01-09-2011, 12:50 AM
OOC: Word Count: 1020. No worries! I completely understand. 
IC:
She had banked on the phantom lady being blind. Both orbs were a solid pearl, leaving her unable to decipher iris from the eye whites, leading her to believe that somehow there were none to be distinguished. A genetic defect was what she chalked it up to. How could one see without pupils? The lenses into the brain were crucial to sight. Hopefully the rest of her senses were not too keen and the ghost girl had not been heard. The coyote approached stealthily anyway, secrecy being the only language in which her body knew how to move. Staring out the corners of her orbs at the statuesque hybrid, she took her first tentative step forward and away. Freedom lay ahead, tantalizing her with a breath of the crisp breeze of the forest. Ruffling the fur on her chest and head, it called to everything that was wild in her, demanding a response from her feral side. Riding the wave of the wind were many smells including rot, water (likely from the snow constantly melting and falling), the musty perfume of tree bark, and the warm musk of prey. Her nose was deadened to the odors of her pack mates as a collective. She could only sniff them out in singular now.
The very idea of food sent rabbits running circles in her head, brown and fluffy, tender and delicious. Her mouth watered quite literally, the inside walls suddenly awash with saliva. Saraqael swallowed, not wishing to drool like an idiot – she had better control over herself than that. Stomach gurgling, she looked down at it, intrigued and frustrated. Her organ was purposefully defiant. It was as though it had tried to cry out for help, begging the young brindled lass, or anyone who would listen, to feed it blood and meat. It acted like she was torturing it, when really, it was accustomed to such harsh treatment. Winter was a hard season and she had never eaten for pleasure.
Observing further, the only motion from the stranger was her death grip on the bark of the tree. It looked to the dark masked female as though her pack mate were attempting to clutch the life out of it and suck it into herself. She realized, then, that the otherwise pretty, fragile thing needed some sort of energy or replenishing sustenance. Black lips, which should have been like smooth leather, perhaps shined with spit, were crusted and cracked. A twinge of fear struck Saraqael in the base of her spine and shot like electricity into her gut. Hunger vanished in the wake of the urge for self-preservation. If sickness was what she had to look forward to as a result from their interaction, she wanted even less to do with the creature. As her own bones, which were dangerously near the surface of her skin, could attest, she was too thin. Any disease, no matter what its original nature, would likely manifest itself in a wasting sickness in her.
New fear set her apprehension about social awkwardness to null and void. They canceled each other out, thankfully, finally freeing her guilty conscience from the awfulness that came from the thought of running away from a blind person. She took her second step, and out of the corner of her eye, the slim fae fell. Saraqael's head whipped back in that direction. The forest was a small thought in her head now, holding only a foggy sense of familiarity like the lost image of a dream. In spite of her natural and quite reasonable sense of distress about the potential for sickness, she reacted on instinct. Instinct was what drove her to flow towards the woman in three bounds. Instinct prodded her to slip behind her and pull the long, silvery hair out of the way of her oral excretions. Thankfully, instinct also reminded her to steer clear of the blood that flowed freely down her pretty white arm as though lacerations were blooming there in the shape and color of veins. It dripped into the cold snow, burning holes there. Saraqael's jaw hung open in mute terror. The last thing she needed was a pack member to die in her arms of an unknown ailment that she had probably already contracted by reason of sheer proximity. She felt dumb, so dumb, for endangering her health. But it was too late – whatever was done was likely irreversible. What had made her act so rashly? The expression on the young lass's face. It was still vivid on the screen of her memory - a desperate, primal request for aid, communicated through the eyes she still thought were unseeing. Wondering briefly what had happened to all her useful skittishness, for she would have been better off if she had run sooner, she looked down at her weak, sputtering charge.
“Doctor” or “medic” were not on her list of talents. She knew nothing about the body of a Luperci in any of its forms, or even if there were differences on the inside. The girl, in her single year of life, also had limited experience with unhealthiness. She could not remember a single instance of poor health in her family or during her travels. Her only executable skill was to soothe and to question, then to seek help if it was asked of her. “Just breathe,” she coached, and made to stroke the pathetic lady's hair if she was allowed. “Do you know what ails you? Does it have a name?” Temptation, curiosity, and concern for herself begged her to inquire about contraction. It would have eased her to know that there were no signs of contagiousness, and frightened her to hear that the hybrid had received the disease from someone else. In that case, the physician she sought would have been for both of them and possibly the rest of the pack. She had heard of stranger things than illness slaying a group of creatures, but all of that would have to wait. For now, she looked to the nameless female, hoping she yet clung to life.
