http://i40.tinypic.com/jrqkvp.png); background-repeat:repeat; padding:15px">
oops, dated for the 21st.
She'd almost made it, the moon had newly emerged from the ashes of dusk, and her hopes had risen as she spied the white silhouetted frames of the city.
It was just as the runner increased her pace, thinking she had outrun the weather, that the darkened heavens decided to open. The swollen and dark bellies of the clouds seemed all too eager to release their burden - and oh how they rained down with a vengeance! In a matter of moments the woman was soaked through.
Towering structures loomed ominously before her, but the skyline was for once a welcome sight, when compared to the dark clouds that chased behind. The woman cradled the precious painting against her breast, the small item appearing much like a shielded child, wrapped heavily in dusty furs and leathers. Three pearls were also clutched in her hand as well, but beyond that, nothing else was brought in her name.
Brazen winds whipped at the dames long soggy strands, catching the hairs among them that were not already slickened to her flesh, bending and billowing the follicles to their fullest extent. Her tail trailed dismally behind her as she ran, soon so heavy laden with water that she lost the energy to dictate how it controlled her balance. She instead resorted to letting it lap her thighs in a sopping mess, no longer caring about appearance; the limb had quickly been ornamented haphazardly by grit and debris. In fact, much of her fur was decorated by what it had picked up along the way, or what had been woven in by the growing winds. She was absolutely miserable.
The lack of undercoat, a personally favored physical quality that attributed to the luxurious quality of her fur, was now the focal source of her discomfort. Without the dense protection of fur, it seemed that every cold wind seemed to go right through her, and every raindrop seeped straight to the bone. She shivered pitifully as she ran, rocking the painting against her chest with the rhythm of her stride, but still ran on.
The lids of her eyes narrowed as she struggled to shield them, lashes kept protectively low, but limiting her ability to see Harvey. His scent was clear enough for her to tell that she had followed correctly, but with her vision limited, it was impossible to know beyond that. “’Arvey?”
With determination restraining a pitiful tremor of her lips, her throat managed the desperate call, just barely keeping the panic out of her tone. Memories of the storm that led her to crash to the coast were rising, flooding her normally tranquil mind. Though she knew that no water was around her, no sea to swallow her up, she could feel her throat closing up in panic. She all too clearly remembered the fear that had possessed her mind in the last storm, nearly leading to her demise.
