02-01-2012, 12:08 AM
She had been watching over the little girl, Holly. Having a young one to take care of had eased her desire to birth another litter of her own, but the niggling desire was still there for the aging matriarch. She had slipped away from the communal den for a little while, stretching her legs and recharging her mental batteries. It was late in the evening, the wind brushing over her snow white pelt, the night sky endlessly mocking her from above, the way it always had.
She drank from the water, then stretched. She eased behind a bush and began the process of shifting to her optime form. Her bones crackled and popped softly as she changed forms, her mane lengthening to its usual waist length waves, the white blonde a strange contrast to the stark snow white. She flexed her hands as she changed, not rushing the change or hurrying it. This was a small break to ease the strain on her arm from the deep gouge Adelio had left in it, over a year ago. She stretched as the change finished, running delicate and graceful fingers through the mane that was streaked with grey highlights.
Today she was going to do something she should have done before. She lifted a hand first to her torn ear, finding the first of the silver hoops and removing it slowly. It seemed like just yesterday Iskata had pierced her ears for her, two small silver studs in each of her ears. They had been planning the pack even then, she remembered, and it had been that same day she had given Iskata the name for the pack. Phoenix valley. The pack that had arisen from the ashes of the old lands, from the decaying packs that had reformed after the fire. The pack that would fall only to rise again. Some myth that had been. She shouldn't have abandoned them, no matter her distaste for jefferson and the other hybrids.
She pulled the second hoop from her ear, feeling a lightness in her ear that was alien. Three or four years now she'd worn the same hoops daily. She palmed the earrings, then slowly removed the other two hoops. She shook her head then rubbed her ear gently, feeling an ache. For only a moment the scarred woman was tempted to put them back in, tempted to forget about removing them, removing her last link to the Valley and her co-leader.
It was time, though. She would store them with her herbs, give them away at the festival. She had wanted to return there, to trade for a jar of salt. Surely someone there would want the silver hoops. After all, they had never tarnished. She didn't realize that's because they were white gold, and not silver. They were just pretty baubles she'd once adored. That's all.
She returned to the river, staring down at her face in the water, staring at the torn flap of ear with the small holes where the earrings had sat for years. And yet, she didn't miss them that badly.
((WC:515))
She drank from the water, then stretched. She eased behind a bush and began the process of shifting to her optime form. Her bones crackled and popped softly as she changed forms, her mane lengthening to its usual waist length waves, the white blonde a strange contrast to the stark snow white. She flexed her hands as she changed, not rushing the change or hurrying it. This was a small break to ease the strain on her arm from the deep gouge Adelio had left in it, over a year ago. She stretched as the change finished, running delicate and graceful fingers through the mane that was streaked with grey highlights.
Today she was going to do something she should have done before. She lifted a hand first to her torn ear, finding the first of the silver hoops and removing it slowly. It seemed like just yesterday Iskata had pierced her ears for her, two small silver studs in each of her ears. They had been planning the pack even then, she remembered, and it had been that same day she had given Iskata the name for the pack. Phoenix valley. The pack that had arisen from the ashes of the old lands, from the decaying packs that had reformed after the fire. The pack that would fall only to rise again. Some myth that had been. She shouldn't have abandoned them, no matter her distaste for jefferson and the other hybrids.
She pulled the second hoop from her ear, feeling a lightness in her ear that was alien. Three or four years now she'd worn the same hoops daily. She palmed the earrings, then slowly removed the other two hoops. She shook her head then rubbed her ear gently, feeling an ache. For only a moment the scarred woman was tempted to put them back in, tempted to forget about removing them, removing her last link to the Valley and her co-leader.
It was time, though. She would store them with her herbs, give them away at the festival. She had wanted to return there, to trade for a jar of salt. Surely someone there would want the silver hoops. After all, they had never tarnished. She didn't realize that's because they were white gold, and not silver. They were just pretty baubles she'd once adored. That's all.
She returned to the river, staring down at her face in the water, staring at the torn flap of ear with the small holes where the earrings had sat for years. And yet, she didn't miss them that badly.
((WC:515))