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WARNING: This thread contains material exceeding the general board rating of PG-13. It may contain very strong language, drug usage, graphic violence, or graphic sexual content. Reader discretion is advised. |
Helena Troy Lykoi With the lights out, it's less dangerous | |||
The darkness was all consuming on this night, both the land and her heart were shrouded and unclear, precariously balanced on the edge of something treacherous. The Salsolan dog-woman was hesitant and fearful as she approached from the west, this was almost certainly suicide if anyone caught her. She pulled close her cloak, the heavy black wool obscuring her lines and hiding her injured body. The few scratches and bites on her cheek and neck were covered by longer fur, still her hood was up and the brilliant Lykoi eyes watched nervously for any sign of a patrol. She had smeared the black and white stallion with charcoal so that he was black and grey and less easily seen. Their scents she could not do much to hide but she tried with lavender and pine firs. It was better than nothing and might give her a way to escape. The eerie stillness of the night set the fur on her back and neck to bristling. Her plan was very half-baked, but loyalty to blood was driving her, maybe they could avoid a war, if this was just a misunderstanding over a lost son. She did not want to meet Hope or Faith or Eire on the battlefield, or see them as a prisoner in Salsola's slavery, the very thought made her skin crawl. The hurt was still there, deep in her chest. The children that she had lost, not since leaving her mother had Helena felt such overwhelming sadness, although it did not compare to the sharp slicing pain that she felt. It was a strangled woe that she struggled to keep a grasp on, she could not afford to fall apart. The exotic painted femme took in a sharp gasp as the shadows moved and breathed it out in a kind of relief as she recognized it's scent, "Redtooth? Is zhat you?" Her voice quavered and shook, lacking much of the foreign twist. Fear was a horrible thing to taste on the tongue and it had never been sharper for she knew just how close to the edge she danced. "Speech". Thinking. | |||
Word Count: [000] | Form: Optime | Date: 29/09 | Ooc Dirge pp aproved |
Table by Kitty