01-11-2011, 10:20 PM
OOC: No worries. I probably would have had a reply sooner if I had remembered to track the thread, but I checked today just in case, and ta-da! ^_^ Word Count: 1304.
IC:
Saraqael nodded her tiny head, pleased that she had been correct in guessing the girl's lineage, though it was rather obvious. “I know three others with that same red marking,” she explained, smiling softly to no one in particular. “Kaena greeted me at the borders which was my first encounter with it. That very same night after settling in, I met Clover in the greenhouse and the night after that I encountered a lady by the name of Sepirah. I cannot say I've ever met your father, though. Does he have a rust-colored nose, too?” She was sure he was just as beautiful and strange as his daughters and kin regardless of the hue of the bridge of his nose. Though their outer appearances rang of the same source, all of their relationships to Kaena perplexed her greatly when she considered personality. Comparatively, she was so harsh seeming and rough around the edges. The two tawny Lykoi children were laid back and lackadaisical. Sepirah was more high strung but did not command the same warrior's respect and, Saraqael admitted, fear, that the matron of the Lykoi line seemed to. Then again, it was perfectly like the offspring of an animal to reject its parents' ways and attempt to move in the opposite direction. Perhaps it had started with the most recent generation of Lykoi girls, or maybe it had been Razekiel who began the tradition of pot smoking and free love. Whoever was to blame for the change mattered not. They all seemed perfectly fond of one another, the pull of family outweighing even fundamental differences in belief or style of living. It was admirable and left her wondering if her own family was that strong. How would they have reacted if she had gone to live in a developed city, or even stranger, took a wolf for a partner? Mother, father, and brother would have been terrified and repulsed of both, the former for its inherent denial of her wild roots and the latter because, even if they did not naturally hate their larger canine cousins, such impurities in their species and differences in behavior would have disturbed them no small amount. For certain, it would have been a test of their morals, their fondness for their daughter and sister, and the strength of their species prejudice. Fortunately for them, either scenario was highly unlikely. She feared so much about cities that even the thought of being surrounded by sky scrapers or simple concrete buildings made her nauseous. How someone could be separated from the breath of the forest or the sound of streams rumbling in their soft way though roads they cut out for themselves over years left her dumbfounded and amazed. And she feared wolves a healthy amount. They had saved her life as a shivering whelp with their kindness and technology, but she had been taught to question their motives and expect the worst until they proved themselves. The idea of taking one to bed was laughable.
The sound of her childhood nickname snagged her thoughts back to the pretty hybrid who had chosen to sit at her side for a while. Her older brother called her “Sara” while both parents insisted in its full version, which in her opinion, was much prettier. Still, the short way held much affection and brought back a sea of wonderful memories and friendship. She would allow it. “You can call me Sara.” Sage went on to explain that they shared an interest in the same craft, though the sand and auburn creature had little confidence in her own work. With an honest eye, she looked at the clothing that she had made. The stitching was clumsy but also purposeful, and it may not have been the prettiest, but it looked sturdy enough. “I think your items look fine. With practice will come fine elegance, but that is just a bonus. What really matters is durability. It looks like you make a sturdy product, and evocative, too.” The monochrome coyote was referring to the way that the clothing seemed to hug Sage's pleasing form, accentuating her curves and bust. It was certainly a flattering look but one that would have done little for her, who had no breasts to speak of in the first place. That did not mean she did not enjoy them on others.
For the first time, Saraqael was slightly startled but was too intoxicated from sleepiness and the fantasy image that the Lykoi mix made of herself to react much. A little widening of her mismatched eye may have given her away, but that was all. The intentions of the chestnut hand became clear when it grabbed the pendant given to her by her brother, her only surviving sibling. She imagined it was cool to the touch and that the precise cuts in it felt interesting on the pads of the lady's fingers. Replacing it, she felt the tickle of claws on her chest, blurring the black fur of her crescent into the white, making the already jagged line more so. The touch set her skin to shivering lightly. “I did not make it,” she answered, only wishing she had glass working skills. “My brother gave it to me a while ago. I am not sure where he got it from, only that it reminded him of me. He said it went well with my other marking.” The coy attempted to gesture downward with her muzzle toward the dark sliver at her breast. “Moons and stars and all.” A grin added an impish quality to her sharp, slanted face. Its cause was the image of her brother, springing up like a row of sweet smelling flowers in the garden of her mind. Sage was wrong in assuming her family to have been equally exotic. On the contrary, they were very plain in appearance, her mother possessing an oaky pelt, its accentuating colors of white, cherry, and black all quite rich on her. She looked saturated and had eyes the color of pale jade. Her countenance was round and soft, especially for a coyote, though she had humongous, almost garishly huge ears. By contrast, Saraqael's father was rather plain and pale, even compact, concise, and definitely small. His markings were barely defined, leaving his coat a bland sand with gray and white peppered in traditional places, including a saddle. Inset in his sockets were gems of dark, deep turquoise, the very identical hue of her right eye. He was the small one with all the points and had lent them to Saraqael as well, a strange curse that left her looking like a faerie forever. Azazel was somewhere between, his light underbelly extending perhaps further than it should have over his legs, giving him socks, and up his sides and back, leaving his tail white. The other colors were not so intense but made their presence known in all the right places. Otherwise sharp just like her and their father, his orbs were a shiny, bright green, unlike either of them.
She was a genetic mutation, an unfortunate case of leucism that had never before occurred in her family. It left her vulnerable in any season except winter, a fact that helped to explain her comfort in falling dead asleep in the snow. In any other season, she was a gaudy target waiting to be picked off. Feeling small and vulnerable, she wondered if Sage would have minded if she shifted. “Would you mind if I took a few minutes to change to Optime? It should not take long.” Saraqael could have done it in nine minutes. It would have made her feel better next to the gorgeous girl, less like a foreign creature to be admired and more like an equal.
