Once this place used to hold the yin and yang scenery of Blossom Field. Now, there are miles of winding tundra. To the north, this tundra is cruel and dry, with wisping weaves of tall grasses. The ground is cracked and cold, and it hardly is ever moistened by dearly desired rainfall. To the south, the tundra becomes more prosperous - meadows of flowers and herbs grace the ground. Part of this connects near Elebeam Weargtreow - however it is an impassible field of poppy, which will put any wolf trying to cross it into a deep slumber, and eventually die.

Those looking to hunt here will find mice, snakes, and rabbits, along with pronghorns, bison, and javalinas.


. N U M B .


I have outlasted all desire,
My dreams and I have grown apart;
My grief alone is left entire,
The gleamings of an empty heart.

One white paw after another. The toes become a dusty grey by the time she reaches a suitable looking place for finding interesting stories. She pauses in the center of a large field of flowers, her apathetic gaze landing on many wolves, none seeming to carry the fire of a captivating tale within them. Blue orbs dance over to the charred side, her lips lift into an amused expression; there’s a story to be told here. Celeste glances towards the west, watching the sun go to sleep. Once Sol is safely hidden away, she looks around the burnt section, eyes finally lighting on a silhouette of what seemed to be a very stretched out wolf. She tilts her head to the side, studying the creature moving about, trying to discern if they would be worth her time. Pillars start to move, gracefully carrying the white ‘ess towards the strange canine, never going faster or slower than when she began. There was quite some space between the two, but the light of the moon rising gave her enough to place her feet properly. After what was probably only a couple minutes of traversing the field, her bodice was only a couple hundred feet away from the other lupus. She slowed down, going to only a very slow walk, allowing her eyes to take in what she had happened upon.

The storms of ruthless dispensation
Have struck my flowery garland numb,
I live in lonely desolation
And wonder when my end will come.

The other was much taller than her, probably a good ten inches taller, maybe even more so. Celeste lowered her bodice closer to the ground, to observe his outer appearance from safety, before approaching him. He was so oddly built, with tooth-pick black stockings, and a body of flame and ash. The canine’s ears were much bigger than hers, and his tail looked to be made more of fur than bone or muscle. This creature was something she had never before laid eyes upon, making him of particular interest to the collector of stories. She decided from the way he carried himself, and from his foreignness, that he must have at least one story of good use to her. Celeste brought her frame back up from the ashes, and floated towards him, her muscles tensed, prepared to flee, if he turned out to be a threat. She opened her muzzle, blue orbs never leaving his body, and spoke in a soft, lilting voice. “Hello there, wanderer. I am Celeste.”

Thus on a naked tree-limb, blasted
By tardy winter's whistling chill,
A single leaf which has outlasted
Its season will be trembling still.

"Talking." Observing. 'Listening.'
Poem by Alexander Pushkin


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