OOC: LONG! WC: 1009. No need to match - just pushing for SSWM and all. Hopefully it isn't all crap! >_< Thanks in advance for threading with meeeee! PS I plan on having her shift to Optime in thread, if that's all right with you, for length as well as for coolness - I've not written about that yet.

IC:
It felt absolutely glorious to be in Lupus form again. It was incredibly unlike Saraqael, but she had gone an entire day without shifting back and it made her antsy for in many ways, though she had been born a Luperci, she was still feral. When the seraph wasn't sequestered away in the lonesome darkness of her room, she liked to be in the solitary shadow of the forest instead. Fortunately for her, the Forest of Nod completely surrounded the mansion where she had chosen to take up residence. At first, slipping out the front door, the trees merely peppered the lawn, rising up in all types, shapes, and sizes in a feeble attempt to touch the sky. No, she thought, not to touch the sky but to kiss the sun, as all plants did, coaxing pure light into nutrients and life, a marvel of the living world. The trees only thickened as one went further in, past the mansion, to the southernmost area where a stream – Frosthold, though that name was absent from her vocabulary – wound its way there. Earlier that day she had flown to the complete edge of the forest to extend her slim, bi-colored muzzle from the last tree line, watching the same stream cut a path to some place unknown, an area where she had yet to explore. Perhaps one day she would when she became more comfortable with the place she now called home. As things stood, she felt too vulnerable out in the open, and at her size in Lupus form, an eagle might have thought she made a pretty meal and swooped from the sky to clench the fourteen-pound coyote in its death-dealing claws.

Instead of such a harsh reality, she thanked the stars (who were hiding since it was noon) that no avian shadows crossed the dappled sunlight. Allowed her solitude as she had been all morning and into the afternoon, Saraqael felt calm, peaceful, and even relaxed. Tenseness was natural to the high-strung, young female. Normally it kept her spine rigid straight, jaw clenched, and tail up, but now she languished at the side of a whispering stream. Its music was fair, a sweet, far-away song. The Inferni member heard laughter in it that was soothing. Not only did she listen with her over-sized ears cupped, but Saraqael watched it, gaze unwavering as it sidled against the edges of its bed, not pressing to be free but taking advantage of all its available space. If she stared into a pool of sunlit water, the tributary's belly full of stones showed green and mossy, revealed by the warm light. As a tender of plants, she noticed that where the patches of sunlight rested at midday was a slightly thicker coating of dirty emerald, likely because the sun was at its highest point there and took more time to ascend. Water passed through it at an even pace, taking indistinguishable particles with it. Occasionally a minnow, or even a cluster of them, darted, nipping the surface and leaving tiny trails of bubbles in their pin-thin wakes. She had become almost entirely absorbed in the new world she had discovered which was fortunate because of its limitless wonders.

Boats ferried past with endless varieties of passengers. These drew her attention away from the depths by sheer force of crossing her field of vision. The one most recently passed was fiery orange. Even in its aged state, the tracks of veins stemming from the center were distinguishable and had looked darker. It was spotty with decay but delightfully curled, allowing it to remain afloat. Inside, a collection of snow melt rested, shiny and liquid, unafraid of capsizing since it would only join more of its own stuff. The leaf, she imagined, was resigned to whatever fate the wind would choose for it, whether it be whisked back to dry land to form detritus for bacteria to feast upon or make a nose dive to the bottom of the stream to melt back into the earth there. The vessel rocked as it was carried over miniature rapids, places in the pebbly bottom that sucked, pushed, and pulled the water into small currents. Saraqael kept her eyes glued to it until it was out of view, safely away, and in her mind, it would journey forever.

