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.

Celeste kept her orbs on his, watching as he dipped his cranium so their eyes could hold contact. Luckily Horizon seemed to have caught on to her jokingness, as he responded with words of play, and a petname, which the fae had not been expecting. ‘Royalty walks with nothing but grace, dearest Celeste,’ she feels her heart warm at the kindness he was showing her, but it only translated to a graceful nod, accepting his response to her mild tease. Celeste kept her movements slow, careful, as she watched him wind his way around her bodice, noticing details such as the shape of his tail, with all the colors changing in the moon’s light, and the muscles contracting and relaxing with each step the kalak took. Laughter came from Horizon, this time it was expected by the ghost, as she was close enough to see the downward arch of his chest to laugh. Once again the brute breathed in, this time exhaling his words ‘I’m from a land where all that roam are the tall and gangly. Where a wolf such as yourself could be considered short and stocky’ A smile slowly took place, one of amusement, as she was considered small for her breed. Celeste nodded, her cranium slightly to the right, letting her tongue bounce the words out, “I am considered short, and stocky,” her words were interrupted here by a small bout of giggling, a sound with little restraint in much but volume, “as you put it, among my own peoples, my friend.” She caught the wink at the last second, a little addition to the charming wolf’s display.

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

Horizon’s next words made a smile creep up onto her facade, this was definitely a wolf with a story. She could barely keep her excitement under wraps now; it started poking through in her eyes, in quick flashes of a smile and the ends of her lips. Watching Horizon sit down, she gave herself time to shift slightly, wrapping her tail around her paws, and settling back onto her back legs more than before. ‘As collector of stories I expect you have many to share? A trade of stories? One of mine for one of yours, though my one stipulation is the story must be of relation to you,' Now she can’t contain the elation, she can feel it filling up her lungs, making her come to truly life. It’s like she has taken a strong pull on very cold water after a long period of dehydration; it tingles, and prickles, making the hairs stand up. She feels it deep in her chest; laughter. It pours out of her, starting deep down, rising up to the surface. Laughter peals from her, coming in a soft wave of glass clinking against more glass. Her cranium bobs up, and down, and up, and down once more to complete her agreement to the request. The laughter slows down, blurring, fading, merging, into her words, “I would love to swap stories, thank you for asking!” She glances up, to the right, her tongue placed between her teeth, as she thinks of a good one to tell.

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.

“Ah, yes, I know. A one of light would seem to fit this beautiful murkiness about us quite well.” Celeste stretches out her back a bit, sitting up straighter to crack a couple of her bones. “Once, a time long before either of us was suckling, my grandfather saw something so beautifully intricate that he could find nothing else as more than simple. He was up in the topmost of the world, with the others of my kind. They were roaming, running, traversing the great land, eating when they stopped for the night, only to wake in the early hours to continue. After a great many years, many generations, they reached the ocean. It was the first time quite a few of them had seen such a wide expanse of water. My grandfather was the beginning of the arrival.” A breath is taken in, allowing for the words to settle, for the suspense of details to take root, “It was within the first hour of light, the sky was painted in delicate oranges, soft pinks, vibrant reds, and magnificent blues. The sun was rising over the ocean, it’s light bouncing off the frothing waves, blowing the smells directly into the pack. Watching this, seeing the ethereal beauty of the reflections of all the colors, paired with the snow glistening, he saw her. She was even more magnificent than the landscape, with the darkest grey fur, and the voice of windchimes. By far, the most breath-taking part of her was her eyes,” A sigh is administered, along with a slow shake of the cranium, “they had captured the very painting in the sky. My grandfather courted this goddess, falling in love with her more every time they spoke. The lady fell for him too, and they became entangled, black, and white. Ying, and yang.” Celeste stops here, allowing her voice to blend into the sounds of the night, gently releasing her listener to his own thoughts.

She doesn’t move, only looks into his mismatched pools, watching to see his soul react. The story had put a seemingly trance-like state over their immediate area; a silence had fallen over everything, the moon even lending a hand in making the land softly colored. The sound of the softest breeze goes past them, sending a small cloud of ash around their vicinity, almost cocooning them in the moment. Celeste waits for his response, not daring to break the moment herself.
"Talking." Observing. 'Listening.'
Poem by Alexander Pushkin


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