people create stories create people

[Urma]

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OOC: Thank you! *blushes* I'm sorry for the wait ._. *fail* ::Word Count:: 500+       Her pain somewhat dulled, the alabaster femme stretched her front paws so as to grace the surface of the still lake, so undisturbed by the soft breeze that followed its own paths upon the air. The delicate touch startled the water only so much, creating small replicas of the same thin circles Gotham's tongue had caused earlier. The vast, liquid darkness unfolding before them felt to the fair she-wolf like a temple built in recognition of Gods that no mythology could define. The thought triggered a series of similar musings; all mythologies talked of gods and goddesses symbolizing nature's four elements, or different actions or feelings, but never the absolutely mundane ones. Though through folklore they ranged from Birth to War to Water to Death, there were no deities of which she knew that spoke of Loss, or of Anger, or of Necessity, or of the Inevitable. The Unknown that haunted the pale femme daily was by no means trivial, and she was sure it was everyone's subconscious fear, at the least. It was a feeling capable of making her diminish in the face of the many tomorrows she knew nothing of. These ideations came with the apprehension that the lake and her immediate surroundings, laced with her deep impressions in the face of the wondrous ways of nature, were part of a bigger body, something so intricate and secret that it was almost sacrosanct.       The pup's voice brushed against her eardrums, which had previously throbbed under the heavy weight of silence. His question brought back the many generations she had traveled to through stories, the infinite stretch of time she had breached without the smallest effort, the characters whose lives she had so flawlessly entwined herself with, like a ghost come from what those leading those lives could only refer to as the Unknown. She had, through the tales of old, witnessed epic battles and grand ceremonies, had crossed paths with Evil disguised as Good, had felt the thrill of the hunt, had tasted both timeless sorrow, as well as unending joy. Her amber gaze held a warmth as if from another realm entirely as she looked at the small wolf beside her, all the while sifting through memories until she finally found the one she was looking for: the first story she had ever heard. Her voice gentle, her tone mild, the inflection behind it dreamy, she said, "I too was born, much like you, in a pack. Only Crimson Dreams' open fields were replaced by steep valleys and the hills were treacherous mountains. And the first thing I learned is that everything has a story behind it," she paused to catch Gotham's eyes, her words filling up with substance, "even you and I. My pack had a story also, of how it came to be. As young pups, my brothers and sister and I would gather around our elders and listen to our common legacy." She caught herself smiling at the recollection, finding a source of comfort within the old memory. "Those legends spoke of the beginning of things, of battles and times of peace, but mostly it talked of surviving and belonging. Back then, we were taught to believe that safety lay within our hands, unless we ventured into the Unknown." I still hold that fear for what is to come. I still feel the agony of not knowing, of the unexpected.

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