Romance is in the air...this is probably the most beautiful and scenic place in Blossom Forest. For the athletic and determined to come with their mates, for time away from pups. Only adults may come here; some of the ledges are too far apart for teens or pups to cross and some too high to scale.
IP: 76.5.117.18
Posted on March 18, 2016 at 02:24:06 AM by l o s a
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She noted the change in his tone immediately, that soothing deep-current river condensing into an uneasy rumble like stones grinding hard against one another in too tight a space. The ballerina stopped in her tracks, deep amethyst pools glittering as she peered warily back over her shoulder. Hurricane could snag her tail in his fangs and snap her spine like a string of pearls. Perhaps the brute had been wavering on the edge of a mental break all this time, and Losa had unwittingly shoved him over the edge with her obnoxious babbling. Her chocolate-hued plumage lifted along her nape with a nervous flutter. And the title he chose to address her by . . . “I . . . I’m not . . .” Something launched within her—a flurry of commotion, a thousand memories taking flight into the tumultuous galaxy of her mind and erupting into shattered supernovas as they battled for their proper place. The word rang in her ears, hear heart, her core—princess—and she couldn’t recall if it had been spoken in a voice smoother than silk or growled in brittle, metal anger. Hadn’t she dreamed of that title . . . ? Perhaps her parents had whispered it to her affectionately as she lay down to sleep, and the grand word had woven itself into everything like a slender vine climbing over many branches. Losa shook her head, flooded with heat and mortification, wanting to kill herself for this overly dramatic reaction. Silly fool. Lots of things had struck her with this sort of heart-stopping poignancy: the certain way a ray of sunlight would spill over the mountains, a thread of a “familiar” scent, a phrase she happened to overhear. All at once she would find herself gasping for air, the world suspended around her . . . and then the feeling would pass just as unexpectedly, leaving Losa numb and stranded once more. Surely this was one of those bizarre, dreamlike moments. De ja vu without true meaning. Yet when Losa brought her glimmering gaze back to Hurricane and saw him dipping into a more respectful stance . . . An arrow sped into her breast. Horror etched itself into her face. “Stop that.” The words were faint and weak, as if pulled from the deepest part of Losa’s abdomen. Lightning arced through her bloodstream, a powerful sense of recognition making her slim limbs quake and her insides writhe with nausea. She thought she had seen this before—a knight carved of purest obsidian kneeling before her with eyes the color of electricity. Never using her name, only referring to her by her title. Princess. Princess. Princess. “I’m not a p-princess,” Losa continued in a slightly stronger voice, turning her coal-dusted muzzle upward as if the absurdity of the notion offended her. “You don’t have to pose that way. Please?” The last word was an almost fearful plea, as if the girl worried Hurricane would abruptly carve a chasm between them and stop treating her like . . . well . . . not equals, exactly. She clearly wasn’t in any way equal to the colossal, magnificent titan. But if the dragon thought her royalty, maybe he wouldn’t come as close to her, speak to her so easily, allow her to touch him as she had been. As foolish as her girlish concerns were, Losa clung to them. She doubted a princess could interact with her subject the way she and Hurricane had been carefully going about each other. She craved the contact she managed to steal from Hurricane’s rich midnight pelt. Brushing against him, even accidentally, was to remind herself that they were both real. Losa didn’t want to be hoisted up on a pedestal. Then she’d be too far away. Ebony gloved pillars carried her effortlessly toward the stygian beast until they were facing each other once more. She reached out one delicately boned paw to lightly bat Hurricane upon his crown, an awkward and uncomfortable pout tugging at her velveteen muzzle. “Get up, you loon. Are we finding something to eat, or not?” And before he could answer her, the sable dancer blurted out another stupid comment, her canvas flaring with embarrassed warmth. “Don’t worry about the scratch. I promise I won’t try to run from you again.” |
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