08-23-2011, 11:05 PM
Orin growled her annoyance, a low grumble in the back of her throat that was not meant to be threatening but that she could not suppress. Something about her Lupus form always brought out the wolf in her, so to speak. Her mouth moved as if to say something but there was nothing to say, and she just got hung up on herself. Again she huffed in frustration, and jerked to the right, stepping into an annoyed pace. She passed back and forth in front of Shawchert a few times, stalking low to the ground almost as though she were hunting. She was just agitated, and like always, wore her emotions on her sleeve.
Now she was just as irritated about the fact that she didn't have anything to say as she was at Shawchert's folly. His words were so true, what did she want him to say? Nothing. She didn't want him to say anything. She knew he didn't have a defense, and that he was already tearing himself apart because of it. She wanted to lay into him, to keep going, to take out months of anger and frustration on the man. Yet she couldn't. She had already pressed the issue longer than she ever would have, and beating him up any more wouldn't change what had happened. It wasn't even making her feel any better like she had hoped it would.
Finally she stopped pacing and threw herself to the ground, landing theatrically in a pile of leaves. The leaves billowed up around her, some coming to rest on her own ivory furred back.
“This is Cercatori d'Arte,” she repeated, but now her voice had lost all it's fire. She spoke low, with raspy pain-addled words. “It should be safe here.”
She dropped her head onto her paws and looked at him out of the corner of her gaze; it was a very puppish look. Her golden orbs filled with tears that she struggled to retain. She didn't feel safe here, and it wasn't just because of Shawchert. Sure, she felt better here than anywhere else, but still there was always that feeling lurking around the corner wherever she went.
“What am I going to do?” she asked, the question sounding futile the moment she whispered it. It was obvious that she wasn't talking about Shawchert's blunder anymore. “Is anywhere going to be safe ever again?”
400+
Now she was just as irritated about the fact that she didn't have anything to say as she was at Shawchert's folly. His words were so true, what did she want him to say? Nothing. She didn't want him to say anything. She knew he didn't have a defense, and that he was already tearing himself apart because of it. She wanted to lay into him, to keep going, to take out months of anger and frustration on the man. Yet she couldn't. She had already pressed the issue longer than she ever would have, and beating him up any more wouldn't change what had happened. It wasn't even making her feel any better like she had hoped it would.
Finally she stopped pacing and threw herself to the ground, landing theatrically in a pile of leaves. The leaves billowed up around her, some coming to rest on her own ivory furred back.
“This is Cercatori d'Arte,” she repeated, but now her voice had lost all it's fire. She spoke low, with raspy pain-addled words. “It should be safe here.”
She dropped her head onto her paws and looked at him out of the corner of her gaze; it was a very puppish look. Her golden orbs filled with tears that she struggled to retain. She didn't feel safe here, and it wasn't just because of Shawchert. Sure, she felt better here than anywhere else, but still there was always that feeling lurking around the corner wherever she went.
“What am I going to do?” she asked, the question sounding futile the moment she whispered it. It was obvious that she wasn't talking about Shawchert's blunder anymore. “Is anywhere going to be safe ever again?”
400+