08-24-2009, 09:05 PM
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<3
500+
It was not often that the woman spoke in such a way. Her world was based upon realities, and she did not waste her time upon such fantasies. But, although the idea of the tale itself was fantastic, she did not view her tale to be of ‘fantasy’. It was difficult for the warrior describe what she wished with the mere words of conversational language, and she had taken a different approach to that difficulty. It was not necessarily the tale itself that best described what the warrior experienced. It was the sound of snowfall itself that deafened her ears, and it was the black of the thorns that blinded her. And yet, whose paw or jaws would seek to pluck the flower? Briefly, the black fae recalled the words that Slay had so deftly used. Selfish. That word whispered in her ears. The warrior that had relinquished the strength of emotion for the strength of battle did not know—was it selfish? The black soot was lifted from her soul as if by a soft sigh, and yet, in mockery did it blanket her soul once more. The heaviness had been lifted with the enlightening knowledge that had come with the birth of her twins, but the soot like tar was unmoved.
When Anu responded, a strange curiosity moved mildly across the white orbs. Roses. The black fae wondered what had caused the other woman to describe the blossom as such. The word ‘rose’ described a different flower entirely, and yet it was not of an entirely different meaning. The warrior wondered what it would mean should the rose better describe her tale. Rose… love, tragedy, purity. It was a flower of ambiguity, a flower of which great care must be taken. But the warrior nodded in response to the Crimson Dreamer’s observation. A rose it was, the black fae decided, and in beautiful still winter. Carefully the words of the other were heeded, the double-banded aurals lifted to drink in the sounds of her reply. And the warrior valued such a thing, for in this she trusted the input of another over her own. Once spoken, the warrior could consider the possibilities once more. As in battle, a strategic and rational approach was almost always possible. "Then I would want,"the alto voice sang after silence had well settled, "the one who plucks the blossom to be cautious." Whether it be she or another, or whether it would be none or all, the black fae would prefer caution. It was a wise thing to say, what Anu had said. And as a warrior, she knew the importance of proceeding with caution. Warriors knew that.
A warm smile graced the tranquility of the woad-bound maw. "Thank you, Anu," the warrior responded offering a dip of her maw. "You have been helpful." It was an awkward statement, perhaps, to offer a compliment in such a way, but the woad-marked fae did not know. There was a great silence as the white orbs looked down upon the little forms that drank from her. How suddenly her life seemed so still and idle. And yet, in the mornings, the black fae had continued her own training, although she did so at the entrance of her den. There was much to be regained that had been lost in two moons, but nothing was lost forever. "Your daughter," the quiet voice sang once more, her gaze lifting to find those eyes like water. "How is she?" The Dahlian warrior did not forget that her father had attacked this wolf’s daughter. She wondered now how she fared and hoped that the damage had not been irreversible. But she knew more than most that some wounds never truly healed.
500+
It was not often that the woman spoke in such a way. Her world was based upon realities, and she did not waste her time upon such fantasies. But, although the idea of the tale itself was fantastic, she did not view her tale to be of ‘fantasy’. It was difficult for the warrior describe what she wished with the mere words of conversational language, and she had taken a different approach to that difficulty. It was not necessarily the tale itself that best described what the warrior experienced. It was the sound of snowfall itself that deafened her ears, and it was the black of the thorns that blinded her. And yet, whose paw or jaws would seek to pluck the flower? Briefly, the black fae recalled the words that Slay had so deftly used. Selfish. That word whispered in her ears. The warrior that had relinquished the strength of emotion for the strength of battle did not know—was it selfish? The black soot was lifted from her soul as if by a soft sigh, and yet, in mockery did it blanket her soul once more. The heaviness had been lifted with the enlightening knowledge that had come with the birth of her twins, but the soot like tar was unmoved.
When Anu responded, a strange curiosity moved mildly across the white orbs. Roses. The black fae wondered what had caused the other woman to describe the blossom as such. The word ‘rose’ described a different flower entirely, and yet it was not of an entirely different meaning. The warrior wondered what it would mean should the rose better describe her tale. Rose… love, tragedy, purity. It was a flower of ambiguity, a flower of which great care must be taken. But the warrior nodded in response to the Crimson Dreamer’s observation. A rose it was, the black fae decided, and in beautiful still winter. Carefully the words of the other were heeded, the double-banded aurals lifted to drink in the sounds of her reply. And the warrior valued such a thing, for in this she trusted the input of another over her own. Once spoken, the warrior could consider the possibilities once more. As in battle, a strategic and rational approach was almost always possible. "Then I would want,"the alto voice sang after silence had well settled, "the one who plucks the blossom to be cautious." Whether it be she or another, or whether it would be none or all, the black fae would prefer caution. It was a wise thing to say, what Anu had said. And as a warrior, she knew the importance of proceeding with caution. Warriors knew that.
A warm smile graced the tranquility of the woad-bound maw. "Thank you, Anu," the warrior responded offering a dip of her maw. "You have been helpful." It was an awkward statement, perhaps, to offer a compliment in such a way, but the woad-marked fae did not know. There was a great silence as the white orbs looked down upon the little forms that drank from her. How suddenly her life seemed so still and idle. And yet, in the mornings, the black fae had continued her own training, although she did so at the entrance of her den. There was much to be regained that had been lost in two moons, but nothing was lost forever. "Your daughter," the quiet voice sang once more, her gaze lifting to find those eyes like water. "How is she?" The Dahlian warrior did not forget that her father had attacked this wolf’s daughter. She wondered now how she fared and hoped that the damage had not been irreversible. But she knew more than most that some wounds never truly healed.