05-31-2010, 10:15 PM
Set in Shattered Coast subterritory.
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It had been several days since the Vigilante king had accepted her into this haven-pack, and she was still finding her way around the territory. She had thought it would be simple to find a home to live in in that town—they had called it Lunenburg?—but nothing had spoken to her. There was a sense that a being felt when they entered the place that they would live for an indefinite amount of time—she remembered Isra Hajara living like that in the wild sands of Arabia, and she had felt that when Smith had entered her servitude in the house of Pierre the blacksmith. Nothing here so far had given her that connected feeling, but she was not finished looking. Time was not an issue here, and Smith was used to not having the luxury of comfort. It was something to occupy her mind, at least.
This day she ended up wandering further north than where she had met the roi of the court of miracles, a place called the Shattered Coast. The Arabian woman's stone-gray eyes drifted out over the crashing waves, the tall and jagged cliff-faces. Despite the fact that she had been on a ship for so many weeks in transit to this New World, she was not very fond of the sea. Something about it made her remember the ocean of dunes that had made up her first life, a life that she missed in the darkest of hours at night. But there was no reason to dwell in such distant past—Isra was dead, as was her life in that hemisphere of the world.
Her shadow was shrinking to nonexistence as the sun climbed higher, gaining its own vantage point. It was warm here, warmer than she would have expected. Out of habit the woman kept her ragged blanket around her shoulders as a shawl, for even the warmest of times in British Columbia were quite chilly for a creature meant for the deserts. And even if it were a dry cool, as the nights had been in her birthplace, she would be able to adapt—no, the air swam with moisture here, and it was chilly. Unconsciously the woman tightened her grasp on the blanket.
She avoided the rocks of the cliffs, walking amongst the grasses that eventually led to the forests that lay beyond the boundaries of the pack. She had passed a few buildings already, ramshackle things that had not stood the test of time. She wondered if she could find a place out here, secluded, warm and safe. Her gaze flickered up from her immediate path, seeing nothing for quite some time. Words came unbidden, past memories from a life that was no longer hers—
"الحياة هي الملايين من مسارات ، قصيرة وطويلة
انهم جميعا في نهاية نفس المكان."
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It had been several days since the Vigilante king had accepted her into this haven-pack, and she was still finding her way around the territory. She had thought it would be simple to find a home to live in in that town—they had called it Lunenburg?—but nothing had spoken to her. There was a sense that a being felt when they entered the place that they would live for an indefinite amount of time—she remembered Isra Hajara living like that in the wild sands of Arabia, and she had felt that when Smith had entered her servitude in the house of Pierre the blacksmith. Nothing here so far had given her that connected feeling, but she was not finished looking. Time was not an issue here, and Smith was used to not having the luxury of comfort. It was something to occupy her mind, at least.
This day she ended up wandering further north than where she had met the roi of the court of miracles, a place called the Shattered Coast. The Arabian woman's stone-gray eyes drifted out over the crashing waves, the tall and jagged cliff-faces. Despite the fact that she had been on a ship for so many weeks in transit to this New World, she was not very fond of the sea. Something about it made her remember the ocean of dunes that had made up her first life, a life that she missed in the darkest of hours at night. But there was no reason to dwell in such distant past—Isra was dead, as was her life in that hemisphere of the world.
Her shadow was shrinking to nonexistence as the sun climbed higher, gaining its own vantage point. It was warm here, warmer than she would have expected. Out of habit the woman kept her ragged blanket around her shoulders as a shawl, for even the warmest of times in British Columbia were quite chilly for a creature meant for the deserts. And even if it were a dry cool, as the nights had been in her birthplace, she would be able to adapt—no, the air swam with moisture here, and it was chilly. Unconsciously the woman tightened her grasp on the blanket.
She avoided the rocks of the cliffs, walking amongst the grasses that eventually led to the forests that lay beyond the boundaries of the pack. She had passed a few buildings already, ramshackle things that had not stood the test of time. She wondered if she could find a place out here, secluded, warm and safe. Her gaze flickered up from her immediate path, seeing nothing for quite some time. Words came unbidden, past memories from a life that was no longer hers—
"الحياة هي الملايين من مسارات ، قصيرة وطويلة
انهم جميعا في نهاية نفس المكان."