01-11-2011, 01:00 AM
OOC: Nope! 
Word Count: 1260.
IC:
A dark shadow manifested itself in her peripheral. Turning to face it head on, anticipating that it was a new person come to meet her, the small creature shifted her body only to have fear strike her straight in the heart. All that registered was a pointed spearhead attached to a stem ended in fletching, cradled in the tension of a bow. The lady might as well have shot the damn arrow that was knocked in her curving weapon. What Saraqael saw was a wolf with killing device, and she was pointing it straight at her tiny chassis. Her first instinct was to run, but that was wrong – that was what prey animals did, and they got fucking shot. Instead she fell flat on her back, falling away from the female archer. The hand clutching the lid of her pack closed released, dropping her valuables in a mangled heap. Snow puffed up from the ground in hazy clouds around her twiggy bodice. Then she rolled, ducking behind the cover of trees and then propelled herself up onto her feet, loping in a wild, evasive zig zag maneuver. Her mind was a perfect blank. She left everything having to do with anything important to the command of her body and guts, banking on their guidance to keep her alive, to keep her skin from becoming someone's pretty coat, to keep her skull from decorating a wolven mantle. Noah had been a kind soul, sure, but his genial demeanor could not be attributed to every member of his pack. Even if he tried to attest to that, the coyote was far too suspicious to ever believe otherwise. She would have run until her lungs were ragged, shredded from breathing in too much cold air too fast before relying on such vague hope. The voice trailing behind her stopped her in her speedy tracks. Laced with genuine concern, there was no way the woman had her weapon at the ready anymore. It sounded impossible that she intended her death. The question that followed, directed at her, seemed far away, but the two-toned fae had barely made it one hundred feet in the opposite direction. Stopping short in the whiteness, she dared to turn back, her hunched over form slowly sprouting upward to take advantage of her meager height.
“Idiotic” was not an appropriate enough word to describe how she had handled that situation but there was also a part of the ghostly coward that was grateful to her insane sense of danger. Precautionary? Yes. Had she over reacted? Most certainly, but in the event that the coal female had been serious, she might have lived, even if she had bent out of the way so that the arrow pierced only flesh and muscle. No arrow had been shot, no blood shed, and the previously terrifying huntress was merely curious about her presence so near her pack lands. Reasonably, she wanted to know what a small, pathetic thing like her was doing wandering out in the wintry landscape, sleeping under trees and lusting impotently after hares. Slowly she made her way back in an unwavering line, cutting a straight path back to where she had come from. Scorching embarrassment burned her flesh, heating her cheeks and chest to an unbearable hotness. If she had not been covered in such a luxurious pelt, her skin would have been stained as red as pomegranate juice on white fabric. To the Valley wolf, she must have looked foolish and crazy, both of which were at least partially true. She had thought of running away but where would she have gone without directions? In addition she dropped her pack back at the scene of the incident. Inside were important valuables including dyed fur pieces, an irreplaceable bone knife made by her father, and an assortment of odds and ends that she would have preferred in the extreme not to have to abandon to the elements, or to lose to scavengers who would later make money off of her artfully made wares.
Approaching the femme, what she saw confused her. In the sunlight, the fur of the other was a smoky, dark blue-gray, a strange color, clearly not dyed, she did not think, unless someone helped her maintain it on her back and face in such a specific pattern. Being a dyer by trade, she had an eye for the tell tale signs of a fabricated fur appearance, even on very impressive projects, but here there were none. Much akin to Saraqael herself, she had been born with a uniquely hued pelt. She was pleased by the fact that the beast she thought would bring her death had socks just like her but inverse, white where hers were deepest black. A cloak covered her one of her thighs, an interesting choice of wardrobe for some, but it seemed natural for the leucistic creature who almost exclusively wore clothing on her limbs in nearly the same fashion except with brighter colors. The expression she wore was open and vaguely concerned, causing a needle of guilt to prick into her chest. Not only had she fled, but she had tried to escape from someone who only had her best interests in mind, and was probably mildly concerned with her safety.
Standing before the other, Saraqael made herself into the epitome of repentance. It began with the simplest gesture of her flattened ears, both fuzzy pyramids of plainest white gluing themselves to her skull, an impressive feat considering their massive size. She cast her eyes toward the glittering carpet beneath both of them, unable to look her greeter in the face. Perfect rounds of twilight Caribbean and palest periwinkle attempted to find anything else to attend to. The claws on her pretty bleached toes were nice, but too close to the rest of the towering blue woman. After passing up several qualified candidates for distraction, she finally settled upon the crackled texture of a reedy pine tree. Its bark stole her thought and cleared her mind enough to allow words to flow, and they did, softly at first, conveying clearly her overwhelming sense of shame at her outlandish behavior. “I'm very sorry about that. All I saw was the tip of your arrow and I reacted immediately.” It was the truth, though she was careful to leave out the part about her having been a wolf. Frankly, it had a lot to do with it. She could not shake the feeling that they were hunting her everywhere she went in spite of friendly faces and gentle intentions. “My name is Saraqael Destroying Angel Kanga. I hail from Inferni.” She hoped that the title of her home would not give the Phoenix Valley wolf cause to knock another arrow. Her nerves were so frazzled that she knew she could not have been guaranteed a similarly brisk response. If challenged a second time with the bow, she would fall.
Nervous, afraid, and feeling small and skittish, she unconsciously began to dig her toes into the snow, taking comfort in the chill that slithered up into the webbing between her paws. Eventually her ears fell back to their natural upright position, shockingly gawky and fare more like a hare's than was attractive. Balancing their largeness were her fine pointed features, all of which were pursed in sadness, guilt, and most prominently, fear. She was such an unforgivably stupid girl. Every day she was surprised when she woke up alive, and every night she was grateful she had lived for so long.
