Ethnology and bibliography - Printable Version +- 'Souls IPB Archive (November 2007–October 2012) (https://soulsrpg.com/ipb) +-- Forum: Dead IC (https://soulsrpg.com/ipb/forumdisplay.php?fid=110) +--- Forum: Dead Topics (https://soulsrpg.com/ipb/forumdisplay.php?fid=21) +--- Thread: Ethnology and bibliography (/showthread.php?tid=7054) |
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- Cercelee - 07-20-2009 [html]
- Cwmfen nic Graine - 07-20-2009 [html] After the woad marked female had traveled along the boarders earlier in the day, she had returned to her den. She traveled alone as she was accustom to, as she was accustom to in the past and as she was accustom to now. The day proved to be uneventful, the boarders unthreatened by intruders from the world without, the world with which the woman was now unfamiliar. The woad warrior was glad for the quiet peace of the days, but the restlessness would not depart from her soul, and it never would. The wanderlust had always moved her, as did the songs of war. Indeed, she had settled within Dahlia, but she wandered about the lands to satisfy her innate need, and in doing so she was able to fulfill her duties to her pack as well. But now with her wounds having grown quiet—save for the deep wound upon her leg, which cried out on occasion—she should have been able to continue upon such duties. It was the weight in her womb, wondrous and woeful. The day was still bright, although night threatened to come swiftly. Regardless, the woman felt the desire to eat, and she felt a hunger within her. For a moment, the white orbs beheld the Raven Spear. Instead, she took up her bow and grabbed several arrows, moving back into the trees. She moved quietly, able to traverse the darkening woods with that natural grace. The warrior hunted, moving slowly through the woods, the woad bound maw moving through the air until she found a warm scent. And there, ahead of her, several rabbits sat in a glade eating obliviously. Slowly, she knocked the arrow upon the string, her fingers brushing against the fletching as her eyes locked upon her prey, which sensed now that something was wrong. Silently, slowly, she lifted the bow and pulled the string, listening to the bow hum to her with its anticipation. Almost immediately, the strain of the bow’s weight against her left arm shot through the healing wound upon her neck. She grit her teeth and released the arrow—it was a poor release, and the bow growled in protest. But the rabbit lay dead beneath the arrow. Having eaten, the woman returned to her abode. The woad bound ears pricked forward, swiveling to catch the soft sound that the wound brought to her. For a moment, the warrior could not place an identity with that distant voice, and she grew instantly alert, a wild ferocity flickering in those white orbs. The black fae placed her left foot upon the large roots of the tree and pulled herself around the trunk, her eyes beholding a familiar face. "Cercelee," the soft voice called in return. A quiet, indiscernible smile whispered on her lips as the intensity of her gaze softened. Slowly, her movements slowed by the heaviness of her abdomen, the black fae descended the large roots so that she may be level with the Rosea. Setting her weapon aside, the Adonis gave a slight dip of her maw in greeting, choosing not to bow as she usually did because of her extended belly. She was glad to have the Rosea visiting, for a giving of thanks was long overdue. It had been Cercelee, after all, that had allowed Onus to come visit her on occasion. The black ear swiveled at the sound of a distant crow—or was it a Raven?"How have you been, Cercelee?" It was, perhaps, a generic question, but it was spoken with sincerity nonetheless. - Cercelee - 07-28-2009 [html]
- Cwmfen nic Graine - 07-28-2009 [html] A silver smile flickered within those white orbs, offering a quiet breath of relief. She was glad that there had been no apparent trouble since she had been absent. Brennt, then, must surely be dead, either bleeding out from the wounds she had inflicted or killed by Dawali Amara who had attempted to help her, although she had insisted that he pursue the pup-eater. "And Slay?" The last time she had seen the diamond marked male, he had been bleeding out, wearied and weak. But, in Cercelee’s care, the Adonis was sure that he had healed. The most curious thing, the woman thought, was that he had been shifted—not all the way, but shifted nonetheless. She remembered what the large male had said to her. She wondered what it all meant. "I’m well," she replied quietly, a soft smile moving indiscernibly across her lips. There was a brief silence in which the white orbs drifted to the arms leaning against the great tree standing sentinel over her den. Soon that tree would also stand guard over the pups that would soon be born. Looking up, the black wolf shifted her weight to the left, her right leg still unwilling to endure the added weight of her womb. "I’m alive," she continued at great length. After each battle, life was something