01-12-2011, 12:14 AM
OOC: Sorry for the length. It was a personal challenge and it certainly helps with my SSWM count! XD Word Count: 1509.
IC:
The coast stretched out forever in front of her. The water was like most water anywhere in the north in the dead of winter: gray. The color of tempests and sheep's wool, accentuated like those storm clouds with light linings, bleached at the roots like the sheep's shaggy hair. Its surface was alive with eruptions, every one wearing a frothy cap of foam. Winking at her with a million white eyelash eyes, Saraqael could only blink back in astonishment. Rocking and churning, the liquid folded over itself forever. Riding in, pulled by invisible chariots, rolling waves collided with the rise in the sand and were forced to crest, demanded to rise and fall, beating at the shore wildly. Each one disturbed the sand before it died, fading away in a blurry, grit filled foam, back from whence it came. From where she walked, a dark line of fine powder limned the tip of the basin and above that, pure, glowing white stretched upward indefinitely in a solid blanket of snow. The smell of the sea traveled easily for the wind was high at its back and both were everywhere, two factors that allowed its peculiar perfume to claim a dominant hold on the territories closest to it. Wetness was indeed a smell that was significantly present but it was not the same brand as the clear, weightless wet of free rain or untamed streams. It was a wetness deepened by the taint of salt which was slightly unpleasant to her senses. Perhaps it was not the salt but the debris that soured her olfactory sense to distaste. She was sure that weeds and carcasses were tossed like unwanted rag dolls onto land, left to swelter in the sun, decaying in their own juices. Dead things rarely reminded her of anything they had smelled like when they were yet alive, instead possessing the sharp tang of bacterial waste as the cells of the deceased were systematically atrophied, stripped of nutrients, then expelled as shit belonging to the world's lowest but most important and numerous life forms. Even from far away, the ocean had its own special feel, a texture that polluted every particle of the air with its presence. To breathe, the air was heavy, water diffusing into it with ease. At first it felt cumbersome in her organs and then it soothed, becoming almost preferable to the cold, dry bite of Nova Scotia's harshest season. It was sticky on her fur. Breezes literally whisked small layers of liquid off the top and shooed them inshore, and before the water could evaporate completely to leave the salt behind, it crashed into her pelt. On contact, the solution clung to her, making her pelt feel tacky at first but then crusty as the liquid dried up and left, hard salt the only thing remaining. She feared she would be trapped in a crystal cell of the stuff if she did not bathe or leave soon. The air was so thick with it that she tasted it on her tongue just from inhaling. After a time it made her mouth cottony, the tongue and roof less and less willing to separate because they were more and more glued together. Smacking her lips in an effort to distract herself from the discomfort and the strange sensation, she sighed gently. So this was what coastal life was like. At least the ocean's sound was redeeming. Whispering soothingly, it rasped in rhythmic time, singing a song of its own accord. It was a tune that would have put her to sleep or soothed her worry to calmness. It was as though nature itself was cooing a lullaby for all its creatures, singing them to sleep with the pulse and throb of the earth's life blood, the sound of its steadily beating heart. At least there was that.
The sky was inspired by its counterpart, the sea. It was slate and muddied like watercolor with puffy, dark clouds. They were spewing snow, a thing she minded only because of the constant bombardment of sticky moisture from the side. The combination was overbearing. However, when the flakes melted, she could pretend that the fresh and the brackish water were at war. The two toned creature hoped that the former would win ultimately. It had been days since she had bathed, a habit she had procured from her mother who did so frequently to help lift the colors she used to dye her furs from her own pelt. Though Saraqael's hands were blacker than a starless night, she acted based on what she observed and had been washing since she was a babe. Her brother and father did not engage in the same habit. Her sibling wrought metal for weapons and jewelry, even armor occasionally, and her father crafted knives with delicate precision, often taking the antlers or other large bones of animals and working them until they were smooth and deadly. In her pack, which clung to her small bodice by a series of straps, was one such knife modeled after modern buck knives. He was an excellent craftsman who made fine work. If she had stayed with them, she could have learned his art form, too. In fact, he would have been glad to teach her. Fortunately, the skill would not die. Her brother knew, had been trained and apprenticed under Mauriel but gave it up in favor of something new, different, and more strange. Smithing was not akin to her unique variation on their mother, Sylvan's techniques. It was modern and dangerous, dealing with fire, one of the most primitive forms of technology but also the greatest, perhaps the single source and inspiration for their rapid advancement across the globe. It was by far the most deviant thing ever done in the history of their family line, her own physical appearance coming in at a close and uncontrollable second. She did not think anything could mar her fondness for Azazel, her unruly, year older companion and partner in crime. She missed his quirky face almost every day, so much like hers but in color instead of black and white. It was like him to be so advanced.
