02-22-2011, 08:46 PM
The gray gloom of the sky that winter morning bled into a lighter hue as streaks of sunlight parted the clouds. With her lime green eyes trained upon the treacherous horizon, the light gray wolfess felt resentment flooding into the pit of her stomach to pool into her throat. She raced as quickly as she could through the snowdrifts, sinking deep into the masses of white that dominated the ground. She continued undeterred, battling, throwing her insignificant weight into each step she took. With every footfall, she fought her way closer to home.
The cloud cover hovered above her head, each dark, insubstantial specter hanging like a bird of prey above her. There was nothing she could do to fight the onslaught of snow, although Lord knew that she had tried with every fiber of her being. It had taken her days to reach home, days that were saturated in a deadly white daze. She did not think she could numerate the days. She had been unable to tell time by the sky. She could only judge time by how hunger clawed at her like an angry thing.
She had spent a day and a half trying to advance carefully through Halifax, where she had been when the storm had hit. She had gone on a pointless expedition to gather non-essential supplies at first. But when the disastrous storm had hit, she had tried to pick up objects that might be useful when she would return to the Valley pack.
However, as the hours went on and stretched into the first night she had had to spend alone in an abandoned shop in Halifax, she began to realize the gravity of the situation, and the implications of the storm. She had no idea what kind of home she would be returning to, but she was determined to make it there as soon as possible. She had been so far removed, she did not know what to expect.
As she finally made some headway, a call that made her heart ache at its familiarity pierced the frigid and eerily quiet air. Geneva clutched her tattered satchel to her side as she made her way wearily, but with haste, to the ranch house. She stopped short, surveying the damage that the storm had brought upon them. But after that scarce moment, she only had eyes for Jefferson. And her eyes swiftly moved to Jefferson’s tattered form, her gaze greedily taking in every detail. And when they fell upon his injury, she said nothing, except to make haste to stand at his side, a silent silver shadow over his shoulder.
Noah spoke and Geneva absorbed his impeded speech, although her face was still turned to Jefferson before she turned her gaze to her pack mate. She nodded her assent wordlessly, although she spoke, adding to his thought. ”Some of the wood from the cabins might be salvageable. We should send out groups to judge the remains of our ruins and collect available resources,” she said almost numbly. She had expected things to be bad, and her eyes sought out her son from the crowd, desperate to also ascertain that if he wasn’t at least whole and healthy, he was alive. She knew that Jefferson would never let anything happen to their child. Whatever had happened to Jefferson could have killed him, but Geneva knew that there would be time for them to be themselves, just Geneva and Jefferson, later. First, he would have to see to the welfare of their pack. It was his way; he very rarely put himself first. But when he was ready to accept care, comfort, or just to talk, Geneva would be there for him.
”Almost everything is damaged or has been destroyed,” Geneva added after a moment. ”I became lost in the storm,” her whisper-soft voice was rough from days of misuse. ”But I was able to observe the extent of some of the damage. Some of the Villa between the lakes appears to be standing, although I don’t know if it is stable. We could try to house some of the herds there, and take shelter there too.” She paused for a moment, eyes seeking the faces of each of her pack members before her olive gaze swept to Jefferson. ”Raven Beacon will still be standing,” she said with some quiet confidence; although she had not seen the light house, she knew in her heart that it would still be a safe place.
The cloud cover hovered above her head, each dark, insubstantial specter hanging like a bird of prey above her. There was nothing she could do to fight the onslaught of snow, although Lord knew that she had tried with every fiber of her being. It had taken her days to reach home, days that were saturated in a deadly white daze. She did not think she could numerate the days. She had been unable to tell time by the sky. She could only judge time by how hunger clawed at her like an angry thing.
She had spent a day and a half trying to advance carefully through Halifax, where she had been when the storm had hit. She had gone on a pointless expedition to gather non-essential supplies at first. But when the disastrous storm had hit, she had tried to pick up objects that might be useful when she would return to the Valley pack.
However, as the hours went on and stretched into the first night she had had to spend alone in an abandoned shop in Halifax, she began to realize the gravity of the situation, and the implications of the storm. She had no idea what kind of home she would be returning to, but she was determined to make it there as soon as possible. She had been so far removed, she did not know what to expect.
As she finally made some headway, a call that made her heart ache at its familiarity pierced the frigid and eerily quiet air. Geneva clutched her tattered satchel to her side as she made her way wearily, but with haste, to the ranch house. She stopped short, surveying the damage that the storm had brought upon them. But after that scarce moment, she only had eyes for Jefferson. And her eyes swiftly moved to Jefferson’s tattered form, her gaze greedily taking in every detail. And when they fell upon his injury, she said nothing, except to make haste to stand at his side, a silent silver shadow over his shoulder.
Noah spoke and Geneva absorbed his impeded speech, although her face was still turned to Jefferson before she turned her gaze to her pack mate. She nodded her assent wordlessly, although she spoke, adding to his thought. ”Some of the wood from the cabins might be salvageable. We should send out groups to judge the remains of our ruins and collect available resources,” she said almost numbly. She had expected things to be bad, and her eyes sought out her son from the crowd, desperate to also ascertain that if he wasn’t at least whole and healthy, he was alive. She knew that Jefferson would never let anything happen to their child. Whatever had happened to Jefferson could have killed him, but Geneva knew that there would be time for them to be themselves, just Geneva and Jefferson, later. First, he would have to see to the welfare of their pack. It was his way; he very rarely put himself first. But when he was ready to accept care, comfort, or just to talk, Geneva would be there for him.
”Almost everything is damaged or has been destroyed,” Geneva added after a moment. ”I became lost in the storm,” her whisper-soft voice was rough from days of misuse. ”But I was able to observe the extent of some of the damage. Some of the Villa between the lakes appears to be standing, although I don’t know if it is stable. We could try to house some of the herds there, and take shelter there too.” She paused for a moment, eyes seeking the faces of each of her pack members before her olive gaze swept to Jefferson. ”Raven Beacon will still be standing,” she said with some quiet confidence; although she had not seen the light house, she knew in her heart that it would still be a safe place.