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.


Way of the Warrior

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Warriors are not born and they are not made,
Warriors create themselves

No longer was he painted in the purest of ivories. Once, he would have been able to camoflauge into falling snow without a trace, and often he had been likened to that of a ghost – not only because of his coloration, but due to his disposition and ways. He was less than social, and only spoke when it was necessary. Because he had mainly grown up on his own, and without the help of others, he failed most aspects of social grace and often failed to note cues that most others saw easily. Sure, he could easily pick up on fear, aggression, tactics for attack… but he was at a loss when it came to humor, sarcasm… flirting…

But this… this he understood. The crimson that was now haphazardly splayed across his pelt was there by no accident, but instead by a choice. A decision of his own making. He knew that it would have consequences of its own – no, of his own. It had been his father who had been the aim of the attack. It had been his body that had collided with the opposing titan’s, sending the attacker far off course. It had been his flesh that had torn from Jorah’s teeth, and it had been his teeth that had torn Jorah’s flesh. And, although some of the blood surely was his… it had been Aindreas’ decision to put an eternal end to the threat from this varg and rip out his jugular.

There had been many fights that Aindreas had fought, and many battles that he had waged. But this… this had been the first varg that he had slain. Certainly, it had not been the first that he had seen, but it had been the first death that he had purposefully taken. His adoptive mother, Casey, had been killed right in front of his eyes when he had been but a pup. It had been terrifying, and yet it had all made sense to him with the twisted logic only a pup from a broken home could muster. For Casey had disrespected their current alpha before turning her back on the Alpha – a fatal choice if ever there was one. And it had been Aindreas’ birth father who had done the dirty deed that time – ever loyal was Kalgalath, even then. Perhaps that had been the seed planted to warp Aindreas’ mind into an obsessive sense of loyalty, respect, and command. Ever since, Aindreas had played the warrior, the servant, subservient to an Alpha. He had jumped from pack to pack as one by one, Alphas fell privy to their own greed, abandoned the pack, or died. Everything was different now, though. And for good, or for bad, the new era of Aindreas the King had all started with a murder.

How long had it been since that pack meeting had ended? How many days had he sat, allowing the caked on blood to dry and crackled upon his hairs? The brute had no notion as to why he had not bathed, cleansing himself of the evidence. But all knew what he had done. Whether it was right or wrong, however, was for none of them to decide for themselves. Only Tor and Fenris could judge him and place punishment or glory for his deed, but until he was dead and faced them, he would have to live with the action.

Aindreas shook his head, trying to understand what he had done. Not even when the dark hessian had been raping the fragile dove had Aindreas murdered. That had been a more vile crime, hadn’t it? What had changed? Between then and now, how had he changed? Slowly, his long limbs carried him over the dead lands. At the beginning of the fall it had all been so beautiful, but it had faded quickly after the drought that the summer had brought. The plants had no nutrition to keep them healthy and thusly had they dried out and died. The only places where life was still present was near the water sources of Blossom Forest – namely, the lake, the river, and Staircase Falls – the latter of the three heading off the previous too. But the lake held too many memories for Aindreas, as did the river, of a previous him. Of an Aindreas that was a follower instead of a leader, and so slowly he had been making his way to the spot where Kalgalath went all too often to think, the only place of the three that was left.

Staircase Falls.

He rose slowly, step by step, each paw carefully placed on the rocks which were slick with water and moss. It was so strange to see something flourishing where most of the rest of the Blossom Forest was dry and dead. A small smile rose to grace his lips but it faded as he finally ascended to the top and saw that another varg had already claimed the quiet sanctuary. Aindreas froze, not knowing what to say, or whether he should say anything. And so instead he stood there in silence awkwardly, shifting his weight from paw to the other.


Through trial and error, pain and suffering,
And their ability to conquer their own faults

|| Ivoro || Spring Grounds Epsilon Aurora Borealis Alpha|| Lonely Heart || Drizzt, Pandora, Sin, Famous, Psycho ||

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