It beats, a lulling and contrarily confident tempo that reverberates through the hushed wind, low and weighing down upon them- the breaks in the air, the crevices of space, wrinkles in time. Like the hand of an old pocketwatch, it thrums with a steady pace, practiced and unaffected by that which may stand obstinate in its path. Where such a rhythm is destined to linger is a fact that as yet is, ironically, uncertain. For the heart that embraces the gentle pounding within is carried devoutly by a framework that does not adhere to the rules etched in its sound. Though wrapping oneself defiantly around one's heart, and though navigating a careful existence with careful obedience to the heart's will are both natural acts, reflexes to experience even, this one prefers the quiet solemnity of her own mind. Where there are wolves who think solely through the desires of their clockwork organ, its thrum echoing louder than their own voice, so too are there wolves who would rather wonder upon their own time. To avoid having to listen to the nagging of their heart, the obnoxious pleads it makes as it tries to make one see right and wrong. In a world so filled with gray, the heart is obsolete in wisdom, outdone in all but love- though even in such an area of expertise does it fail on occasion. When there ceases to be a definitive line between the deeds of so-called 'good' and 'bad', simultaneously does there cease to be a reason to think with your heart.
It leads you astray and causes more trouble than it does you good.
In spite of the thousands of reasons to cast away the clock, however, in light, there are in fact two reasons to allow it to remain. It keeps good sense of the time, though again such a thing is merely relative, for no sentient being can even begin to comprehend the untameable force of a second and its successors. All the same, it grants the ability to breathe to exist, and subsequently the knowledge that it is going to strike its last bell. As the body falls, the heart speaks of its descent, and one may go down with peace on their minds, just as they were born. It ticks away inside her as we speak, still beating, still humming.
It shows us we are alive. That is its first reason. The second? We have yet to discover why a heart is so doubly important.
She finds herself tempted to release a soft hum into the shifting winds as her teal and neon green eyes trace delicate lines into the stone all around, grand and rusted as it appears. Perhaps only due to her interest in whether the curvaceous walls would mirror her, mimic the vibrations and sing a hollow tune back to her. She is a peculiar creature, content in her independence and unfazed by the wealthy loneliness that sighs through spring itself. Those sharp eyes observe a shiver that ripples through the water, perhaps a fish? She did not know. She fears not freezing, starving. But she does fear not having friends or someone she could count on.
Than she heard the scream. “Demon wench!” She perked her ears up and got up to see what it was.
Finally got to where she heard the scream and it was a brute. She wagged her tail slowly and walked over to him, not knowing what she would be getting into. "Hey there!" She said with a grin on her face. She stopped a few feet away from the male and sat on her hunches. Her eyes trailed over him slowly and than she looked out at the waves.
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