A yawn broke her vacant, blank expression. Her entire face peeled back into a yawing pink cavern with ivory stalactites and a sand-paper squiggle of a tongue. Her large, almond eyes crinkled to black slits and a squeak, high-pitched and brief, exited near the end, just before her maw snapped shut. Saraqael blinked, lilac and teal sealed by a film of saline that added extra shine to the colored marbles. All her languishing had made her sleepy and she was nearly drunk enough on it to actually take a nap. Nearly. Trees were no substitute for doors, thick wood and concrete walls, or even the husk of a hut or cabin. She longed for the free wildness of the outside desperately and went bonkers without it but growing up in confinement had taken its toll. Being a coyote, a creature thought to be dirty, hated, and feared, did not help. The sentiment was so ingrained in her breed that she felt it, or thought she did, despite never having been the victim of interspecies mistreatment herself. Her parents had somehow instilled thoughts and emotions not belonging to or experienced by her inside of her, forming a trait they likely saw as a blessing of protection. They had meant it to be caution but it had mutated into an out-of-control curse. Trepidation and suspicion were at times more powerful than armies, could defeat swaths of men without their enemies having to lift a finger towards their lives. Today, however, the tiny canine had vanquished it, even if only for a little while. It was a hard-earned victory but she had won herself the opportunity to lay untroubled in the Forest of Nod, a prize well worth the fight.

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OOC: Word Count: 1010.

IC:
One crescent of faded lavender and one of dark, rich turquoise danced on the surface of the stream. Her eyes were half-lidded because she had managed to intoxicate herself with lethargy, a new and magnificent drug. The water and all its marvels were just a glossy blur before her. When the touch came, she didn't flinch or startle as the petrified, high-strung coyote would have hours ago. Even more peculiarly for her character, she pressed into it slightly, relishing touch and heat, a plant leaning into light. She had told no one, but one of the miniature canine's most guilty pleasures was to be a lap dog, in essence. Curling in a loose pile on a soft lap and being stroked to oblivion was as wonderful a pass time as she could imagine. It also served a dual purpose of helping to keep her coat well-groomed and feathery. A little frown creased her dark-lipped mouth when the warmth of the hand dissipated. Saraqael supposed, then, that she should at least turn to greet whoever disturbed her haze, however unobtrusively they had attempted their sleep sabotage.

Before she began the arduous task, sounds floated to her silence-sensitive ears, smooth and delicate as the tinkling stream at her side. There was music in that voice, a soft melody that attached itself to every word and unfolded in compounding volumes as the lady spoke. In an odd way, it was as though the syllables had been wrapped in silk. She must have been a siren, Saraqael thought, risen from the waters to claim the presumptuous girl, and she decided in that moment, without ever having looked, that she would go willingly to that death. Slowly, stiffened from lack of movement, she rolled over, exposing her soft, pale belly for a moment before making the full turn. Normally, she would have found a way to shift without showing such vulnerability but her customary mode of thinking was significantly impaired. Blinking, the first thing she noticed were the two dark pyramids of ears jutting from the lady's head, marking her distinctly as coyote. It must have been one of the more prominent features since it was obvious that she was some mixture, almost positively part wolf. A pretty mane of dark brown, close to auburn, tumbled luxuriously, making her own short excuse for a haircut seem pathetic. Yellow eyes, a silky shade of sand-kissed butter, smiled down at her. Fur in tones of dusky bark and richer tawny glistened in the light reflected from the snow. Finally, a striking splat of red, right on the bridge of her coyote-slimmed muzzle, struck her as familiar. More than one Inferni member shared this marking. Clover possessed it, Sepirah sported it, and now her memory retrieved the wounded, scarred, cyclopian visage of Kaena. There, too, was blood, the mark of war. Nothing about this slender, lithe woman reminded her of battle. She was not a siren, either – her beauty was not that cold, hard, indestructible brand Saraqael fantasized those gorgeous aquatic demons to possess. A wood sprite felt accurate. Her coloring and demeanor fit right in. Wood sprites probably smoked pot, she mused, Clover and her gold locks drifting back across her recollection again because she had partaken of the same herb. The young lass looked warm, dressed in leather and draped in a thatched blanket of fuzzy, mixed-hued rabbit pelts. Some never did care for the cold. Saraqael was born in winter and blended in best during the season and had embraced it for as long as she could recall.

