01-03-2011, 11:21 PM
OOC: Word Count: 1010.
IC:
One crescent of faded lavender and one of dark, rich turquoise danced on the surface of the stream. Her eyes were half-lidded because she had managed to intoxicate herself with lethargy, a new and magnificent drug. The water and all its marvels were just a glossy blur before her. When the touch came, she didn't flinch or startle as the petrified, high-strung coyote would have hours ago. Even more peculiarly for her character, she pressed into it slightly, relishing touch and heat, a plant leaning into light. She had told no one, but one of the miniature canine's most guilty pleasures was to be a lap dog, in essence. Curling in a loose pile on a soft lap and being stroked to oblivion was as wonderful a pass time as she could imagine. It also served a dual purpose of helping to keep her coat well-groomed and feathery. A little frown creased her dark-lipped mouth when the warmth of the hand dissipated. Saraqael supposed, then, that she should at least turn to greet whoever disturbed her haze, however unobtrusively they had attempted their sleep sabotage.
Before she began the arduous task, sounds floated to her silence-sensitive ears, smooth and delicate as the tinkling stream at her side. There was music in that voice, a soft melody that attached itself to every word and unfolded in compounding volumes as the lady spoke. In an odd way, it was as though the syllables had been wrapped in silk. She must have been a siren, Saraqael thought, risen from the waters to claim the presumptuous girl, and she decided in that moment, without ever having looked, that she would go willingly to that death. Slowly, stiffened from lack of movement, she rolled over, exposing her soft, pale belly for a moment before making the full turn. Normally, she would have found a way to shift without showing such vulnerability but her customary mode of thinking was significantly impaired. Blinking, the first thing she noticed were the two dark pyramids of ears jutting from the lady's head, marking her distinctly as coyote. It must have been one of the more prominent features since it was obvious that she was some mixture, almost positively part wolf. A pretty mane of dark brown, close to auburn, tumbled luxuriously, making her own short excuse for a haircut seem pathetic. Yellow eyes, a silky shade of sand-kissed butter, smiled down at her. Fur in tones of dusky bark and richer tawny glistened in the light reflected from the snow. Finally, a striking splat of red, right on the bridge of her coyote-slimmed muzzle, struck her as familiar. More than one Inferni member shared this marking. Clover possessed it, Sepirah sported it, and now her memory retrieved the wounded, scarred, cyclopian visage of Kaena. There, too, was blood, the mark of war. Nothing about this slender, lithe woman reminded her of battle. She was not a siren, either – her beauty was not that cold, hard, indestructible brand Saraqael fantasized those gorgeous aquatic demons to possess. A wood sprite felt accurate. Her coloring and demeanor fit right in. Wood sprites probably smoked pot, she mused, Clover and her gold locks drifting back across her recollection again because she had partaken of the same herb. The young lass looked warm, dressed in leather and draped in a thatched blanket of fuzzy, mixed-hued rabbit pelts. Some never did care for the cold. Saraqael was born in winter and blended in best during the season and had embraced it for as long as she could recall.
“You wouldn't happen to be a Lykoi, would you, Sage?” Curiosity demanded an answer as usual. Her dark paws scraped against the snow, producing a strange sensation that flowed from the tip of her claws up into her toes. It was an uncomfortable tingle, fading fast and reminiscent of the electric shock of banging the “funny bone.” After the bundled intruder retreated to a spot further away, she did not stand but sat up a little straighter, mostly revealing the black crescent curving along her chest in the cleft between where her flat breasts would have been. The green glass star attached to her neck glittered, catching a ray of the sun. Had she been in Optime, ragged tendrils of seaweed, clear ocean, and royal blue would have likely intrigued the presumed daughter of Lykoi along with her distinctive leucistic coloring, but her Lupus form would have to suffice for the moment to give her the general idea. Hopefully what she would take away was that the minuscule female was strange in more ways than one.
In the hope of wiping away sleep, she brushed an inked paw across her slitted eyes and fleshy pink nose. When she looked up, her gaze was somewhat clearer, more aware of her surroundings and the fact that she was no longer alone. Sage was not a dream, though Saraqael was not completely convinced she was not a nymph of the forest either. Smiling sleepily, the girl introduced herself. “I am Saraqael Destroying Angel Kanga. I dye furs and make dye, and as you can see, I attempt to nap in forests occasionally.” It was weirdly casual of her, but in that moment she could neither bring herself to fear nor shame in front of her peaceful company. She backed the sentiment up by falling into a long stretch, all her limbs tensing and pressing outward as though she were trying to tear her body in half from within. Blossoming in her belly, heat began to spread, rushing through her extremities, setting her vision to cloudy darkness from the sudden increase in blood flow. Such temporary, heady dizziness was a mild pleasure and something different from the world she was used to seeing with its fine, distinct lines. Chancing a glance upward at the lady, who, in her Optime form, was gigantic in comparison, the wraith pondered what she was thinking of her, alone and asleep in the snow near a stream in the Forest of Nod.
