (now as the lady of light had the time to take her in) troubled almost. Or perhaps a little disappointed. Whatever it was that she was feeling, Raava could also feel. The wanderer was nothing more than a soul meandering amidst the wreckage of the earth... And she found herself right beside the femme. The pure valkyrie with not a smidge of black on her stilts, but only the ashen birth marks to soil her cloak, lowered herself to a seat and tilted her head a little. Perhaps this one did not wish to have the presence of company. And that was why Raava, in her own way, had asked. Of course, this one would not speak. She would not call and she would not answer. The reason for the wounds already on her were because of this small, trivial reason. She had not refused, but she had not given a reply to the last bunch who had demanded her name from her. And a gash along her shoulder line proved as much. But the willingness to try again was something that Raava was extraordinarily good at. Perseverance when even the elements were against her. And so the kalak waited, silently. Patiently. Indefinitely, if she must.  |
Replies:
- They Dance Før Me... - By Doll November 30, 2013 at 07:21:17 PM
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