legacy

Myrika Tears · 02-11-2012, 12:21 AM

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Moving this to Ashes and Ashes because that's clearly where they're at and where we'll end this, yes? c:

The rust-haired woman moved with her horse, ungainly body swaying with the surefooted mare. Myrika recalled the first time she gazed upon the sturdy blue roan. The tawny-furred woman had always found her mare a beautiful example of equine, and she had high hopes for the springtime foal Eira would bear. Viggo was certainly the best study animal within Inferni, and perhaps even all the northern packs.

She hoped for a chestnut like Viggo or a roan like Eira, but the russet-hued woman was not so selective with her horses' coat colors. She looked forward to raising and training a foal herself more than anything. Eira had been an adult when Myrika obtained her, and the khaki-colored woman thought it would be wonderfully hard work to break and train a horse from scratch. Spring could not come soon enough for the Praetorian.

The woman's thoughts of horses left her as Ezekiel began to speak. Myrika, for her part, remained silent as her cousin spoke, twitching her large ears every now and again. Although she was engrossed, Kaena cut in at one point, her voice gruff and insistent. Razekiel, or Samael, she barked when the subject of Zana's parentage was raised.

She is too old to be Arkham or Andrezej's get, and too coyote, if she's really a granddaughter rather than a great granddaughter, to be anyone else's child. And -- by all rights, she should be Samael's, then, since Razekiel didn't come back until after I did, the old woman said, bobbing her scarred head up and down as she spoke. She was confident, at least -- Myrika had no idea, though she knew Arkham and Andrezej to be her uncles, her mother's littermate brothers.

She looked at Kae a moment, turning her attention back toward Ezekiel. He seemed reluctant to speak on some parts, and the tawny-furred Praetorian knew better than to press on sore subjects. He even seemed outright alarmed at one point, and Viggo startled with his master. Eira snorted nervously, catching onto Viggo's anxiety. Myrika turned questioning turquoise eyes to her Aquila, watching as Ibsen launched into the air. The crow drifted skyward, and Myrika's ears twisted back toward the sound of Zeke's voice, her gaze following a moment later.

She considered her response for a long time before providing an answer to Ezekiel. She was surprised her grandmother remained silent, and noted the old woman's interest seemed fixed upon their surroundings rather than the words passing from Ezekiel now. That was fine by Myrika -- she was already privy to Kaena's perspective of Inferni's history, and now it was Ezekiel's that interested her.

Seniority and longevity don't make a leader. Even if you left, clearly, you did something right. I think your history is a part of Inferni's history, too. I'd also like to see you shoot someday -- I don't know the first thing about fighting, and... well, everyone should know how to defend themselves, the coyote said, shrugging her broad shoulders and smiling sheepishly. It did not shame her to admit areas of weakness, but perhaps she would not have admitted them so easily in the presence of another. She trusted Ezekiel, and even if it cost her a rank in admitting faults and failures, she thought it better for the whole of Inferni, then. What attachment did she have to rank? She felt truly awkward in this uppermost tier of Inferni, though she hid this better than some other areas of anxiety.

Myrika had been told Inferni was a place of smoke and blood, death and murder. She had discovered for herself this was not the case. The homeland of her bloodline was harsh, true enough, but what harshness they gave was only a product of their environment and history. She understood, or at least, she thought she did.

The horses moved forward with their same plodding pace. The land was beginning to show the scars and marks of fire -- the blackened tree trunks were bare and dead even for the midst of winter. Myrika's gaze lifted to the sky, and far off, she saw a speck against the clouds, white and fluffy as they were. Ibsen, she thought -- or some other bird. This one moved with purpose, however, and the rust-hued woman thought it must be Ezekiel's raven.

Myrika is by Alaine!

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