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.


A Handmaiden's Tale

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Olya had nearly jumped herself at the sound of the cracking wood - it had terrified her despite the fact that she had been the cause of the sound herself. Her pools had frantically swept up to the ledge where the strange varg had lain and was disconcerted to find matching pools staring back at her, focused. This ess appeared amused, a look that Olya knew all too well - it was a mask worn all too often upon the facade of her previous master and her favorites whenever they had tortured her. Olya expected any minute for the stranger to leap down and give chase - it would not be hard considering Olya had been taught well to never flee from... well from them. The consequences were always worse when she did. But they liked her screaming, her crying - at least that much she was allowed to keep.

'I mean you no harm hun. Please get up, my bark is worse than my bite.'

Olya flinched at the sound of the ess' voice, but curiosity found a strong hold within her - never had she ever been told anything of that nature before. The kalaks as a whole were known as manipulative, among other descriptive terms, but with Olya they had never had a reason to lie. They knew they were going to torture and abuse her, and so had she. The threatening of such actions was nearly as rewarding to her betters as actually filling them out. Never did they get bored or run out of knew ideas - it had been a constant cycle of playing the - who has the best imagination - game. But this... this must be a trap. Right? Olya muttered to herself "I highly doubt that". She knew what words felt like and what bites felt like. Though the words nearly always instilled more fear and trepidation within her, it was preferable to the actual pain. Perhaps her one saving grace was that she had no family to speak of and thus they had no additional leverage over her. If they had, perhaps the threats would have been worse.

'My name's Camille. What' your name dear?'

Olya flinched again, expecting... something, anything to happen, but it didn't. Slowly, she raised her head - this was, afterall, a mudblood, a lower being than herself. Even the lowliest of kalaks were surely better than the best of the other lesser breeds. Perhaps she truly meant no harm. Slowly, carefully, Olya raised herself a little taller. "I'm Olya, Handmaiden to the Princess Lilith of the Faraway Clan. I just need some water, I cannot be seen conversing with the likes of you." There was no venom in her voice, only simple and pure (albeit misguided) logic. Another of the indoctrinations had taught her about the evil of such mudbloods, about their impurities and inferiority. They were never to be trusted (although what kalak was ever to be trusted either) and they were useful only as fodder for the army. They were the first sent in, the first to die. They were slaves just as she was, but not the type that she was allowed to interact with. "If the Council finds out my hide will be made into a rug for beneath Farant's p-" Olya paused right before she said 'paws'. Never again would Farant be able to hold sway over her. He had captured her as a pup and been the stuff of nightmares to her. Lilith had been meant to be his betrothed and thus Olya had been a gift to Lilith. But Farant was no more - Farant was dead, killed by one of his own sons. An uncharacteristic smirk crossed her kissers only briefly before she remembered she was breaking one of the rules of the Council by acknowledging a runaway slave. "The Council will find you, you know."

OOC - Olya thinks that any non-kalak is a slave who escaped from one of the packs within one of the kalak clans just FYI. She doesn't realize they are free, never been a slave, etc. All part of the indoctrination thanks to maned wolf society.

.:. I was a gift my my mistress .:. And though she treats me well .:. It's impossible to forget I'm a slave .:.
||Olya|| ||Handmaiden Loyal to Lillith|| || No heart || || No Pack || Slave ||


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