A Sense of Balance

Cwmfen nic Graine · 06-30-2010, 09:13 AM

[html]

500+

White orbs contemplated the large, blue-eyed male as he set the bone. The blood flowed suddenly from his leg. The blood’s scent was tempting, and it was healthy. That much she could tell. But his health was quickly fading. Perhaps the wolf should end it for him. The thought caused the simple mind to be tickled with mild mirth, as if she laughed warmly from a joke. (Indeed, the Warrior’s humor was not humor at all, for she was unable to truly understand the comedic aspect of social life.) She knew that such behaviour was not becoming of a pack wolf, especially when faced with a non-threatening, wounded loner. No, she would allow him to live for as long as he chose.

The woad-banded ears pricked forward. England? He had come from a land near her own. While she knew the name Ablion, she had learned that its name, labeled by all others, was indeed this England. A mild curiosity seemed to move through her tranquil gaze, and she listened silently as the wounded wolf spoke. “I know nothing of ‘the Pacific’ or the lands West of here,” the soft melody sang, “But the beauty of these lands are near to the beauty of Caledonia.” The black wolf had traveled the lands of her birth and Hibernia, and she had traveled upon the cold ice before descending ultimately to the lands upon which both wolves now stood. But she knew nothing of what lay beyond, and she had no great interest herself. Her place was within ‘Souls now, her purpose to protect the wolves of the flower pack. “I know your lands,” the silver tones sang at length. Indeed, she had recognized the look of the male for one who originated from that area. Perhaps he would not have recognized her, for the blood of Koreans were mixed within her as well. “I hail from Caledonia in the north.” Not all packs wore woad. In fact, she had seen very few wearing it in her travels. But Graine had given to her the plant that painted her fur in that ethereal blue, and the Warrior, as a symbol of her purpose, for the favor of the Morrigan, wore them.

The soldier was defiant and did not admit his need. Stubbornness was a dangerous thing, especially in his predicament. If the Raven Dreamer were not curious of him, she may have allowed him to continue and die as he surely wished to will such a fate upon himself. Yet, the Warrior would humor him until he realized that help was required. She could only offer her services if he himself saw that he needed them. A faint yet warm smile touched the corners of her quiet lips. “Perhaps with some driftwood and the weed of the sea, a splint may be fashioned,” the soft alto suggested. In a single, fluid movement, the woaded fae had risen and turned to find the two ingredients. It was not difficult, nor was it long before she returned. Such things were most definitely not strong enough to last a good length of time, but perhaps for a few hours they would suffice—if he used them.

The blood was thick in the air as she deposited the wood and weeds nearby. Carefully, she approached him, her paws stepping carefully upon the lose rocks. Her nose moved just above his fur as she scented the blood. It was hot and still flowing from his head. He had lost a lot already. He would be weak. “You should take care of these,” the voice sang softly as she pulled back slightly. “Unattended, they will infect quickly.” Or perhaps he would just bleed out. The black wolf believed the former to be more realistic, however, as animals often survived upon receiving such wounds—but not for long.

Login




Remember me Lost Password?