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.


Zhadnoscht [ Open ]

They were, all of them, different from the rest. Yes, at some point they had to have shared a common ancestor, but Kostyantyn‘s pack tried to keep themselves as closed off from the rest as they could. Because of this, they did not hold the most amount of land… but what they did hold was knowledge, and a strange and unique sense of greed. That is not to say that they lived with the motto of ‘every man for himself’… Oh no. When it came to their own kind, they were certainly ‘all for one and one for all’. They cherished one another, and embraced each gift that made them unique. But day by day, they became more secretive, and pushed the other packs away. Bit by bit, they had made themselves different. They created strange habits, had gained an accent all of their own, and had created their own language. It was a way to communicate with one another without those from the other territories being able to understand it. It also allowed one member to be able to figure out if another being was from their land, or was a pretender, an infiltrator. And this language? It was held near and dear to their hearts, so much so that if it was shared with an outsider, whoever shared it would be sentenced to death. Now since the Deception, and since each of the packs had sworn an oath to band together, it all had changed slightly. They started to occasionally travel to the other packs, interact with them. But their ingrained sense of distrust for the others never faded, nor did they change their desire for secrecy and privacy.

And then, news swept through not just their own territory, but all of the territories, of the New World, or rather not new, but previously unknown to them. They had always lived alone on their Island, but one adventurer , an explorer, a daredevil you might say, had discovered this new place. Each pack wanted to explore different aspects of it. Kostyantyn‘s family? They were amazed by the stories of the beautifully and magically gilded wolves… They wanted to know how they had become that way, and if they could make it their own.

Kostyan had not been chosen so much as he had volunteered. He was the heir to the throne, the next in line. All of his life, he had been training to be the next Alpha, and he still had hopes of that… eventually. It would bring him power, respect. But he had an eye, a desire, for the strange and unusual, just like the rest of his kin. And right now? What he wanted most was to gather the unnatural adornments that these vargs from the foreign land had been gifted with, and take them as his own. Kostyan would learn everything that his parents wished to know, yes, but he would go beyond that. He would take some of these faeries, if they were willing, to become his servants - either concubine or otherwise. And if they were unwilling? He would simply slay them, and strip them of their hides. Once dried, he would use them to decorate his throne. No other pack would be able to boast such a gilded bed to lay upon, nor such an ornamental place to reign from. It was all perfect, part of his perfect plan.

All he had to do, was brave the treacherous waters between their island and the next. Treacherous, dangerous waters were in his way. The distance was great, and in between there was no telling how many terrors may be lurking in the deep, dark, abysmal liquid. Before committing for it, Kostyantyn put into his routine training every day for month. He swam through the waters, against the tide at high tide. Each day, he swam longer and longer, until at last he could swim for 24 hours in a row. His limbs paddled throughout the night and into the next day, until the sun‘s light broke on the horizon, and the great burning ball of flame fully ripped through the night sky overhead. By his estimation, he was as ready as he would ever be. For two days, he slept and rested well. His people brought him healthy meals, rich in protein in order to fuel his muscles for what ahead. He spent the days stretching, ensuring that his muscles with stay limber… But nothing would have ever fully prepared him for the swim. He had had to fight against towering swells of waves, and use his claws to ward off any predators waiting for him to give up and willingly settle into their jaws of death. Out there, he was not the predator, but instead was the prey. And through the hours, his muscles burned, screaming for rest, but he never slowed his pace. The slower he went, the more time he would have to spend in the waters. But the faster he went, the quicker his muscles would tire. It was a fine, delicate line, one he did not have a precise reading on, but he did his best. And it paid off.

Trembling limbs tread him from the whirling waters onto a shore unknown. The rocks, however harsh, were a welcomed sensation to his pads. By this time, they had gone numb from the frigid waters, and the fact that he could feel the gravel at all was a gift. As he walked, bloody paw prints were left in his wake as the cold stones cut at his softened pads, and tiny ice crystals formed where his cold wet paws met the frozen stones. Flesh was pulled from him, but it was all worth it. The pain would be worth it all. He had made the trip once, he knew he could make it again to return home at some point, when he had what it was that he desired. The prince strode away from the shore and peered up at the night sky - the moon had only just risen, and he could feel the hairs on his body beginning to freeze. Now was not a time to be exposed to the elements, not when he was soaking wet, drenched from the salty, ocean water in the middle of winter. He frowned, and cast his gaze about until he saw the looming darkness of a cavern. Without hesitation, moved toward it and entered, going deeper and deeper in until he found an area that was dry and was decorated by no barnacles, meaning that it never flooded that high. Before he laid down to rest, he lifted one of his paws and used his own blood to mark the wall. Strange characters was what he drew, but they formed a word, part of his people‘s language - he was marking this land is his own, the way that a flag would be placed upon the moon. He had made it… and would have time to see in the morning if any of the others had as well. He shook himself out, before laying down and curling up tightly, carefully laying upon his pads so that his distant extremities would not to get frostbite and die. And within a minute, he was fast asleep, getting some much needed rest after his expedition, the bloody marks on the wall above him marking him.

It read Zhadnoscht...


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