WC: 555
The white orbs looked down upon the cold, unresponsive metal. The brand, bearing the mark of 無 --Nothingness, Empty—lay upon the unnatural, black river of concrete. The Korean woman sat upon the rough surface, those unnatural, humanesque legs crossed casually as she contemplated in unmoving silence. This thing was itself foreign to these lands, just as she. With a strange sense of fate, the Jindo-wolf hybrid could not help but wonder if it was a Korean who had also made this thing. It could be anyone, she suspected, now that cultures had often become something for one of any culture to identify with regardless of birth right. The woman sneered. She did not believe that was proper. Indeed, she believed that one could learn to assimilate oneself in another culture and live comfortably—that was true without a doubt. But she did not think that one born of a culture should simply pick up parts of another culture and assume them as part of an identity. That was strange. Where was the pride in one’s own culture? Where was the loyalty? There was none. No. The obsidian fae believed only that her identity could coexist with her own Korean culture. She would never abandon her culture or even parts of it for another.
The mind of the solitary female wondered to places where the darkness became almost livid—livid almost like a rage, and yet it was not anger that was felt. It was a simple blackness.... An emptiness....
The woman wished to mark herself. She wished also that she could have found a brand with another mark that, in Korean, was phonetically identical: 武 – Martial, War. Both marks would be fitting. But the Taekwondo fighter knew nothing of metal work. This single brand that she had been fortunate enough to have found would have to suffice.
Unfortunately, the woman was unfamiliar with the simple art of making fire. When she had left her homeland, she had been young enough such that the adults and older wolves had made the necessary flames. She had watched, and she had noted that they had used some sort of device at times—a rock perhaps. A frown ruffled the smooth, plain beauty of her Korean face. A bit more attention could have helped her now. Regardless, she rose, searching for some wood. At least she could start there.
The Concrete Jungle was silent in the deep night. The clouds covered the moon, and the light-sensitive orbs were in their perfect environment. She wondered too—if she was able to start a fire, would she be able to look upon it? She doubted it. The light would prove to be too intense for her sensitive eyes, she thought. A tree grew from the base of a building, causing it to lean in crumple slowly over time. The sinewy figure moved toward it in near-silence, her two-legged gait graceful and almost deliberate—proud. Strong hands grasped the branches and twigs, gathering them up in her arms until she had a fair amount. And then she returned to where she had left the brand: an empty street with dark pavement, cracked in places as Nature desired to conquer. Making a neat pile, the tenebrous woman knelt, beginning to rub two sticks together in a pathetic effort to make fire.
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