IC:
Saraqael nodded her tiny head, pleased that she had been correct in guessing the girl's lineage, though it was rather obvious. “I know three others with that same red marking,” she explained, smiling softly to no one in particular. “Kaena greeted me at the borders which was my first encounter with it. That very same night after settling in, I met Clover in the greenhouse and the night after that I encountered a lady by the name of Sepirah. I cannot say I've ever met your father, though. Does he have a rust-colored nose, too?” She was sure he was just as beautiful and strange as his daughters and kin regardless of the hue of the bridge of his nose. Though their outer appearances rang of the same source, all of their relationships to Kaena perplexed her greatly when she considered personality. Comparatively, she was so harsh seeming and rough around the edges. The two tawny Lykoi children were laid back and lackadaisical. Sepirah was more high strung but did not command the same warrior's respect and, Saraqael admitted, fear, that the matron of the Lykoi line seemed to. Then again, it was perfectly like the offspring of an animal to reject its parents' ways and attempt to move in the opposite direction. Perhaps it had started with the most recent generation of Lykoi girls, or maybe it had been Razekiel who began the tradition of pot smoking and free love. Whoever was to blame for the change mattered not. They all seemed perfectly fond of one another, the pull of family outweighing even fundamental differences in belief or style of living. It was admirable and left her wondering if her own family was that strong. How would they have reacted if she had gone to live in a developed city, or even stranger, took a wolf for a partner? Mother, father, and brother would have been terrified and repulsed of both, the former for its inherent denial of her wild roots and the latter because, even if they did not naturally hate their larger canine cousins, such impurities in their species and differences in behavior would have disturbed them no small amount. For certain, it would have been a test of their morals, their fondness for their daughter and sister, and the strength of their species prejudice. Fortunately for them, either scenario was highly unlikely. She feared so much about cities that even the thought of being surrounded by sky scrapers or simple concrete buildings made her nauseous. How someone could be separated from the breath of the forest or the sound of streams rumbling in their soft way though roads they cut out for themselves over years left her dumbfounded and amazed. And she feared wolves a healthy amount. They had saved her life as a shivering whelp with their kindness and technology, but she had been taught to question their motives and expect the worst until they proved themselves. The idea of taking one to bed was laughable.
The sound of her childhood nickname snagged her thoughts back to the pretty hybrid who had chosen to sit at her side for a while. Her older brother called her “Sara” while both parents insisted in its full version, which in her opinion, was much prettier. Still, the short way held much affection and brought back a sea of wonderful memories and friendship. She would allow it. “You can call me Sara.” Sage went on to explain that they shared an interest in the same craft, though the sand and auburn creature had little confidence in her own work. With an honest eye, she looked at the clothing that she had made. The stitching was clumsy but also purposeful, and it may not have been the prettiest, but it looked sturdy enough. “I think your items look fine. With practice will come fine elegance, but that is just a bonus. What really matters is durability. It looks like you make a sturdy product, and evocative, too.” The monochrome coyote was referring to the way that the clothing seemed to hug Sage's pleasing form, accentuating her curves and bust. It was certainly a flattering look but one that would have done little for her, who had no breasts to speak of in the first place. That did not mean she did not enjoy them on others.
For the first time, Saraqael was slightly startled but was too intoxicated from sleepiness and the fantasy image that the Lykoi mix made of herself to react much. A little widening of her mismatched eye may have given her away, but that was all. The intentions of the chestnut hand became clear when it grabbed the pendant given to her by her brother, her only surviving sibling. She imagined it was cool to the touch and that the precise cuts in it felt interesting on the pads of the lady's fingers. Replacing it, she felt the tickle of claws on her chest, blurring the black fur of her crescent into the white, making the already jagged line more so. The touch set her skin to shivering lightly. “I did not make it,” she answered, only wishing she had glass working skills. “My brother gave it to me a while ago. I am not sure where he got it from, only that it reminded him of me. He said it went well with my other marking.” The coy attempted to gesture downward with her muzzle toward the dark sliver at her breast. “Moons and stars and all.” A grin added an impish quality to her sharp, slanted face. Its cause was the image of her brother, springing up like a row of sweet smelling flowers in the garden of her mind. Sage was wrong in assuming her family to have been equally exotic. On the contrary, they were very plain in appearance, her mother possessing an oaky pelt, its accentuating colors of white, cherry, and black all quite rich on her. She looked saturated and had eyes the color of pale jade. Her countenance was round and soft, especially for a coyote, though she had humongous, almost garishly huge ears. By contrast, Saraqael's father was rather plain and pale, even compact, concise, and definitely small. His markings were barely defined, leaving his coat a bland sand with gray and white peppered in traditional places, including a saddle. Inset in his sockets were gems of dark, deep turquoise, the very identical hue of her right eye. He was the small one with all the points and had lent them to Saraqael as well, a strange curse that left her looking like a faerie forever. Azazel was somewhere between, his light underbelly extending perhaps further than it should have over his legs, giving him socks, and up his sides and back, leaving his tail white. The other colors were not so intense but made their presence known in all the right places. Otherwise sharp just like her and their father, his orbs were a shiny, bright green, unlike either of them.
She was a genetic mutation, an unfortunate case of leucism that had never before occurred in her family. It left her vulnerable in any season except winter, a fact that helped to explain her comfort in falling dead asleep in the snow. In any other season, she was a gaudy target waiting to be picked off. Feeling small and vulnerable, she wondered if Sage would have minded if she shifted. “Would you mind if I took a few minutes to change to Optime? It should not take long.” Saraqael could have done it in nine minutes. It would have made her feel better next to the gorgeous girl, less like a foreign creature to be admired and more like an equal.