From Where the Weapons Were Formed

Cwmfen nic Graine · 08-12-2010, 04:16 PM

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Sorry it took so long to get up! Hopefully this is okay....
600+

The ethereal movements slid through the woods, raw sinew carrying her form with speed and agility through the foliage. A small rodent—a rat—skittered through the growth ahead of the wolf. But too late did its small paws carry it to safety. The hungering jaws of the Warrior snapped shut about the small form. Life blood leaked from her jaws warming her throat and darkening the leaves. In the quiet peace of the woods, the raven wolf ate a snack. Soon, having maintained her hunger and working body, she would return to the boarders. But not yet, for something else was brought to her attention.

The scent of fire and smoke came to the woad-bound maw. Black ears lifted to listen as if expecting to catch the sound of roaring flames devouring wood and foliage, the sound of trees dying and fauna fleeing. But she heard no such sounds. It was a strange thing, the scent of fire, still warm within the air, and yet no sound of its wild, vicious tongues. But the black she-wolf remembered that wolves used fires, taming them to cook meets and to complete other tasks. Because there was no scent of burnt flesh, the wolf assumed that the fire must have been the latter type. Briefly, she thought of the soup that had been gifted to her. The meat had left the most impression upon the wolf, having a flavor similar to but different from other meats she had sampled, whether fresh or burnt. It was good, the wolf admitted, but perhaps she should stay away from the abode of the jackal. While self discipline was sure to allow the Warrior to resist the instinct to kill the vulnerable prey, one could never be sure. The Warrior was not so arrogant as to assume that she were above fault. She had failed before. She could fail again. She worked hard, however, to minimize such occurrences.

A wolf’s natural curiosity flickered into the tranquil orbs of the Warrior and was gone. The peace that had always illuminated her presence was the same, unmoving, impassive, and yet not unkind. Relinquishing the few remains of her hunt to the woods, she turned in the direction of the flame’s scent. Her duties at the boarders could wait for a moment longer. But she would return with the same vigilance. However, she wondered what her packmate was up to. Perhaps she would simply observe from a distance and leave without making herself known, as she usually did. The Warrior was not often a creature to simply intrude upon the company of another. The black wolf had very little to offer in such situations. She would rather simply make sure of her packmates’ wellbeing before moving on to secure the boarders and to keep the peace within the Dahlian boarders.

The woaded she-wolf traveled silently, her fluid movements ethereal. She found herself in an area where Conor’s scent was prominent. But another scent became prominent as the flames grew near and its scent grew hot. The sound of metal upon metal rang clearly through the noontime air. It was a song familiar and yet foreign, as if the song were somehow incomplete—a mere fragment. The white orbs peered through the doorway and found the owner of the scent. She had not seen him since he lay dying outside of the Dahlian boarders. He must have joined, and healed as well, for he worked vigorously on something. The wolf, instead of leaving, decided to stay a moment longer and merely watched, her pose held between simply standing and about to move through once more. But for that moment, she held herself with unmoving grace.

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