IC:
One crescent of faded lavender and one of dark, rich turquoise danced on the surface of the stream. Her eyes were half-lidded because she had managed to intoxicate herself with lethargy, a new and magnificent drug. The water and all its marvels were just a glossy blur before her. When the touch came, she didn't flinch or startle as the petrified, high-strung coyote would have hours ago. Even more peculiarly for her character, she pressed into it slightly, relishing touch and heat, a plant leaning into light. She had told no one, but one of the miniature canine's most guilty pleasures was to be a lap dog, in essence. Curling in a loose pile on a soft lap and being stroked to oblivion was as wonderful a pass time as she could imagine. It also served a dual purpose of helping to keep her coat well-groomed and feathery. A little frown creased her dark-lipped mouth when the warmth of the hand dissipated. Saraqael supposed, then, that she should at least turn to greet whoever disturbed her haze, however unobtrusively they had attempted their sleep sabotage.
Before she began the arduous task, sounds floated to her silence-sensitive ears, smooth and delicate as the tinkling stream at her side. There was music in that voice, a soft melody that attached itself to every word and unfolded in compounding volumes as the lady spoke. In an odd way, it was as though the syllables had been wrapped in silk. She must have been a siren, Saraqael thought, risen from the waters to claim the presumptuous girl, and she decided in that moment, without ever having looked, that she would go willingly to that death. Slowly, stiffened from lack of movement, she rolled over, exposing her soft, pale belly for a moment before making the full turn. Normally, she would have found a way to shift without showing such vulnerability but her customary mode of thinking was significantly impaired. Blinking, the first thing she noticed were the two dark pyramids of ears jutting from the lady's head, marking her distinctly as coyote. It must have been one of the more prominent features since it was obvious that she was some mixture, almost positively part wolf. A pretty mane of dark brown, close to auburn, tumbled luxuriously, making her own short excuse for a haircut seem pathetic. Yellow eyes, a silky shade of sand-kissed butter, smiled down at her. Fur in tones of dusky bark and richer tawny glistened in the light reflected from the snow. Finally, a striking splat of red, right on the bridge of her coyote-slimmed muzzle, struck her as familiar. More than one Inferni member shared this marking. Clover possessed it, Sepirah sported it, and now her memory retrieved the wounded, scarred, cyclopian visage of Kaena. There, too, was blood, the mark of war. Nothing about this slender, lithe woman reminded her of battle. She was not a siren, either – her beauty was not that cold, hard, indestructible brand Saraqael fantasized those gorgeous aquatic demons to possess. A wood sprite felt accurate. Her coloring and demeanor fit right in. Wood sprites probably smoked pot, she mused, Clover and her gold locks drifting back across her recollection again because she had partaken of the same herb. The young lass looked warm, dressed in leather and draped in a thatched blanket of fuzzy, mixed-hued rabbit pelts. Some never did care for the cold. Saraqael was born in winter and blended in best during the season and had embraced it for as long as she could recall.
“You wouldn't happen to be a Lykoi, would you, Sage?” Curiosity demanded an answer as usual. Her dark paws scraped against the snow, producing a strange sensation that flowed from the tip of her claws up into her toes. It was an uncomfortable tingle, fading fast and reminiscent of the electric shock of banging the “funny bone.” After the bundled intruder retreated to a spot further away, she did not stand but sat up a little straighter, mostly revealing the black crescent curving along her chest in the cleft between where her flat breasts would have been. The green glass star attached to her neck glittered, catching a ray of the sun. Had she been in Optime, ragged tendrils of seaweed, clear ocean, and royal blue would have likely intrigued the presumed daughter of Lykoi along with her distinctive leucistic coloring, but her Lupus form would have to suffice for the moment to give her the general idea. Hopefully what she would take away was that the minuscule female was strange in more ways than one.
In the hope of wiping away sleep, she brushed an inked paw across her slitted eyes and fleshy pink nose. When she looked up, her gaze was somewhat clearer, more aware of her surroundings and the fact that she was no longer alone. Sage was not a dream, though Saraqael was not completely convinced she was not a nymph of the forest either. Smiling sleepily, the girl introduced herself. “I am Saraqael Destroying Angel Kanga. I dye furs and make dye, and as you can see, I attempt to nap in forests occasionally.” It was weirdly casual of her, but in that moment she could neither bring herself to fear nor shame in front of her peaceful company. She backed the sentiment up by falling into a long stretch, all her limbs tensing and pressing outward as though she were trying to tear her body in half from within. Blossoming in her belly, heat began to spread, rushing through her extremities, setting her vision to cloudy darkness from the sudden increase in blood flow. Such temporary, heady dizziness was a mild pleasure and something different from the world she was used to seeing with its fine, distinct lines. Chancing a glance upward at the lady, who, in her Optime form, was gigantic in comparison, the wraith pondered what she was thinking of her, alone and asleep in the snow near a stream in the Forest of Nod.