A gypsy's prayer, an outcast's beg

Cwmfen nic Graine · 06-08-2010, 04:03 PM

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Hope you don’t mind me poppin’ in, ^=^ Cwmfen is in lupus form…

The sun was setting. Cwmfen had spent the day in the glade near her den. The glade had harbored her practices for many moons upon her first stay within Dahlia, and now it did so once more. The Raven Warrior had begun her belligerent dance upon two feet, wielding weapons that she found all too familiar. Badb sang wildly in her hands as she took the blade within her grasp to carve the ancient patterns within the air. The Woaded female began slowly, each step and thrust perfected with time. The knowledge returned to her in a rush, causing her heart, born for War, to beat wildly and darkly. The shadows danced for her, attacking viciously and without mercy. They took on the shapes of enemies past, of all the lives she had taken in her early years, of the life that she had been unable to take and that had been taken by Onus. Occasionally, a powerful cry would cut the peaceful silence, and the wild waters of her soul would leap up, moving in those white orbs with the fury of Nemain.

And then her body grew still, and the Song of Badb became a quiet hum. The Warrior’s breathing was slightly labored from a long day of her efforts, but her breath simply joined the soft breeze of dusk. The Caledonian-Korean bowed fluidly to the glade that had kindly lent its space, and then she slid back into the tenebrous woods. The songs of the day were sung languidly as the world prepared for dusk and night. The Raven Dreamer listened silently as she carried the thrumming blade to its place of rest. Woad-banded fingers gently brushed the tree. “Tapadh leat,” the alto melody whispered softly, and then she Changed, returning to the shape that had been given her upon her birth. The Raven called, his voice rough as his tenebrous form passed above her. The Warrior nodded, remembering. It was in the summertime that had brought failure to her path in the shape of Ril’o’s Death.

The Warrior contemplated that day. While the death of her packmate was indeed a tragic event, it was not upon Ril’o himself that the she-wolf dwelt. One could not mourn forever, and Ril’o’s memory had long since faded. Now, the Warrior strove to perfect herself, to remember what it was to protect the pack. While the ranks may not be as they had been during Cercelee’s reign, the Caledonian-Korean continued to consider herself the Warrior of Dahlia de Mai. It was all that Cwmfen knew: the Warrior’s Path.

Graceful paws carried the contemplating Warrior to places, refreshing the worn map within her mind. She found herself approaching Neveah Ravine, but she found that someone’s scent marred the stillness of the wind. The pied Raven turned his one eye to the Woaded Warrior, and the white orbs turned heavenward to see the Dream. She was already moving, her body swift and silent as the sinew swept her through the shadows. Cwmfen found the stranger with ease, the bright fur illuminated by the dying rays of the Sun. The Caledonian watched momentarily, pausing. She was silent and said nothing, but the figure in the shadows offered no hostilities.

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