to be cherished. But after her battle with Brennt, there had been more happenings, a calamity, perhaps. "And healing." The added statement reflected upon her physical state, but her soul was healing as well. It would simply take longer, it seemed, than when a similar wound had marred her soul upon the cold fields of ice. A long silence ensured in which the woad-marked fae was still and unmoving, simply observing the Rosea with quiet eyes. "I wanted to thank you for allowing Onus to cross the boarders," the soft melody sang at length, the white orbs almost timidly meeting the Rosea’s blue gaze. That act, and she knew that it was no simple thing because of the Lilium’s dislike of the masked vigilante, meant a great deal more than even the Adonis herself realized. "I would have thanked you earlier," the soft song continued. But she did not offer an excuse, for surely there was none. Her days had not been filled with things of great consequence. Save for the continuation of her vigilance at the boarders and with the occasional encounters with her packmates, her days were slow and, for the warrior, uncomfortably idle. While the wounds should not be pushed beyond their limits, she knew as well that if she were to allow harm to befall her, the litter within her would be harmed as well. And so her days were ‘easy’. But there had been no adamant reason for her to not seek the Rosea. Perhaps she hadn’t known the correct words to speak in return for the given gesture. Even now, the words did not seem adequate. But for one whose life was lived with action, words were found with great difficulty. - Cercelee - 08-08-2009 [html]
- Cwmfen nic Graine - 08-09-2009 [html] A dark frown marred the woad bound maw, and the blackness that seemed to move across her fur. But the Rosea’s voice faltered, and only the name of the diamond marked hunter lingered in the air. Those white orbs that seemed to glow in the dying light met the eyes of her leader and saw what was held openly. The darkness upon her own black maw grew from the knowledge of who had caused the male his pain. Many times within these days of idleness the warrior had considered the possibilities. What if she had moved with greater celerity? Surely the results would have been the same—or would the results have been different? Perhaps, for the unfamiliarity of love, no one would have found her having been subdued. And yet, those who had no stake in Corvus’ life would have been spared their needless harms. And while the warrior understood and accepted the grimmer tales of battle, those that had been attacked by the crow wolf had surely been needless. It was her own fear (or was it perverse affection?) that had stilled her. But in facing him that night, despite her utter defeat, she had conquered that fear. And it seemed that, for her, that was all that Nemain had required. Imperceptibly, the warrior nodded to the Rosea. But she did not push what not said. There was much silence that followed the sparing words spoken upon the air, and so when the Rosea’s voice lifted, the woad-bound aurals pressed forward to catch them. But it was the silent, physical speech of wolves that spoke more clearly than the words of a voice, "You do not have to apologize to me," the quiet melody sang, a fleeting smile touching her quiet lips. Her hand reached out towards the white fae’s maw as if to lift it from that lowly place which the warrior saw to be unbefitting of Cercelee. But those woad bound fingers, as they were accustom, did not make contact. She lingered there momentarily so that her movement or the warmth of her fingers might lift that blue gaze. And as the hand slowly fell away, the white orbs, holding that darkened calm, sought the woman’s gaze. The warrior did not think that Cercelee had owed her anything, for it was the warrior who followed and served Cercelee out of fealty and respect, and because the warrior, although she considered few such a thing, considered the white wolf a caraid, a friend. "The pack will have needed you, and Slay needs you," the warrior’s song continued softly, unable to discern the origin of the anger that flitted across Cercelee’s features. And the woad-marked wolf was accustom to being alone in her solitude, although her solitude these days had been marred by the black soot that had settled over her. A distance had even been placed between Onus and herself. The warrior experienced a longing so unfamiliar and yet dire, but she silenced such a thing, unwilling to place the masked coyote so near to something that was not his, that belonged to something with hollow nothingness. Even his touch had caused her to recoil. A quiet sigh was emitted from the pregnant female as her gaze lingered upon the great roots of the oak. How suffocating this blackness was, and the black fae could not purge herself of it. The woman shifted her weight briefly upon her right leg before moving it back, allowing her left a moment of relief. Then, those white eyes returned to white fae. "I have seen this Darkness before," the soft susurrus sang, "and this Darkness will pass." Cwmfen could not recall to what extent she had shared her past with her leader. Yet, the black fae’s words were meant to assuage Cercelee’s concern, but whether they would, the warrior did not know. Once more, it was those social ineptitudes that hindered her. - Cercelee - 08-12-2009 [html]
