her life had never been a steady thing, born to a now dead world and then disdaining the bond of her nephew in the face of oncoming war. she is of no other talent than calmness where her nephew and father failed and survival in face of all adversity. there is beauty, but beauty did not last and even her gift of fate of exotic appearance would one day fail her. one day she would be rickety and unable to run in that double-gallop that so few wolves could ever claim.
the day was coming that she could not hope that tesseract would be turned from his vacant mate in preference of her gemstone faceted eyes and sleek, slender black form.
but till then, his call would summon her on the swiftest feet in all glorall.
she had woken in the wake of the storm with salty fur on the island she had once again made a den for herself within. the echoes of a howl reached her ears despite the rock and earth that hemmed her in and kept her only the barest bit damp. the trees atop the highest point near to where one could see the sheer cliffs of diveen and the sheer cliffs across the rivermouth of glorall -- these were the sentinels of her den and their thick underbrush and pine needle canopy kept her well.
she raced to the gull-cliffs, tongue lolling from her brisk rise, and stared out towards where the other shore held a single white wolf.
her own head was thrown back, then, her higher alto voice crossing the salty, watery, split to reach out at him before she stepped back a few paces. she then bolted to grasp at a gull on her way down to the waters through which she needed to swim, hitting the surf with a rather grand splash and a successful catch of a no-longer-thrashing gull.
the swim is easy, if a little cold, and it does occur to her that if she did not want to be parted from tesseract, she would need to either make a new den on the mainland or convince him that his mate, his queen, was no longer worthy of his bond to her… if anyone could be at all. he deserved better than the disregard of this missing caligula. he deserved better than wandering and defending this place alone. he deserved more than a passing comment to his mate’s survival.
walking up the sandy beach towards him with white gull prize in her jaws, she ducks her elegant head on her just a little-longer neck, her tail sweeping at her hocks in a wag to offer him better than the crustacean version of the beaches of normandy. birds were her specialty and she was glad to offer it to him now. she drops it, the neck twisting oddly so that looking at it made her flinch just a little away from the sight, and looks to him instead. “the winter will not be kind to the shorelines this year...” she posed idly. “my den is happily too high to cause much trouble save for the swim, though.”
THE LAST DAUGHTER OF MIROVIS
female | 8 years | 37 inches | 91 pounds
velite of glorall | fond of tesseract
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