“You wouldn't happen to be a Lykoi, would you, Sage?” Curiosity demanded an answer as usual. Her dark paws scraped against the snow, producing a strange sensation that flowed from the tip of her claws up into her toes. It was an uncomfortable tingle, fading fast and reminiscent of the electric shock of banging the “funny bone.” After the bundled intruder retreated to a spot further away, she did not stand but sat up a little straighter, mostly revealing the black crescent curving along her chest in the cleft between where her flat breasts would have been. The green glass star attached to her neck glittered, catching a ray of the sun. Had she been in Optime, ragged tendrils of seaweed, clear ocean, and royal blue would have likely intrigued the presumed daughter of Lykoi along with her distinctive leucistic coloring, but her Lupus form would have to suffice for the moment to give her the general idea. Hopefully what she would take away was that the minuscule female was strange in more ways than one.

In the hope of wiping away sleep, she brushed an inked paw across her slitted eyes and fleshy pink nose. When she looked up, her gaze was somewhat clearer, more aware of her surroundings and the fact that she was no longer alone. Sage was not a dream, though Saraqael was not completely convinced she was not a nymph of the forest either. Smiling sleepily, the girl introduced herself. “I am Saraqael Destroying Angel Kanga. I dye furs and make dye, and as you can see, I attempt to nap in forests occasionally.” It was weirdly casual of her, but in that moment she could neither bring herself to fear nor shame in front of her peaceful company. She backed the sentiment up by falling into a long stretch, all her limbs tensing and pressing outward as though she were trying to tear her body in half from within. Blossoming in her belly, heat began to spread, rushing through her extremities, setting her vision to cloudy darkness from the sudden increase in blood flow. Such temporary, heady dizziness was a mild pleasure and something different from the world she was used to seeing with its fine, distinct lines. Chancing a glance upward at the lady, who, in her Optime form, was gigantic in comparison, the wraith pondered what she was thinking of her, alone and asleep in the snow near a stream in the Forest of Nod.

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OOC: No worries. I probably would have had a reply sooner if I had remembered to track the thread, but I checked today just in case, and ta-da! ^_^ Word Count: 1304.

IC:
Saraqael nodded her tiny head, pleased that she had been correct in guessing the girl's lineage, though it was rather obvious. “I know three others with that same red marking,” she explained, smiling softly to no one in particular. “Kaena greeted me at the borders which was my first encounter with it. That very same night after settling in, I met Clover in the greenhouse and the night after that I encountered a lady by the name of Sepirah. I cannot say I've ever met your father, though. Does he have a rust-colored nose, too?” She was sure he was just as beautiful and strange as his daughters and kin regardless of the hue of the bridge of his nose. Though their outer appearances rang of the same source, all of their relationships to Kaena perplexed her greatly when she considered personality. Comparatively, she was so harsh seeming and rough around the edges. The two tawny Lykoi children were laid back and lackadaisical. Sepirah was more high strung but did not command the same warrior's respect and, Saraqael admitted, fear, that the matron of the Lykoi line seemed to. Then again, it was perfectly like the offspring of an animal to reject its parents' ways and attempt to move in the opposite direction. Perhaps it had started with the most recent generation of Lykoi girls, or maybe it had been Razekiel who began the tradition of pot smoking and free love. Whoever was to blame for the change mattered not. They all seemed perfectly fond of one another, the pull of family outweighing even fundamental differences in belief or style of living. It was admirable and left her wondering if her own family was that strong. How would they have reacted if she had gone to live in a developed city, or even stranger, took a wolf for a partner? Mother, father, and brother would have been terrified and repulsed of both, the former for its inherent denial of her wild roots and the latter because, even if they did not naturally hate their larger canine cousins, such impurities in their species and differences in behavior would have disturbed them no small amount. For certain, it would have been a test of their morals, their fondness for their daughter and sister, and the strength of their species prejudice. Fortunately for them, either scenario was highly unlikely. She feared so much about cities that even the thought of being surrounded by sky scrapers or simple concrete buildings made her nauseous. How someone could be separated from the breath of the forest or the sound of streams rumbling in their soft way though roads they cut out for themselves over years left her dumbfounded and amazed. And she feared wolves a healthy amount. They had saved her life as a shivering whelp with their kindness and technology, but she had been taught to question their motives and expect the worst until they proved themselves. The idea of taking one to bed was laughable.