- Cwmfen nic Graine - 08-13-2009 [html] Quietly, a fleeting smile moved across the silent lips. She was a part of the pack, the woman did not question that. But she was accustom to her solitude, to being alone even in her times of need. Save for with Onus, the black fae had never experienced the care of another, and she did not know when such a thing were required, for that knowing had been numbed by solitude itself. Indeed, Bane had carried her from Hybrid’s jaws and had ‘stitched’ her, as he had called it, but it had not felt the same, and she had returned to Dahlia within a matter of days. But two weeks she had been gone, her wounds and her pregnancy rendering her helpless, and her mental wounds making dark her days. A soft nod of confirmation was given. "They will be." They would be unless they would be killed. Onus had said nothing, and Cwmfen herself had remained silent as well. Yet both knew of the possibility. These lives created of a black seed could carry the black hollowness of the crow wolf. For a greater good, the woman would kill her own young. Perhaps it could be said that Cwmfen nic Graine, sired, too, from the pied Korean, had grown far from darkness. But the woad warrior knew herself, and she knew what lingered there in her soul. Often she had wondered when the darkness would come for her, for surely it was as inevitable as the grip of Death. And she hoped that, when the time came, someone would be there to kill her. Perhaps it would be Onus. Perhaps it would be another. And whether she lived long enough to become the creature of darkness that was inherent within her blood or not, she knew that she would be killed. Those that lived by the sword died by the sword. "I suppose the time is nigh," the soft alto responded, openly admitting that she did not know. The white orbs flickered over the Rosea as she fell back, leaning against the tree with a soft sigh. Her maw turned toward the swollen abdomen and she beheld an uncertainty. She wondered what it would happen next. What was next upon the pages of Fate? "It will not be long now," the susurrus came, nearly lost within the silence. The white orbs lifted to find Cercelee once more. "I will not be able to fully fulfill my duties until they no longer need me." She spoke as if the pups would be purged, as if her efforts to keep the darkness at bay would be successful. And the black fae spoke as if the litter would not accept her, not as if she would not accept the litter. "But Brennt, the puppy-eater, is dead and no longer a threat," she informed the white woman, "as is Corvus." There was a dark certainty within the final words, and yet, strangely, no hate. Perhaps such a thing would go unnoticed, however, for emotions did not burn strongly within her as they did in others. "I expect little trouble to arise, but I will check periodically when I can." Cwmfen had suddenly become formal with the talk of her duty. But it was more of her passion than mere duty, and it was from that passion that she was kept. But it was clear that the woman would not allow danger to befall the pack, nor would she allow it to befall her litter—none save that which may prove to be necessary. "The pack should be safe." It was idleness and uselessness that sank into her bones, and, for the warrior who moved as the water and the wind must, stillness grew to a quiet, unbearable level. - Cercelee - 08-15-2009 [html]
- Cwmfen nic Graine - 08-17-2009 [html] At the sound of her lover’s name, the woad bound ears lifted, pressing forward as if to hear a sound that was familiar and yet too distant. But that familiar and distant name was soon followed by that of her father. For a moment, the woman grew still as the water does when the wind has died. But, as with the dying wind, the stillness was fleeting. "Yes," the soft melody replied. Onus had told her only afterwards of his discussion with the Rosea, and, although he had not gone into great detail, the black fae had known that such words would have been exchanged. "I failed that night," the soft melody explained, those tones ringing as if she were noting the presence of deer. And perhaps, for the black fae, the darkness of that night had merely been the result of her own physical inadequacies. There was conflict within the warrior’s soul, a conflict of contentment and discontentment. There was a brief silence. "If Onus had not come, I would not be here today." The white orbs watched the Rosea with quiet eyes as she admitted verbally what had only been said with silence. "But whatever would have happened that day, Corvus would have left." And those white eyes remembered the promise she had made to the Rosea after Ril’o’s death. Her own life was insignificant in magnitude of