When solid ground grows soft with emerald moss and rivulets of black mud, and coffee-colored water pours slowly around the trunks of densely carpeted trees, this marks the beginning of Laod Mor: the swamp of Blossom Forest. Time itself seems to slow to a soporific crawl . . . the humid jungle air grows stagnant, thick with the scent of rich flooded earth and an abundance of green things that can be found nowhere else—except perhaps Caidir Olc. In some areas of the swamp, water rises so high the only way to cross it is to crawl across fallen logs or massive roots arching from their liquid beds; in other places a wolf might wade easily through the mire—or find a fortunate stretch of mostly dry earth. Pieces of the great river, Glaesfaet Sceawere, also slice through from time to time: small falls that feed into surprisingly clear pools, only to terminate into tar-like pits. Of course, Laod Mor’s beauty shines brightest at night. Here, fireflies gather at all times of the year . . . suffusing the shadowy place with millions of twinkling lights.

Those looking to hunt here of course find a myriad of water prey, including caiman, turtles, fish, crayfish, otters, and toads.


Setting Fire to our Insides for Fun

Setting fire to our insides for fun

Cliche was too busy mumbling to herself like a madwoman to sense the other varg approaching her. The sound of a soft, worried voice snapped her back to reality and she jerked quickly as if to get away from the intrusion. Her feet slipped on the rough rock leaving her paw pads a little scraped up - but she didn't really notice. Instead her wide, fiery gaze turned on the female standing before her. She seemed kind, but first impressions meant nothing to her anymore. No one is ever what or whom they appear to be. Still, she tried to remain polite even if she couldn't conceal the biting edge that usual accompanied her voice.

Yes. I'm quite alright, thank you. Just having a moment to think.

Quietly she rose from her haunches and moved to be face to face with her unexpected visitor maintaining a respectful, and safe, distance. A slight sting rose up her legs from her front paws, but she wrote it off. Such was not as great a concern as interacting with a stranger. A stranger who appeared to be carrying a pile of weeds. Cliche's ivory head tilted slightly to one side as she inspected the femme, confusion written on her delicate features. Curious for further information, yet not wanting to pry, she decided to give away her own calling and hope for her companion's name in return.

Sorry. It was rather rude of me not to introduce myself. My name's Cliche. Who might you be?


And if you're in love, then you are the lucky one,
'Cause most of us are bitter over someone.
Setting fire to our insides for fun,
To distract our hearts from ever missing them.
But I'm forever missing him.

And you caused it.

/ Fae / Teen / Mate / Offspring / Pack / Rank /


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