The Sky's Lullaby

Ralla · 01-04-2011, 04:41 PM

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It's alright; I fail too. Already behind in SSWM :S Also, the story is completely made-up, but the song is: DISCLAIMED- I do not own in any way, shape, or form "Sora" by Yoko Kanno (which is not mentioned in this post >.>).

Ralla had laughed at the child's description of his father. His laughter was like tiny bells--as she perceived most pups' laughs to be--but was confused when he said Nova Scotia as if he didn't know what it meant. Perhaps he was still to young to know geography, even though the place was his home? But I remember... Some wolves refer to this place as 'Souls'. I wonder why...? She would ask around on that matter on a later date. For now, she had a seemingly energetic pup who had just introduced himself as Range, and the fire was welcoming as the pup looked inquisitivly to Sugar. "I'm sure he says thank you," she replied for Sugar. "He won't say anything directly back to you, because he doesn't know high speech, which is what we wolves speak," she explained fully, just in case Range didn't know the different speeches yet.

Once she had lifted Range away, she turned to see him looking at the fire with wide eyes. Not the eyes of someone who had never seen it before, but perhaps those of fascination, or of one who had never been so close. She would have to watch to make sure he didn't actually try to touch the flame, as some pups were wont to do. "Yes, burn. Fire is a great and terrible creature. It both gives and takes; helps and hurts. It gives us light and warmth, but do you see the wood in it? It eats the wood, and anything dry or soft." She remembered what her father had first done when she was introduced to fire. Instead of stopping her from touching it, he had allowed her to stick her hand in and get burned. His reasoning had been that she would never learn the lesson unless she did it herself. While she had hated her father for it, holding grudges just didn't seem possible in the white wolfess's heart. "You must be careful to never touch fire directly, Range."

As Range laid on his stomach to watch the fire, Ralla chuckled and sat next to him, leaning on Sugar's side once more. "That's a wide variety of paths to choose from. I'm a teller of sorts myself. I love stories and legends, and they're important to our history. I'm sure your pack history is very wide as well, although I do not know them. I do, however, know a story that sounds like your pack name. I've learned that Dahlia is actually a kind of flower, and it reminded me of this gypsy tale I had once heard." Slowly, Ralla sunk into the folds of the story, engrossed in its majesty that she was sure no other wolf had or would see.

"There used to be a field of tiny, red flowers that seemed to go on forever. Each was delicate, and each belonged to the heart of a creature. In that field lived a dragon--a huge beast with wings and scales that could breathe fire--and he guarded the hearts of the creatures. But after spending so long in the field, he began to hear the desires that each flower whispered; like a soft breeze passing through. He granted every wish he heard, but when a particularily dark wish was said from one of the flowers, the dragon granted it still. When he did, every flower in that field began to wilt and die, and the dragon was thrown into a deep sleep. The creatures of the world--so suddenly filled with sadness--understood what had to be done, and so travelled to the now gray fields." Taking a breath, Ralla took some of the ash from the edge of the fire and scattered it in front of her and Range so that she might trace a picture in it. With a finger now sooty with the dead embers, she drew a crude image of the dragon, a few hills for the fields, and then a heart.

"Every creature tried to wake the dragon, but none could. But when the saddest creature of them all stepped forward--crying not for himself, but for the dragon--did the dragon wake, and so became a part of the creature. The sad creature transformed into a mourning dove, and its cries now harken the birth and death of the flowers that do not survive the cold night." Leaning back, slightly winded, Ralla scratched Range behind the ears, wondering if she had either converted him to the teller profession or scared him away from it with her chattering. "There's actually a song that goes with it, to lull little ones like you asleep. Its words will all sound like nonsense to you though." It was true; the gypsy words to the song were nonsensical--almost made-up! But they made sense to the gypsies, so who was Ralla to judge?

Moon walks. "Moon talks." Moon thinks.

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