08-13-2009, 03:24 AM
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That crazy stair is crazy, ^=^
700+
A flame provoked migration seemed quite natural to the black fae, and yet, the prospect of fire itself seemed both fitting and unfitting. The flames, as she had seen upon the mountainside, had cleansed the land of the old life and, soon, new life would persist. And yet, fire was unpredictable and volatile, uncontrollable and unapproachable. It was fire the willed the fury of battle, but the black fae, in her self training, had learned to make such a thing fleeting, to not allow its flames to consume her mind. But many did not remember the power of fire, and, as Svara Thames, the fires would burn everyone, even the bearer. The woad warrior was like the water and the wind, able to form and shift to the world about her and with the same power as fire. Water was silent and calm and did not roar as the angry flames. And then.... "Was the fire Nature’s?" Wolves, because their shape so resembled that of humans, used fire as it should not be used. Perhaps such a thing had occurred.
A brief smile flickered across her quiet lips, dancing faintly like the sliver light of a crescent moon. The golden male’s simple response was perhaps more fitting than any other words could be. A reminder. "Then perhaps," the alto song sang softly, "our marks are not so different." The male’s designs held a more acute reminder than her own, one that was both personal and yet not. Her own was a reminder of the gods themselves, of the Morrigan and Nemain’s fury. And it was the gods and Fate that moved life as surely as the woad that flowed about her fur.She imagined life as a spear with the blade pointed at her heart. Many times the hand of Fate had driven that blade deep within her, and she had accepted those pains as one must accept that the wind blows and the water flows. And while the blade lay deep within her now, it was not twisted cruelly within her breast. It was as if the will of one male had softened the spear’s hunger, if only for a brief time.
Anselm’s explanation allowed the woman to consider the possibility that his view of the world was quite different from her own. The woad bound ears listened with that mild curiosity, finding the words almost fascinating. And, although those words described her own features, it was as if she were exploring some unknown territory. The woad-marked fae held a mild surprise in her gaze, for she had believed that her eyes, in the brief moments that she had glimpsed them herself, were white. "Strange that they are not—"not solid,—"and yet...nothing is pure." Her voice was quiet as she considered such a thing. The black fae had told Onus that she was not perfect, that she was not pure. And she knew that she was not for the blemish upon her soul, for that darkness that lingered there from the moment of her conception and strengthened by the rapes of her father. But purities did not exist and could not exist, for such existences were impossible. Thus, it was not surprising that her eyes were not purely white. It was simply a thing that she had never considered before. Having rarely seen her reflection safe for in the dimmed stillness of a pool, the black fae was quite unfamiliar with her own appearance. Perhaps she would have known the prominence of several scars upon her skin, but such things did not concern her. The black fae knew that war would mark her body and soul. But she did not see these things. Cwmfen knew only who she was—the nature of her soul and the song that it sang. It was the appearances of others that she knew and recognized.
Cwmfen leaned back against the hill and the roots of a tree, comfortable enough to relax and yet not trusting enough to relinquish the Spear at her side. The white gaze lifted, the darkness there holding the light as colloid solution, and the light was those diluted emotions that danced quietly in her eyes. Perhaps they were like the moon. "I wonder," the soft melody sang suddenly in the silence, "why you take such great interest in the eyes of a stranger." And once more, it was the indirect question that was more significant than the spoken words. But Anselm had proved to hold a great interest in that one feature, and the simple woman did not understand why he would concern himself with such a thing. He had brought himself very close to her, to her jaws and to the Spear at her side; she had allowed him to come near with his own jaws in dangerous proximity. And it was a thing that the woman had not quite experienced before. The caramel wolf examined her in a unique manner, and the black fae was simply curious. The warrior’s eyes regarded him quietly as if she were observing him from a distance. What was his purpose?
That crazy stair is crazy, ^=^
700+
A flame provoked migration seemed quite natural to the black fae, and yet, the prospect of fire itself seemed both fitting and unfitting. The flames, as she had seen upon the mountainside, had cleansed the land of the old life and, soon, new life would persist. And yet, fire was unpredictable and volatile, uncontrollable and unapproachable. It was fire the willed the fury of battle, but the black fae, in her self training, had learned to make such a thing fleeting, to not allow its flames to consume her mind. But many did not remember the power of fire, and, as Svara Thames, the fires would burn everyone, even the bearer. The woad warrior was like the water and the wind, able to form and shift to the world about her and with the same power as fire. Water was silent and calm and did not roar as the angry flames. And then.... "Was the fire Nature’s?" Wolves, because their shape so resembled that of humans, used fire as it should not be used. Perhaps such a thing had occurred.
A brief smile flickered across her quiet lips, dancing faintly like the sliver light of a crescent moon. The golden male’s simple response was perhaps more fitting than any other words could be. A reminder. "Then perhaps," the alto song sang softly, "our marks are not so different." The male’s designs held a more acute reminder than her own, one that was both personal and yet not. Her own was a reminder of the gods themselves, of the Morrigan and Nemain’s fury. And it was the gods and Fate that moved life as surely as the woad that flowed about her fur.She imagined life as a spear with the blade pointed at her heart. Many times the hand of Fate had driven that blade deep within her, and she had accepted those pains as one must accept that the wind blows and the water flows. And while the blade lay deep within her now, it was not twisted cruelly within her breast. It was as if the will of one male had softened the spear’s hunger, if only for a brief time.
Anselm’s explanation allowed the woman to consider the possibility that his view of the world was quite different from her own. The woad bound ears listened with that mild curiosity, finding the words almost fascinating. And, although those words described her own features, it was as if she were exploring some unknown territory. The woad-marked fae held a mild surprise in her gaze, for she had believed that her eyes, in the brief moments that she had glimpsed them herself, were white. "Strange that they are not—"not solid,—"and yet...nothing is pure." Her voice was quiet as she considered such a thing. The black fae had told Onus that she was not perfect, that she was not pure. And she knew that she was not for the blemish upon her soul, for that darkness that lingered there from the moment of her conception and strengthened by the rapes of her father. But purities did not exist and could not exist, for such existences were impossible. Thus, it was not surprising that her eyes were not purely white. It was simply a thing that she had never considered before. Having rarely seen her reflection safe for in the dimmed stillness of a pool, the black fae was quite unfamiliar with her own appearance. Perhaps she would have known the prominence of several scars upon her skin, but such things did not concern her. The black fae knew that war would mark her body and soul. But she did not see these things. Cwmfen knew only who she was—the nature of her soul and the song that it sang. It was the appearances of others that she knew and recognized.
Cwmfen leaned back against the hill and the roots of a tree, comfortable enough to relax and yet not trusting enough to relinquish the Spear at her side. The white gaze lifted, the darkness there holding the light as colloid solution, and the light was those diluted emotions that danced quietly in her eyes. Perhaps they were like the moon. "I wonder," the soft melody sang suddenly in the silence, "why you take such great interest in the eyes of a stranger." And once more, it was the indirect question that was more significant than the spoken words. But Anselm had proved to hold a great interest in that one feature, and the simple woman did not understand why he would concern himself with such a thing. He had brought himself very close to her, to her jaws and to the Spear at her side; she had allowed him to come near with his own jaws in dangerous proximity. And it was a thing that the woman had not quite experienced before. The caramel wolf examined her in a unique manner, and the black fae was simply curious. The warrior’s eyes regarded him quietly as if she were observing him from a distance. What was his purpose?