A Sense of Balance

Cwmfen nic Graine · 06-29-2010, 05:39 PM

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When she had spoken, the male moved swiftly. The Warrior within her approved of such speed despite his wounds, but the Warrior also called for her caution. She did not seem to tense, but instead relax. A relaxed body could move easily where a tense body would be too slow. Alas, there was emptiness where his hand moved. She recognized the movement despite her natural shape and despite the fact that she never bore her weapons upon leather wrapped about the body. She had seen many others do it, and she knew the aggression behind it. He was startled, however, and so the Woaded female brushed the action off as mere second nature. It was not her intention, either, to provoke aggression within the wounded loner. Her intention was to discover his reason for wandering so near Dahlia. She intended to learn this, and, she supposed, if he required anything. The black wolf thought that he would require aid, for the smell of his blood was hot and thick in the air. A wolf without control may have been moved to attack another in such a state, but Cwmfen knew better. Although she was no politician, she knew how to behave for she had helped once to lead the flower pack. That had been nearly a revolution ago.

“West,” the soft alto repeated. It was a label of direction, and her mind sought to recall the specific label that was of the most human of habits. “The Sea is West,” she mused, “and then you will find Land again.” Perhaps the tranquil creature desired to know where he was going, or perhaps not. It was uncertain, as her features were calm and impassive. Slowly, carefully, the black wolf moved closer, creating a distance that was perhaps naught but an arm’s length. It was a dangerous position, but the Dahlian was certain that he was not there to kill her. She was determined to show him that she was not there to kill him either. It was a more subtle way of displaying such hospitality, but the wolf-born female was accustom to such subtleties.

The woad-banded ears had caught the inflection of his voice, and she answered that unspoken question. “Dahlia give me a den,” the quiet voice replied. “She is led by an Alpha Male.” Even when she had held the rank of Adonis, a rank that no longer existed, Dahlia had never been her own. She could not say that the pack belonged to her but that she belonged to the pack. And indeed that was where her loyalties were, with the flower pack and her leader. With the wolves behind the boarders. That was why the Warrior so easily could place her life between a danger and the pack. That was simply her purpose. It was a Warrior’s purpose.

The blue-eyed male spoke again, his rough voice lost within the melody of the sea. She was silent for a few moments before lowering herself to a sitting position, the sinew beneath her coat moving smoothly. The pied Raven had taken purchase upon a stone at the head of the cliff, and he called his mockery down upon the fallen male below. The white orbs did not regard her Dream, however, and remained upon the fallen soldier. The quiet eyes were contemplative as she considered him. “How far can you make it in that condition?” It was not said mockingly. Instead, it was said as if she were truly curious, although the motive behind such a question, or the open to the reply, was quite clear.

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