Glaesfaet Sceawere is the name gifted to the mother river that flows through the center of Blossom Forest, bringing life and sustenance to all of the lands. It breaks off in many places, giving birth to smaller streams and estuaries, but the main body flows from the lake high in the north in Dierne Hrof all the way south down through Uyaraut to empty into the ocean. It is a fresh water river, but down through Uyaraut, the salt water does taint it. In places, parts of the river are underground and run through caverns unseen from aboveground.

Water buffalo grace these shores - with plenty of meat, though at a dangerous cost. Many river trout leap upstream daily.


Thunder Killer

Hurricane of Mexico's vision begins to swim. The lazy, icy fall water moving through the stream, begins to spin rapidly, contorting the blue of the water and the hazy colors of the sky. Sharp greens and vibrant autumn colors move faster and faster within his periphials, as the stubborn warrior places one paw firmly in front of the other. Must. Keep. Moving. Must. Find. Losa.

Suddenly, the spiral of colors vanishes, replaced with only black, as Hurricane of Mexico's paws slip out from under him, and his massive cranium slams into the earth. Nose landing a few precious inches from the wintery temperature that the stream carries within it's heart. In this blackness, Hurricane of mexico, does not feel the ache of every violent wound stretched upon his canvas of midnight. The massive titan can not feel nor smell the forest, laying a field away from him. The gladiator does not dream, or hope, or hurt. For the inky stained warrior has pushed himself beyond every limit. In his desperate escape, his fight against Duma, in his frantic search for the rainbows.. no, not the rainbows. for Losa, Hurricane of Mexico strained himself in every possible way. His wounds too many, too violent, too deep. He is thin, undernourished for the first time in his life. He has had no water, no rest, no hope, only the constant dread of Duma's pack following him, and of discovering his princess dead.

And so his body forces him, to lay still, to attempt some semblance of trying to recover. It is in this coma like state, that Losa finds the gladiator, but he can not hear her shrieks. He can not feel her desperate attempts to wake him. For although the very essence of his being aches for her, though there is not a piece of his soul that does not inadvertently relax the second her scent enters his nares, Hurricane of Mexico has strained himself too hard, has pushed too far, and so there he lays, physically incapable of answering her pleas.

Suddenly, water rushes into Hurricane's inky muzzle, and lightning optics shoot open, pupils dilated, the water sprays back out into Losa's face as he coughs and hacks the droplets out of his lungs. With great effort, Hurricane of Mexico eases his head off the ground and rights himself, blinking slowly, taking in his surroundings. The light had mostly faded from the sky, and the bright twinkling of stars was almost visible. Ears flicker as nanoseconds trickle by slowly, everything running in extra slow motion, water lapping against the shore, leaves whispering hushed melodies as the branches scrape together in the late evening breeze. And suddenly, her perfume. So thick, almost suffocating, right there. Hurricane's cranium snaps upward to attention, struggling to focus on Losa's pastel physique. The colors rush him, all fuzzy lines and blurring together against the darkening silhouette of the sky. Cotton candy colors swirling with midnight blues, she comes into focus. Sharp lines, a delicate runner's form. Her eyes, full of worry and desperation, hiccuping breaths, Hurricane is even aware of the triple time her heartbeat is doing in her chest. One second has passed.

Hurricane pushes himself upward, every inch of his body screaming in protest, gravity dragging him back down, but he persists, rising unsteadily to his paws, the massive warrior then sweeps downward into what was meant to be an elegant bow, but ends up being wobbly and unstable. Lighting optics reach up to meet Losa's own two toned gaze. One perfect ring of royal blue kissing her violet gazer. "Rionnag Air Imrich" He murmurs softly, his colossal form sweeping upward, finishing the bow, and he reaches forward, slowly. Hurricane had belonged to this princess since before she was born. His entire purpose in life was simply, keep her safe. But Hurricane had known, from the first day he had been shoved into the royal den, trembling, afraid of the task he had recieved, from the first moment he set eyes on her, Hurricane of Mexico had known without a doubt, he would do more than simply protect Losa. He would love her with every fiber of his being.

And so he fought. Every spare moment Hurricane of Mexico had, when he was not protecting Losa, and every delicate pastel hair upon her body, he spent fighting to get better. faster. stronger. Hurricane of Mexico devoted every moment of his life from that moment onward, to making himself a better guardian, a better protector. It was true, Hurricane was not a tempest, he did not have a magic thing in him that clicked with one specific person. But Hurricane did not need magic to tell him that he belonged to Losa, and that he would with his last dying breath.

This feeling, the butterflies that fluttered within him, when he stood too close. The fierce anger that welled up, uncontrollable when something upset her. The fierce desire to protect her from everything that was within this world, the thing that made him the best of the best when it came to Losa's guards, was something Hurricane had locked deep within himself. He watched her grow, watched her flourish. He saw her happiness and her anguish, her desperation, quietly, from a corner. Brave face. Let nobody in face. Dont give yourself away face. But as Losa grew and flourished, so did her feelings. Feelings, toward Hurricane. Feelings they had not discussed since Duma.

And so Hurricane, the Thunder Killer, reached toward her wordlessly, hesitantly, unsure what her response would be.


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