09-27-2011, 08:54 PM
ooc: Shawchert can intercept or let it happen. 
300+
“The history of Cercatori…” she muttered, echoing him in a dreamy voice. Then her face darkened and she scowled. “…is nothing but a bunch of CRAP! It’s all a just of fluff… a mask for what really happens. Who cares about our history? We should just remember it like our wolf ancestors have always done.” She grabbed the book from its place and stood stiffly, waving it in front of Shawchert. “And who added to it after I was gone? Who wrote in here? Who wrote IT in here? Who wrote down that our son was murdered and there’s nothing we can do about it?!”
She spun around, stomping away from him and quickly approaching the water’s edge. She opened the book and stared at the first page – founding members - and though the ink she once used was black, she saw the names scrawled in dark red. “I can’t even read it anymore. If no one added to it, then who do you think will have to?” She didn’t look at him as she stared out at the water, flipping to the center of the book. “Is it still mine? It’s blank. Did you expect me to write it?” Her voice dripped with venom as she glanced over her shoulder, half-lidded eyes aflame. “Well I’m not going to. I’m not going to write down that filth. I won’t… I can’t! I can’t write anymore.”
“It’s only too bad you forgot the camp fire,” she said, glancing briefly to the candle on the table. “But this will do.” She turned back to the pool and cocked her arm. Pages crinkled and fluttered as the book dangled from its rear cover in her hand. She knew what she used to write the d’Arte chronicles with, and she knew that the water would turn it into nothing more but muddy ink. Without hesitating, she lobbed the book into the pool.
300+
“The history of Cercatori…” she muttered, echoing him in a dreamy voice. Then her face darkened and she scowled. “…is nothing but a bunch of CRAP! It’s all a just of fluff… a mask for what really happens. Who cares about our history? We should just remember it like our wolf ancestors have always done.” She grabbed the book from its place and stood stiffly, waving it in front of Shawchert. “And who added to it after I was gone? Who wrote in here? Who wrote IT in here? Who wrote down that our son was murdered and there’s nothing we can do about it?!”
She spun around, stomping away from him and quickly approaching the water’s edge. She opened the book and stared at the first page – founding members - and though the ink she once used was black, she saw the names scrawled in dark red. “I can’t even read it anymore. If no one added to it, then who do you think will have to?” She didn’t look at him as she stared out at the water, flipping to the center of the book. “Is it still mine? It’s blank. Did you expect me to write it?” Her voice dripped with venom as she glanced over her shoulder, half-lidded eyes aflame. “Well I’m not going to. I’m not going to write down that filth. I won’t… I can’t! I can’t write anymore.”
“It’s only too bad you forgot the camp fire,” she said, glancing briefly to the candle on the table. “But this will do.” She turned back to the pool and cocked her arm. Pages crinkled and fluttered as the book dangled from its rear cover in her hand. She knew what she used to write the d’Arte chronicles with, and she knew that the water would turn it into nothing more but muddy ink. Without hesitating, she lobbed the book into the pool.