IC:
She had banked on the phantom lady being blind. Both orbs were a solid pearl, leaving her unable to decipher iris from the eye whites, leading her to believe that somehow there were none to be distinguished. A genetic defect was what she chalked it up to. How could one see without pupils? The lenses into the brain were crucial to sight. Hopefully the rest of her senses were not too keen and the ghost girl had not been heard. The coyote approached stealthily anyway, secrecy being the only language in which her body knew how to move. Staring out the corners of her orbs at the statuesque hybrid, she took her first tentative step forward and away. Freedom lay ahead, tantalizing her with a breath of the crisp breeze of the forest. Ruffling the fur on her chest and head, it called to everything that was wild in her, demanding a response from her feral side. Riding the wave of the wind were many smells including rot, water (likely from the snow constantly melting and falling), the musty perfume of tree bark, and the warm musk of prey. Her nose was deadened to the odors of her pack mates as a collective. She could only sniff them out in singular now.
The very idea of food sent rabbits running circles in her head, brown and fluffy, tender and delicious. Her mouth watered quite literally, the inside walls suddenly awash with saliva. Saraqael swallowed, not wishing to drool like an idiot – she had better control over herself than that. Stomach gurgling, she looked down at it, intrigued and frustrated. Her organ was purposefully defiant. It was as though it had tried to cry out for help, begging the young brindled lass, or anyone who would listen, to feed it blood and meat. It acted like she was torturing it, when really, it was accustomed to such harsh treatment. Winter was a hard season and she had never eaten for pleasure.
Observing further, the only motion from the stranger was her death grip on the bark of the tree. It looked to the dark masked female as though her pack mate were attempting to clutch the life out of it and suck it into herself. She realized, then, that the otherwise pretty, fragile thing needed some sort of energy or replenishing sustenance. Black lips, which should have been like smooth leather, perhaps shined with spit, were crusted and cracked. A twinge of fear struck Saraqael in the base of her spine and shot like electricity into her gut. Hunger vanished in the wake of the urge for self-preservation. If sickness was what she had to look forward to as a result from their interaction, she wanted even less to do with the creature. As her own bones, which were dangerously near the surface of her skin, could attest, she was too thin. Any disease, no matter what its original nature, would likely manifest itself in a wasting sickness in her.
New fear set her apprehension about social awkwardness to null and void. They canceled each other out, thankfully, finally freeing her guilty conscience from the awfulness that came from the thought of running away from a blind person. She took her second step, and out of the corner of her eye, the slim fae fell. Saraqael's head whipped back in that direction. The forest was a small thought in her head now, holding only a foggy sense of familiarity like the lost image of a dream. In spite of her natural and quite reasonable sense of distress about the potential for sickness, she reacted on instinct. Instinct was what drove her to flow towards the woman in three bounds. Instinct prodded her to slip behind her and pull the long, silvery hair out of the way of her oral excretions. Thankfully, instinct also reminded her to steer clear of the blood that flowed freely down her pretty white arm as though lacerations were blooming there in the shape and color of veins. It dripped into the cold snow, burning holes there. Saraqael's jaw hung open in mute terror. The last thing she needed was a pack member to die in her arms of an unknown ailment that she had probably already contracted by reason of sheer proximity. She felt dumb, so dumb, for endangering her health. But it was too late – whatever was done was likely irreversible. What had made her act so rashly? The expression on the young lass's face. It was still vivid on the screen of her memory - a desperate, primal request for aid, communicated through the eyes she still thought were unseeing. Wondering briefly what had happened to all her useful skittishness, for she would have been better off if she had run sooner, she looked down at her weak, sputtering charge.
“Doctor” or “medic” were not on her list of talents. She knew nothing about the body of a Luperci in any of its forms, or even if there were differences on the inside. The girl, in her single year of life, also had limited experience with unhealthiness. She could not remember a single instance of poor health in her family or during her travels. Her only executable skill was to soothe and to question, then to seek help if it was asked of her. “Just breathe,” she coached, and made to stroke the pathetic lady's hair if she was allowed. “Do you know what ails you? Does it have a name?” Temptation, curiosity, and concern for herself begged her to inquire about contraction. It would have eased her to know that there were no signs of contagiousness, and frightened her to hear that the hybrid had received the disease from someone else. In that case, the physician she sought would have been for both of them and possibly the rest of the pack. She had heard of stranger things than illness slaying a group of creatures, but all of that would have to wait. For now, she looked to the nameless female, hoping she yet clung to life.