05-19-2010, 11:52 PM
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It had been some time since Marishka had wandered to the Shattered Coast. Perhaps it was the fear that he would find her there, rise from the grave and pursue her over leagues of ocean just to haunt her once more. The man that she would never name, the only father figure she would ever know, her дорогого отца. She spit on the rocky shore at the mere thought of him, fingering the hilt of her dagger with trembling hands as she looked out over the calm waters with her unusual lilac eyes.
Most things about Marishka were unusual; her many toned golden auburn fur and long mahogany hair, the fact that she wore clothes - a tank top and shorts - the dagger upon her slender hip and necklace sporting its one small bone. The native Russian had found refuge in these new lands, remaining a recluse from the time she had first arrived, doing her extreme best to avoid those living around her.
The Russian girl was getting sloppy now though, starting to crave contact with another, whether it be just the sight of them or the sound of a voice. So she now traveled back to where she had swam to shore some seven months ago, where she had met another, albeit briefly. He had spoken her native tongue and it had put her on guard, maybe he had known the man she would not name? Maybe he had been a past customer? She couldn't remember but as the months went by without any sign of her past traumas she was beginning to doubt it.
So with her worries slowly fading away she had went on the hunt this day, closer to the claimed territories then she would normally travel. It had been a spring hare, unsuspecting as it was cleaning out its burrow for the coming summer to the dangers about it. Two swift strikes with her knife and its life was easily ended, in mere moments it was artfully skinned and she had brought it to the shore so she might start a fire and cook it. As it heated over the small blaze though Marishka wandered close by along the waters edge, the flames to warm to stay by during this calm and cloudless afternoon.
It was only then that she noticed blood spattered her top, she had been less careful with her skinning then she had first thought, distracted by passing thoughts of the man she could not name, even the masked man made an appearance in her mind. Sighing she reluctantly pulled her top off and crouched before the water, scrubbing it in the sand beneath the surface, singing a soft tune under her breath. “Рост флаг на мачты, паруса и канаты крепко держа, артиллеристы хотят стрелять, хорошо подготовлены к борьбе. Борьба, бежать или сдаваться, поражение вы не можете отрицать, лучше отказаться в первую очередь, или утопить в мгновение ока.”
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It had been some time since Marishka had wandered to the Shattered Coast. Perhaps it was the fear that he would find her there, rise from the grave and pursue her over leagues of ocean just to haunt her once more. The man that she would never name, the only father figure she would ever know, her дорогого отца. She spit on the rocky shore at the mere thought of him, fingering the hilt of her dagger with trembling hands as she looked out over the calm waters with her unusual lilac eyes.
Most things about Marishka were unusual; her many toned golden auburn fur and long mahogany hair, the fact that she wore clothes - a tank top and shorts - the dagger upon her slender hip and necklace sporting its one small bone. The native Russian had found refuge in these new lands, remaining a recluse from the time she had first arrived, doing her extreme best to avoid those living around her.
The Russian girl was getting sloppy now though, starting to crave contact with another, whether it be just the sight of them or the sound of a voice. So she now traveled back to where she had swam to shore some seven months ago, where she had met another, albeit briefly. He had spoken her native tongue and it had put her on guard, maybe he had known the man she would not name? Maybe he had been a past customer? She couldn't remember but as the months went by without any sign of her past traumas she was beginning to doubt it.
So with her worries slowly fading away she had went on the hunt this day, closer to the claimed territories then she would normally travel. It had been a spring hare, unsuspecting as it was cleaning out its burrow for the coming summer to the dangers about it. Two swift strikes with her knife and its life was easily ended, in mere moments it was artfully skinned and she had brought it to the shore so she might start a fire and cook it. As it heated over the small blaze though Marishka wandered close by along the waters edge, the flames to warm to stay by during this calm and cloudless afternoon.
It was only then that she noticed blood spattered her top, she had been less careful with her skinning then she had first thought, distracted by passing thoughts of the man she could not name, even the masked man made an appearance in her mind. Sighing she reluctantly pulled her top off and crouched before the water, scrubbing it in the sand beneath the surface, singing a soft tune under her breath. “Рост флаг на мачты, паруса и канаты крепко держа, артиллеристы хотят стрелять, хорошо подготовлены к борьбе. Борьба, бежать или сдаваться, поражение вы не можете отрицать, лучше отказаться в первую очередь, или утопить в мгновение ока.”