08-07-2009, 06:55 PM
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500+
"I’m sorry that the shape of Dahlia’s lands inconvenience you," the quiet melody replied sincerely. And despite her pregnant and thus vulnerable state, the woman found that she no longer expected aggression from the red-eyed wolf before her. Her tranquility was held within those white orbs, strangely distant and yet not cold. The black fae regarded him, although she did not understand his reasoning because she was simply a wolf—one who viewed things from the earth and did not bother with the views from the sky.
The woad banded ears pricked forward at the sound of a familiar name. "Savina...Marino?" The name was recalled from nearly two moons past. The black female of Crimson Dreams, second in command, she noted to herself. "Is she well?" She did not find it strange that two unlikely people appeared to be friends, for she did not discriminate between such things just as she did not discriminate between those that would be killed and those that would be spared. The black fae wondered how the Marino female’s children fared, but she did not ask the caramel male of such things. Perhaps the warrior would be able to visit the neighboring pack in the distant future.
The male’s confusion did not surprise the woad female either, for there were many who, at first, had stumbled upon it as well. But she had not encountered many new faces in the past moons, as her search for both Brennt and Corvus Vendetta had consumed her time. A soft mirth was lit in her white eyes as she considered Anselm’s request for she remembered those many moons ago when she had first encountered these lands. "Koom-vehn," the soft Caledonian lilt repeated, her tongue slow and careful so that he might here that which he wished to know. "nic Grahn-ya." The woad-marked fae paused briefly to separate the thoughts clearly before she continued to reply to his query. "I hail from Caledonia—in Albion." The uses of those archaic names had never been corrected, yet, even if they had been corrected, she would have continued to use the names with which she were familiar for it was with these words and names that she associated her homeland.
Quietly the pregnant warrior listened to Anselm’s explanation. "And so it is your impure blood that they accept you," she concluded herself, answering her own, unspoken question. And her tranquil voice held no judgement, no damnation, but a simple conclusion. He had appeared, in the warrior’s eyes, to be a wolf, the faint hints of his coyote ancestry dismissible for their subtlety.
There was a pause that persisted longer than its predecessors, and the silence was heavy. In the female’s mind, such a thing made perfect sense for it was through symbols that she saw the world, through the songs and colours of each note. But she would not have been able to explain the whiteness of her eyes to another. "No," she answered at length, the white orbs lifting as she emerged from her thoughts. "My father—he had black eyes." And it was the thought of her father that had kept her silent. It was his black seed that grew in her womb. It was he who had subdued her. But, in the darker recesses of her heart, of her soul that desired the dark, she could admit the quiet intrigue of the now dead crow wolf. But only there. It was an unrealized thing, a simple hint of a glow where the source of light—or, in this case, the dark—was unknown. Odi et amo, the warrior’s core whispered, but the sound was lost in the silence of her soul.
500+
"I’m sorry that the shape of Dahlia’s lands inconvenience you," the quiet melody replied sincerely. And despite her pregnant and thus vulnerable state, the woman found that she no longer expected aggression from the red-eyed wolf before her. Her tranquility was held within those white orbs, strangely distant and yet not cold. The black fae regarded him, although she did not understand his reasoning because she was simply a wolf—one who viewed things from the earth and did not bother with the views from the sky.
The woad banded ears pricked forward at the sound of a familiar name. "Savina...Marino?" The name was recalled from nearly two moons past. The black female of Crimson Dreams, second in command, she noted to herself. "Is she well?" She did not find it strange that two unlikely people appeared to be friends, for she did not discriminate between such things just as she did not discriminate between those that would be killed and those that would be spared. The black fae wondered how the Marino female’s children fared, but she did not ask the caramel male of such things. Perhaps the warrior would be able to visit the neighboring pack in the distant future.
The male’s confusion did not surprise the woad female either, for there were many who, at first, had stumbled upon it as well. But she had not encountered many new faces in the past moons, as her search for both Brennt and Corvus Vendetta had consumed her time. A soft mirth was lit in her white eyes as she considered Anselm’s request for she remembered those many moons ago when she had first encountered these lands. "Koom-vehn," the soft Caledonian lilt repeated, her tongue slow and careful so that he might here that which he wished to know. "nic Grahn-ya." The woad-marked fae paused briefly to separate the thoughts clearly before she continued to reply to his query. "I hail from Caledonia—in Albion." The uses of those archaic names had never been corrected, yet, even if they had been corrected, she would have continued to use the names with which she were familiar for it was with these words and names that she associated her homeland.
Quietly the pregnant warrior listened to Anselm’s explanation. "And so it is your impure blood that they accept you," she concluded herself, answering her own, unspoken question. And her tranquil voice held no judgement, no damnation, but a simple conclusion. He had appeared, in the warrior’s eyes, to be a wolf, the faint hints of his coyote ancestry dismissible for their subtlety.
There was a pause that persisted longer than its predecessors, and the silence was heavy. In the female’s mind, such a thing made perfect sense for it was through symbols that she saw the world, through the songs and colours of each note. But she would not have been able to explain the whiteness of her eyes to another. "No," she answered at length, the white orbs lifting as she emerged from her thoughts. "My father—he had black eyes." And it was the thought of her father that had kept her silent. It was his black seed that grew in her womb. It was he who had subdued her. But, in the darker recesses of her heart, of her soul that desired the dark, she could admit the quiet intrigue of the now dead crow wolf. But only there. It was an unrealized thing, a simple hint of a glow where the source of light—or, in this case, the dark—was unknown. Odi et amo, the warrior’s core whispered, but the sound was lost in the silence of her soul.