It wasn't exactly dangerous, but no one could call the Yawrah safe, winter or not. She had been dragged under by it twice as a youth, and the sight of it rushing, splashing up with little finger-like stains from the hole she had carved made a point for her to not forget that. For a girl that floated on whims and wishes, who skated above the surface of this raging lifeblood, she was inexplicably stubborn when it came to shifting, despite the obvious disadvantages her choice gave her. It had been nearly two years since she had walked on four feet, stalked a deer or curled up in the knotted fashion she took to as a loner child. She had her reasons, buried deep in her heart of hearts and nearly forgotten now, but the reality remained a little ridiculous now, in her first Canadian winter on stubborn two feet. They were bound now, in thick bandages to keep her pads from freezing uncomfortably to the ice she stood on. The white was then bound by red ribbon, for no reason other than to match those on her wrists and arms which was, illogically, for decoration. The quilt-turned-dress that she wore at least offered warmth.
Shuffling at her post, Poe gripped a rusty fishing pole in both hands and peered down at her hole in the ice with mild skepticism. The waiting game was not one that she enjoyed, but she had little choice. Her stomach growled for fresh meat, and her tongue had long ago fallen in love with fish flesh. She jostled the fishing rod, wiggled her shoulders and hips, and pushed a subtle rhythm into her stance to warm her body and heart. It was cold and isolated out here, but she was determined and hungry. |