Word Count: 1260.IC:
A dark shadow manifested itself in her peripheral. Turning to face it head on, anticipating that it was a new person come to meet her, the small creature shifted her body only to have fear strike her straight in the heart. All that registered was a pointed spearhead attached to a stem ended in fletching, cradled in the tension of a bow. The lady might as well have shot the damn arrow that was knocked in her curving weapon. What Saraqael saw was a wolf with killing device, and she was pointing it straight at her tiny chassis. Her first instinct was to run, but that was wrong – that was what prey animals did, and they got fucking shot. Instead she fell flat on her back, falling away from the female archer. The hand clutching the lid of her pack closed released, dropping her valuables in a mangled heap. Snow puffed up from the ground in hazy clouds around her twiggy bodice. Then she rolled, ducking behind the cover of trees and then propelled herself up onto her feet, loping in a wild, evasive zig zag maneuver. Her mind was a perfect blank. She left everything having to do with anything important to the command of her body and guts, banking on their guidance to keep her alive, to keep her skin from becoming someone's pretty coat, to keep her skull from decorating a wolven mantle. Noah had been a kind soul, sure, but his genial demeanor could not be attributed to every member of his pack. Even if he tried to attest to that, the coyote was far too suspicious to ever believe otherwise. She would have run until her lungs were ragged, shredded from breathing in too much cold air too fast before relying on such vague hope. The voice trailing behind her stopped her in her speedy tracks. Laced with genuine concern, there was no way the woman had her weapon at the ready anymore. It sounded impossible that she intended her death. The question that followed, directed at her, seemed far away, but the two-toned fae had barely made it one hundred feet in the opposite direction. Stopping short in the whiteness, she dared to turn back, her hunched over form slowly sprouting upward to take advantage of her meager height.
“Idiotic” was not an appropriate enough word to describe how she had handled that situation but there was also a part of the ghostly coward that was grateful to her insane sense of danger. Precautionary? Yes. Had she over reacted? Most certainly, but in the event that the coal female had been serious, she might have lived, even if she had bent out of the way so that the arrow pierced only flesh and muscle. No arrow had been shot, no blood shed, and the previously terrifying huntress was merely curious about her presence so near her pack lands. Reasonably, she wanted to know what a small, pathetic thing like her was doing wandering out in the wintry landscape, sleeping under trees and lusting impotently after hares. Slowly she made her way back in an unwavering line, cutting a straight path back to where she had come from. Scorching embarrassment burned her flesh, heating her cheeks and chest to an unbearable hotness. If she had not been covered in such a luxurious pelt, her skin would have been stained as red as pomegranate juice on white fabric. To the Valley wolf, she must have looked foolish and crazy, both of which were at least partially true. She had thought of running away but where would she have gone without directions? In addition she dropped her pack back at the scene of the incident. Inside were important valuables including dyed fur pieces, an irreplaceable bone knife made by her father, and an assortment of odds and ends that she would have preferred in the extreme not to have to abandon to the elements, or to lose to scavengers who would later make money off of her artfully made wares.
Approaching the femme, what she saw confused her. In the sunlight, the fur of the other was a smoky, dark blue-gray, a strange color, clearly not dyed, she did not think, unless someone helped her maintain it on her back and face in such a specific pattern. Being a dyer by trade, she had an eye for the tell tale signs of a fabricated fur appearance, even on very impressive projects, but here there were none. Much akin to Saraqael herself, she had been born with a uniquely hued pelt. She was pleased by the fact that the beast she thought would bring her death had socks just like her but inverse, white where hers were deepest black. A cloak covered her one of her thighs, an interesting choice of wardrobe for some, but it seemed natural for the leucistic creature who almost exclusively wore clothing on her limbs in nearly the same fashion except with brighter colors. The expression she wore was open and vaguely concerned, causing a needle of guilt to prick into her chest. Not only had she fled, but she had tried to escape from someone who only had her best interests in mind, and was probably mildly concerned with her safety.
Standing before the other, Saraqael made herself into the epitome of repentance. It began with the simplest gesture of her flattened ears, both fuzzy pyramids of plainest white gluing themselves to her skull, an impressive feat considering their massive size. She cast her eyes toward the glittering carpet beneath both of them, unable to look her greeter in the face. Perfect rounds of twilight Caribbean and palest periwinkle attempted to find anything else to attend to. The claws on her pretty bleached toes were nice, but too close to the rest of the towering blue woman. After passing up several qualified candidates for distraction, she finally settled upon the crackled texture of a reedy pine tree. Its bark stole her thought and cleared her mind enough to allow words to flow, and they did, softly at first, conveying clearly her overwhelming sense of shame at her outlandish behavior. “I'm very sorry about that. All I saw was the tip of your arrow and I reacted immediately.” It was the truth, though she was careful to leave out the part about her having been a wolf. Frankly, it had a lot to do with it. She could not shake the feeling that they were hunting her everywhere she went in spite of friendly faces and gentle intentions. “My name is Saraqael Destroying Angel Kanga. I hail from Inferni.” She hoped that the title of her home would not give the Phoenix Valley wolf cause to knock another arrow. Her nerves were so frazzled that she knew she could not have been guaranteed a similarly brisk response. If challenged a second time with the bow, she would fall.
Nervous, afraid, and feeling small and skittish, she unconsciously began to dig her toes into the snow, taking comfort in the chill that slithered up into the webbing between her paws. Eventually her ears fell back to their natural upright position, shockingly gawky and fare more like a hare's than was attractive. Balancing their largeness were her fine pointed features, all of which were pursed in sadness, guilt, and most prominently, fear. She was such an unforgivably stupid girl. Every day she was surprised when she woke up alive, and every night she was grateful she had lived for so long.