The sound of her childhood nickname snagged her thoughts back to the pretty hybrid who had chosen to sit at her side for a while. Her older brother called her “Sara” while both parents insisted in its full version, which in her opinion, was much prettier. Still, the short way held much affection and brought back a sea of wonderful memories and friendship. She would allow it. “You can call me Sara.” Sage went on to explain that they shared an interest in the same craft, though the sand and auburn creature had little confidence in her own work. With an honest eye, she looked at the clothing that she had made. The stitching was clumsy but also purposeful, and it may not have been the prettiest, but it looked sturdy enough. “I think your items look fine. With practice will come fine elegance, but that is just a bonus. What really matters is durability. It looks like you make a sturdy product, and evocative, too.” The monochrome coyote was referring to the way that the clothing seemed to hug Sage's pleasing form, accentuating her curves and bust. It was certainly a flattering look but one that would have done little for her, who had no breasts to speak of in the first place. That did not mean she did not enjoy them on others.

For the first time, Saraqael was slightly startled but was too intoxicated from sleepiness and the fantasy image that the Lykoi mix made of herself to react much. A little widening of her mismatched eye may have given her away, but that was all. The intentions of the chestnut hand became clear when it grabbed the pendant given to her by her brother, her only surviving sibling. She imagined it was cool to the touch and that the precise cuts in it felt interesting on the pads of the lady's fingers. Replacing it, she felt the tickle of claws on her chest, blurring the black fur of her crescent into the white, making the already jagged line more so. The touch set her skin to shivering lightly. “I did not make it,” she answered, only wishing she had glass working skills. “My brother gave it to me a while ago. I am not sure where he got it from, only that it reminded him of me. He said it went well with my other marking.” The coy attempted to gesture downward with her muzzle toward the dark sliver at her breast. “Moons and stars and all.” A grin added an impish quality to her sharp, slanted face. Its cause was the image of her brother, springing up like a row of sweet smelling flowers in the garden of her mind. Sage was wrong in assuming her family to have been equally exotic. On the contrary, they were very plain in appearance, her mother possessing an oaky pelt, its accentuating colors of white, cherry, and black all quite rich on her. She looked saturated and had eyes the color of pale jade. Her countenance was round and soft, especially for a coyote, though she had humongous, almost garishly huge ears. By contrast, Saraqael's father was rather plain and pale, even compact, concise, and definitely small. His markings were barely defined, leaving his coat a bland sand with gray and white peppered in traditional places, including a saddle. Inset in his sockets were gems of dark, deep turquoise, the very identical hue of her right eye. He was the small one with all the points and had lent them to Saraqael as well, a strange curse that left her looking like a faerie forever. Azazel was somewhere between, his light underbelly extending perhaps further than it should have over his legs, giving him socks, and up his sides and back, leaving his tail white. The other colors were not so intense but made their presence known in all the right places. Otherwise sharp just like her and their father, his orbs were a shiny, bright green, unlike either of them.

She was a genetic mutation, an unfortunate case of leucism that had never before occurred in her family. It left her vulnerable in any season except winter, a fact that helped to explain her comfort in falling dead asleep in the snow. In any other season, she was a gaudy target waiting to be picked off. Feeling small and vulnerable, she wondered if Sage would have minded if she shifted. “Would you mind if I took a few minutes to change to Optime? It should not take long.” Saraqael could have done it in nine minutes. It would have made her feel better next to the gorgeous girl, less like a foreign creature to be admired and more like an equal.