The long road ahead...

Tlantli Kimaris · 06-05-2011, 01:08 PM

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WORD COUNT→403 — OOC→ Hover the Spanish for a translation, since I use an online translator that is most likely incorrect when it comes to grammar and wording.

mall-caps;font-variantmall-caps;letter-spacing:4px;">THE SPARK OF DAWN

The golden coyote had found it necessary to make a trip, not because she was tired of her home in Salsola, but because necessities and gifts did not grow on trees — at least not with the skills the Crone possessed. The ruined city was the best choice. Days, it had taken days, for the witchdoctor woman to find her way to the city. Days alone, days in silence; if not for her solitary nature, it would have been unbearable, but Tlantli had long since learned to live on her own, and she would always return to Salsola and her Revlis King. The trip would be a brief one, the morning spent in the depths of Halifax, searching for items she might present to her nonsister and the handsome Boss. She scavenged well, and items were placed in the satchel that draped across her chest to rattle against the empty glass jars found within.

The latter half of her day was spent traipsing along the beach there, something she missed from her days in Eterne, though the foamy waters were nothing like the beautiful seas she had visited in Eterne. Golden feet kicked water back into the ocean, fiery eyes gazing out across the expanse of dark blue. It wasn't until the breeze shifted, bringing scents of others — two of them, neither known — that she sought out faces in the area. It was in the distance that she saw figures, the most prominent one leaning over something else. Curious as she was, the shamaness approached; her presence seemed to startle away the looming figure, but she paid it no mind as it fled toward the north. Instead, she circled the sleeping figure on the ground — he was still enough to be one of the dead, but she knew better.

Her toes dug into the sand of the beach, a quick twist of her leg kicking it into the air and toward the doggish male. Apathy ran rampant over the features of the Mexican coyote, her state of emotion subdued; it was only curiosity that drove her to pester. They did not have such creatures in her home. "Lo que una criatura feo." The native tongue of the Spanish woman rolled forth with speed and grace, as it always had been. He simply was not a coyote; perhaps in other lives, this was acceptable, but in the eyes of the Salsolan woman, it was not.

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