the world, and the world would not have taken notice had she died. She walked only upon that preordained path, doing as she knew that she must and knowing still that things could not be changed. Her only regret in dying would have been to leave Onus. He had lived life alone just as she, and he, just as she, had been content with such a thing. But she had made love with him, and the solitude now was not enough—at least it no longer seemed to be for the woad marked fae. And yet, now, she must continue to cause him pain by the bearing of the lives within her. A faint smile flickered across her lips, but she was silent as she had been silent in these past two moons. Cwmfen nodded, believing that, at least for a moment, Dahlia would be able to breathe. She did not think that a new threat would arise, but she did not discard the possibility. And, if she could, she would do what she must for her pack, and she would do it because her passion for war was as great as her love of Onus. But she knew that she could not be there all the time. Not yet. The warrior nodded. "I will." The woad-marked fae knew, however, that she could protect them only if she could protect herself. The protection of the pack required the same thing. And so, when the warrior could move once more as the wind and the water, she would strive to regain what was lost and to gain what had not been gained before. As with all, there was always room for improvement. Even with her. Defeat was the only way in which to better oneself. "I need only your patience," the soft melody replied, an indiscernible smile of silver touching her lips. That was all that she felt she could ask or demand of Cercelee. Already the Dahlian leader had much with which to deal, and Cwmfen did not wish to burden her. The black fae was not accustom to requiring the care of others. Even her dependence upon Onus made her uncomfortable, for his purpose was not in the caring of her. She knew, however, when she did indeed require such aid, and she could accept it when given. But from the snowy woman, she desired only patience. - Cercelee - 08-29-2009 [html]
- Cwmfen nic Graine - 09-01-2009 [html] 500+ There was a faint glimmer—and yet it was gone—within that white gaze. The discontent at what had occurred was lessened marginally by the Rosea’s words. If she had not failed the Rosea, then she had not failed completely. And she had not entirely failed herself. Indeed, she had conquered the fear of her father. But she had not physically overcome him and instead had been overcome. In that sense, she had failed. As warrior, she had failed. And the black wolf knew that every encounter could not be victorious. She accepted that, and so she was able to easily admit to failure. While not complete, what had happened had most certainly not been victory; thus was it left to failure. A soft sigh was admitted. When her body would be permitted to move, she would have to regain much of what would be lost in idleness. But she would, too, have to gain what had not yet been gained, to better herself, to improve herself. And what better way to better oneself than through defeat? The black fae softly smiled, something a little brighter than had been permitted upon those quiet lips. The Rosea’s words were warming, surprisingly so to the black fae who had never truly felt such a thing in such a way. The friendship, now, that she had with Cercelee seemed much stronger than she had believed it to be. Where once their relationship had been of simple loyalty and respect (and yet loyalty, for the warrior, as not lightly given), their relationship had now blossomed into something stronger. It was a peculiar sort of thing, the black fae mused, that was similar and yet not similar to the relationship that was shared with Onus. But the words that Cercelee spoke made such a thing apparent, and the warrior was immediately humbled. The white gaze was lowered almost tentatively, the silence almost awkward for her lack of words. A simple ‘thanks’ would not suffice. For she whose life was tenuous, it was a strange thing to have her life valued in such a way. At length, a simple nod was given and the gaze was lifted. She would thank Onus on Cercelee’s behalf and on her own. For a moment, despite the shadowed thoughts that hung over the swollen abdomen, she was permitted rest. The carrying of that black seed was lifted if only briefly, but it would be enough for now, and it was more than the warrior should ask. A soft breath sang into the quiet air, and perhaps it sang of relief. It spoke there, held openly within the white orbs, moving as if light were filtered there. "Thank you." The words were sung quietly, rising as a Raven’s feather to join the song of the earth, and perhaps the rings of relief were sung there also. Softly, the woad-bound maw was dipped. And for the Rosea’s patience, the warrior would, in return, do, as warrior, what she always did with strengthened loyalty and trust and friendship. - Cercelee - 09-02-2009 [html]
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