08-09-2009, 01:40 AM
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500+
A dark frown marred the woad bound maw, and the blackness that seemed to move across her fur. But the Rosea’s voice faltered, and only the name of the diamond marked hunter lingered in the air. Those white orbs that seemed to glow in the dying light met the eyes of her leader and saw what was held openly. The darkness upon her own black maw grew from the knowledge of who had caused the male his pain. Many times within these days of idleness the warrior had considered the possibilities. What if she had moved with greater celerity? Surely the results would have been the same—or would the results have been different? Perhaps, for the unfamiliarity of love, no one would have found her having been subdued. And yet, those who had no stake in Corvus’ life would have been spared their needless harms. And while the warrior understood and accepted the grimmer tales of battle, those that had been attacked by the crow wolf had surely been needless. It was her own fear (or was it perverse affection?) that had stilled her. But in facing him that night, despite her utter defeat, she had conquered that fear. And it seemed that, for her, that was all that Nemain had required. Imperceptibly, the warrior nodded to the Rosea. But she did not push what not said.
There was much silence that followed the sparing words spoken upon the air, and so when the Rosea’s voice lifted, the woad-bound aurals pressed forward to catch them. But it was the silent, physical speech of wolves that spoke more clearly than the words of a voice, "You do not have to apologize to me," the quiet melody sang, a fleeting smile touching her quiet lips. Her hand reached out towards the white fae’s maw as if to lift it from that lowly place which the warrior saw to be unbefitting of Cercelee. But those woad bound fingers, as they were accustom, did not make contact. She lingered there momentarily so that her movement or the warmth of her fingers might lift that blue gaze. And as the hand slowly fell away, the white orbs, holding that darkened calm, sought the woman’s gaze. The warrior did not think that Cercelee had owed her anything, for it was the warrior who followed and served Cercelee out of fealty and respect, and because the warrior, although she considered few such a thing, considered the white wolf a caraid, a friend.
"The pack will have needed you, and Slay needs you," the warrior’s song continued softly, unable to discern the origin of the anger that flitted across Cercelee’s features. And the woad-marked wolf was accustom to being alone in her solitude, although her solitude these days had been marred by the black soot that had settled over her. A distance had even been placed between Onus and herself. The warrior experienced a longing so unfamiliar and yet dire, but she silenced such a thing, unwilling to place the masked coyote so near to something that was not his, that belonged to something with hollow nothingness. Even his touch had caused her to recoil. A quiet sigh was emitted from the pregnant female as her gaze lingered upon the great roots of the oak. How suffocating this blackness was, and the black fae could not purge herself of it. The woman shifted her weight briefly upon her right leg before moving it back, allowing her left a moment of relief. Then, those white eyes returned to white fae.
"I have seen this Darkness before," the soft susurrus sang, "and this Darkness will pass." Cwmfen could not recall to what extent she had shared her past with her leader. Yet, the black fae’s words were meant to assuage Cercelee’s concern, but whether they would, the warrior did not know. Once more, it was those social ineptitudes that hindered her.
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A dark frown marred the woad bound maw, and the blackness that seemed to move across her fur. But the Rosea’s voice faltered, and only the name of the diamond marked hunter lingered in the air. Those white orbs that seemed to glow in the dying light met the eyes of her leader and saw what was held openly. The darkness upon her own black maw grew from the knowledge of who had caused the male his pain. Many times within these days of idleness the warrior had considered the possibilities. What if she had moved with greater celerity? Surely the results would have been the same—or would the results have been different? Perhaps, for the unfamiliarity of love, no one would have found her having been subdued. And yet, those who had no stake in Corvus’ life would have been spared their needless harms. And while the warrior understood and accepted the grimmer tales of battle, those that had been attacked by the crow wolf had surely been needless. It was her own fear (or was it perverse affection?) that had stilled her. But in facing him that night, despite her utter defeat, she had conquered that fear. And it seemed that, for her, that was all that Nemain had required. Imperceptibly, the warrior nodded to the Rosea. But she did not push what not said.
There was much silence that followed the sparing words spoken upon the air, and so when the Rosea’s voice lifted, the woad-bound aurals pressed forward to catch them. But it was the silent, physical speech of wolves that spoke more clearly than the words of a voice, "You do not have to apologize to me," the quiet melody sang, a fleeting smile touching her quiet lips. Her hand reached out towards the white fae’s maw as if to lift it from that lowly place which the warrior saw to be unbefitting of Cercelee. But those woad bound fingers, as they were accustom, did not make contact. She lingered there momentarily so that her movement or the warmth of her fingers might lift that blue gaze. And as the hand slowly fell away, the white orbs, holding that darkened calm, sought the woman’s gaze. The warrior did not think that Cercelee had owed her anything, for it was the warrior who followed and served Cercelee out of fealty and respect, and because the warrior, although she considered few such a thing, considered the white wolf a caraid, a friend.
"The pack will have needed you, and Slay needs you," the warrior’s song continued softly, unable to discern the origin of the anger that flitted across Cercelee’s features. And the woad-marked wolf was accustom to being alone in her solitude, although her solitude these days had been marred by the black soot that had settled over her. A distance had even been placed between Onus and herself. The warrior experienced a longing so unfamiliar and yet dire, but she silenced such a thing, unwilling to place the masked coyote so near to something that was not his, that belonged to something with hollow nothingness. Even his touch had caused her to recoil. A quiet sigh was emitted from the pregnant female as her gaze lingered upon the great roots of the oak. How suffocating this blackness was, and the black fae could not purge herself of it. The woman shifted her weight briefly upon her right leg before moving it back, allowing her left a moment of relief. Then, those white eyes returned to white fae.
"I have seen this Darkness before," the soft susurrus sang, "and this Darkness will pass." Cwmfen could not recall to what extent she had shared her past with her leader. Yet, the black fae’s words were meant to assuage Cercelee’s concern, but whether they would, the warrior did not know. Once more, it was those social ineptitudes that hindered her.