It would have been a blessing to have him along for the ride she had embarked on. He was fearless, and though he probably would not mate with a wolf for life, he was certainly not afraid to bed them. The large male knew their ways and customs and trusted that they would not cause him harm for the most part. He had always made her feel safe in their midst, a faithful body guard in a vast swath of potential enemies. Of course, it helped immensely that he was constantly armed to the teeth. Azazel draped himself in constricting clothing, but not without reason – it was because he always had numerous daggers, knives, and knuckled coverings hidden on his person. Their mother, a competent seamstress, made the outfit for him because he trusted no one else to execute it as finely. His faith was not misplaced, for she even stitched hidden compartments on the insides. He practiced drawing weapons regularly from the slots and was lightning fast. His other skill was throwing daggers, a talent that could dispatch an opponent in seconds. Rarely, things came to that, but it never stopped him from being ready.
Saraqael was proud of herself for continuing her mission instead of turning back at Phoenix Valley. She walked from dawn until the light faded to nothing and the ocean was no longer visible, the sky blacked out by rugs of water vapor floating in the atmosphere. The scent of a border cropped up with surprising swiftness. The frail girl halted at it, considering her situation. It was the middle of the night, and she did not know anything about the pack and had never met any of its members judging by her lack of familiarity with the smell. With her impressive night vision, she could make out several dwellings by torchlight though many of them were quite far and tucked deep into the territory. The border seemed to stretch in a long line in both directions, the pack claiming a large coastal region for their own. It did not have the quaint gracefulness of their compact mansion, or the rawness of Inferni's cave system. From what she could make out, they were more advanced than that. There were hutches, cabins and huts. Surely someone was out and about, desiring to keep their land safe from dangerous intruders, though not from Saraqael. She stood at a grand four feet, ten inches, a measurement impressive for its startling inadequacy. The dark masked fae heard of jackals who were smaller but had not had the pleasure of meeting any, and doubted she would find one there. Opting to take a seat, she walked a few steps back away from the line of scent and then crouched, easing herself down into the snow, ignoring the cold and hoping to hear the crunch of encroaching footsteps.
IC:
The coast stretched out forever in front of her. The water was like most water anywhere in the north in the dead of winter: gray. The color of tempests and sheep's wool, accentuated like those storm clouds with light linings, bleached at the roots like the sheep's shaggy hair. Its surface was alive with eruptions, every one wearing a frothy cap of foam. Winking at her with a million white eyelash eyes, Saraqael could only blink back in astonishment. Rocking and churning, the liquid folded over itself forever. Riding in, pulled by invisible chariots, rolling waves collided with the rise in the sand and were forced to crest, demanded to rise and fall, beating at the shore wildly. Each one disturbed the sand before it died, fading away in a blurry, grit filled foam, back from whence it came. From where she walked, a dark line of fine powder limned the tip of the basin and above that, pure, glowing white stretched upward indefinitely in a solid blanket of snow. The smell of the sea traveled easily for the wind was high at its back and both were everywhere, two factors that allowed its peculiar perfume to claim a dominant hold on the territories closest to it. Wetness was indeed a smell that was significantly present but it was not the same brand as the clear, weightless wet of free rain or untamed streams. It was a wetness deepened by the taint of salt which was slightly unpleasant to her senses. Perhaps it was not the salt but the debris that soured her olfactory sense to distaste. She was sure that weeds and carcasses were tossed like unwanted rag dolls onto land, left to swelter in the sun, decaying in their own juices. Dead things rarely reminded her of anything they had smelled like when they were yet alive, instead possessing the sharp tang of bacterial waste as the cells of the deceased were systematically atrophied, stripped of nutrients, then expelled as shit belonging to the world's lowest but most important and numerous life forms. Even from far away, the ocean had its own special feel, a texture that polluted every particle of the air with its presence. To breathe, the air was heavy, water diffusing into it with ease. At first it felt cumbersome in her organs and then it soothed, becoming almost preferable to the cold, dry bite of Nova Scotia's harshest season. It was sticky on her fur. Breezes literally whisked small layers of liquid off the top and shooed them inshore, and before the water could evaporate completely to leave the salt behind, it crashed into her pelt. On contact, the solution clung to her, making her pelt feel tacky at first but then crusty as the liquid dried up and left, hard salt the only thing remaining. She feared she would be trapped in a crystal cell of the stuff if she did not bathe or leave soon. The air was so thick with it that she tasted it on her tongue just from inhaling. After a time it made her mouth cottony, the tongue and roof less and less willing to separate because they were more and more glued together. Smacking her lips in an effort to distract herself from the discomfort and the strange sensation, she sighed gently. So this was what coastal life was like. At least the ocean's sound was redeeming. Whispering soothingly, it rasped in rhythmic time, singing a song of its own accord. It was a tune that would have put her to sleep or soothed her worry to calmness. It was as though nature itself was cooing a lullaby for all its creatures, singing them to sleep with the pulse and throb of the earth's life blood, the sound of its steadily beating heart. At least there was that.
