Where once the southern border of Blossom Forest was made by Leisure Lake, the magical rearrangement of the lands has laid there instead a vast, uncrossable ocean. The shore differs as you travel along it. Tall mountainous cliffs arise on the western part and at one point, the large river that runs through Blossom Forest opens up at its tributary into a well sheltered cove. As you come more eastward, the towering peaks shorten into rocky foothills. A large section of the shore is inaccessible to most, as Uyaraut has claimed it as their own. But if you skirt around their territory, the hills disappear, swallowed up into the land until it is as flat as the eye can see. The vibrant greens dull into short and dry browns and tans, and the land dries and cracks apart until it melds into The Waste - the desert that forms Blossom Forest’s easternmost border.

For those looking to hunt here, there are of course the fish within the ocean, along with crabs, seals and urchins. For on the shore, there are seagulls, herons, and ospreys.


The Ice King [open] [cs]

Quiet snarls ripped from his gruesome torn mask, the broken flaps of skin waving and rippling from his heated breath. His lids, closed over his ebony pools, twitched and rotated, belaying the nightmare that had taken a deep hold onto his subconscious. Laying on his side, his paws twitch, their motions getting larger and larger until he was running through the air, his claws swiping at unseen enemies, tearing apart imaginary flesh. He was dreaming, but it was all too real. In the dark abysmal corners of his mind, he was fighting an army of the undead, but those were not his only enemies. Others, alive and well, fought along side the aberrations. Their voices called out to him to join them, to swell their ranks and enjoy the sweet sultry embrace that they offered. But Kershov knew that if he was to give into them, to join them, his beast would be released. And so, not for the first time, he ran from his darker side. And somehow, his waking self did just the same. Whether it could be classified as a fugue state or a simple sleepwalking, it did not matter. What matters is that the king, in the middle of the night, left his den and the safety of his pack and ran through the land away from his fears.

Those who did not know him thought him to be evil and cruel. Perhaps there were some in the past who had called him the devil himself, but those who knew him would describe a much different beast. Was he demanding and manipulative? Without doubt-he wanted to expose the weaknesses of those he surrounded himself with so that he was aware of their shortcomings. But he also pushed those he trusted to their full potential he, and he would scratch out that potential from even the weakest and lowliest of wolves and turn it to his benefit. Kershov was loyal and protective of those who have pledged themselves to him, and though he could be cruel, it was not and would never be turned up on those belonged to him. At least, not if he had anything to say about it. Much like the rest of the world, he had two sides. Throughout life, there was birth and death, love and hate, male and female, predator and prey. For Kershov, there was dark, and then darker. The dark part of him had rules, morals, strong belief system. The darker part of him was a different creature altogether. Something he could not control when it was released, something that would threaten to destroy everything he had worked so hard to create. And so all he could do? Was to prevent it from ever escaping. That was why he had fled from his pack and abandoned them the first time. He would never explain it to them, nor apologize. But that was the reasoning. And now, in this waking dream, he did the same.

His paws thundered over the land, and though his lids rose so that his mind could register where it was going, he saw nothing that was in front of him. Instead, he was aware only of the touch of hell darkening the ground beneath him. He ran faster and faster, trying to out run the crumbling floor beneath him. The ash floated up around him in a whirlwind as his paws disturbed it, and he started to cough. He couldn't breathe, it was choking him. He could see the light of day, his safety, a brightness ahead of himand he leapt for it, his paws outstretched. It was blinding, and he squinted but still stared at it. He had almost made out its shape, almost made out what would save him from himself… until he was abruptly woken. The leap he had taken had jumped him right off of one of the boulder cliffs lining the ocean shore. These ones were not within his pack-no, he had left his pack miles behind and instead had been running along the shoreline over rocky terrain by only the moonlight. While asleep. When he had jumped, he had crossed over the cliff and into the air, and the reason he had awoken? He had landed in the treacherous swirling waves of the ocean.

The salt water stung his eyes and he screamed himself awake, but when he tried to take a breath only water entered his lungs. His pupils constrict it quickly but then dilated from the darkness and his mind tried to focus upon what had happened. All he knew immediately it was that he had to swim to the surface or he would drown. Luck was on his side, and there was no storm reaching overhead making the waters tumultuous. Briefly he wondered why he was spending so much time in the water recently, but he pushed that thought to the back. He did not need to question his path in life when it was being so imminently threatened. Strong strokes of his paws pushed against the water until he was torpedoed to the surface. His lungs burned for air and he compressed his intercostal muscles, water spewing out of his mouth and his nares. A rough, hacking cough continued to empty his lungs of the black liquid until there was finally enough room to air. Greedily, he gulped it down, and then he began the long swim back toward shore. The long journey gave him plenty of time to recollect on his nightmare, but in stead he spent his time focusing on ignoring it. If anything, he instead focus on The alien shape he saw upon the shore. He could not tell in the darkness who it was… The odds were he did not even know them. He was in the middle of the free lands, and after the entirety of the land had changed, most wolves were spending their extra minutes of the day traversing. Part of him wanted to change course-he was in no mood to speak with another, especially not when he could feel his beast so close to the surface. It had nearly escaped this night, and he almost had allowed it out. But as his black orbs swept the nearby shore, he realized that this was the only place he could safely get to it. The other spots were littered with sharp jagged rocks and steep cliffs-neither of those were things he wanted to attack in the dead of night. So instead? He pointed his nose straight toward the wolf on the shore, and could only hope two things. The first was that he did not know them. And the second? That they had not heard him scream.


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