| I know the feeling! By the way, how about a new thread set in more updated time pretty much right after we finish this one? I see plotness possibilities..or something. I'll PM you! -insane laughter- 527 His whole being seemed to change, very briefly, before he replied to her question. Almost as if a shadow suddenly flew across his face, before the light just as abruptly reclaimed it. As he was speaking, they kept walking along, and her eyes was fixed on his form. She studied a number of things. His pelt was unlike hers, but probably more natural. There wasn't much snow in their packlands, so in summer it was useless as camouflage. Then again, her mother had come from the north, of the same continent as he, where they all had white fur, spoke norwegian and there was snow. His fur seemed to fit better. Also, his size was small compared to other wolves from the other continent she had met. There had been quite a few. Once she had found (what they called) a "colony" of them, where they had boats and buildings they had made themselves. They had been quite a fair bit larger than Lubomir, but then again Mew herself wasn't big for a female werewolf. Size could be very individual. What he said let her identify herself with him, as his story was so like hers, in a way. He, too, had lost everything. And he, too, had traveled alone. His past did not make him who he was, however, and it was not that she had meant when she asked. When he said he had been a bard, her eyes lit up, and another smile divided her face in two. His former profession surely held clues as to who he was as a person. Not interesting? You were a bard! She, too, had been a bard, for a small amount of time, back in Clouded Tears. She'd told stories to the puppies, and sometimes played them music, or anyone else who wanted to hear music. Often stories and music combined, and often stories with moral and advice for how to live one's life. Some thought it odd, but Mew had loved it. And so had the puppies. I was a bard when I was just over a year, until I left the pack to travel. Mostly I played music and sang, but there was some storytelling. Is that the same activities you do, or.. did as a bard? She had stopped with the stories, but she could never leave the music. Her guitar and the few books about music were the most precious things she had in life, besides, perhaps, her children's grave. She stopped for a little second, cocked her head to the side, before she spoke and started walking again, still her eyes on his. She was tired and she needed sleep, but didn't want to hurry. His presence was calming, yet it also made her nervous in a strange way, and.. she didn't know. But she didn't want to send him on his way home just yet. My mother fled here from a place in the north of your continent, I think. They look like me and speak norwegian. Do you know where it is? Her face was all curiosity, the timeless, child-like kind. Not inquisitive, not investigating. Just pure lust for knowledge. |
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