The sky was inspired by its counterpart, the sea. It was slate and muddied like watercolor with puffy, dark clouds. They were spewing snow, a thing she minded only because of the constant bombardment of sticky moisture from the side. The combination was overbearing. However, when the flakes melted, she could pretend that the fresh and the brackish water were at war. The two toned creature hoped that the former would win ultimately. It had been days since she had bathed, a habit she had procured from her mother who did so frequently to help lift the colors she used to dye her furs from her own pelt. Though Saraqael's hands were blacker than a starless night, she acted based on what she observed and had been washing since she was a babe. Her brother and father did not engage in the same habit. Her sibling wrought metal for weapons and jewelry, even armor occasionally, and her father crafted knives with delicate precision, often taking the antlers or other large bones of animals and working them until they were smooth and deadly. In her pack, which clung to her small bodice by a series of straps, was one such knife modeled after modern buck knives. He was an excellent craftsman who made fine work. If she had stayed with them, she could have learned his art form, too. In fact, he would have been glad to teach her. Fortunately, the skill would not die. Her brother knew, had been trained and apprenticed under Mauriel but gave it up in favor of something new, different, and more strange. Smithing was not akin to her unique variation on their mother, Sylvan's techniques. It was modern and dangerous, dealing with fire, one of the most primitive forms of technology but also the greatest, perhaps the single source and inspiration for their rapid advancement across the globe. It was by far the most deviant thing ever done in the history of their family line, her own physical appearance coming in at a close and uncontrollable second. She did not think anything could mar her fondness for Azazel, her unruly, year older companion and partner in crime. She missed his quirky face almost every day, so much like hers but in color instead of black and white. It was like him to be so advanced.
It would have been a blessing to have him along for the ride she had embarked on. He was fearless, and though he probably would not mate with a wolf for life, he was certainly not afraid to bed them. The large male knew their ways and customs and trusted that they would not cause him harm for the most part. He had always made her feel safe in their midst, a faithful body guard in a vast swath of potential enemies. Of course, it helped immensely that he was constantly armed to the teeth. Azazel draped himself in constricting clothing, but not without reason – it was because he always had numerous daggers, knives, and knuckled coverings hidden on his person. Their mother, a competent seamstress, made the outfit for him because he trusted no one else to execute it as finely. His faith was not misplaced, for she even stitched hidden compartments on the insides. He practiced drawing weapons regularly from the slots and was lightning fast. His other skill was throwing daggers, a talent that could dispatch an opponent in seconds. Rarely, things came to that, but it never stopped him from being ready.
Saraqael was proud of herself for continuing her mission instead of turning back at Phoenix Valley. She walked from dawn until the light faded to nothing and the ocean was no longer visible, the sky blacked out by rugs of water vapor floating in the atmosphere. The scent of a border cropped up with surprising swiftness. The frail girl halted at it, considering her situation. It was the middle of the night, and she did not know anything about the pack and had never met any of its members judging by her lack of familiarity with the smell. With her impressive night vision, she could make out several dwellings by torchlight though many of them were quite far and tucked deep into the territory. The border seemed to stretch in a long line in both directions, the pack claiming a large coastal region for their own. It did not have the quaint gracefulness of their compact mansion, or the rawness of Inferni's cave system. From what she could make out, they were more advanced than that. There were hutches, cabins and huts. Surely someone was out and about, desiring to keep their land safe from dangerous intruders, though not from Saraqael. She stood at a grand four feet, ten inches, a measurement impressive for its startling inadequacy. The dark masked fae heard of jackals who were smaller but had not had the pleasure of meeting any, and doubted she would find one there. Opting to take a seat, she walked a few steps back away from the line of scent and then crouched, easing herself down into the snow, ignoring the cold and hoping to hear the crunch of encroaching footsteps.