09-29-2012, 11:12 AM
OOC: written to this track
IC:
The day was overcast, thick clouds blotting out the sun and giving the landscape a muted and sullen appearance. The sea, reflecting the steel grey of the sky, pounded against the cliffs, sending up great plumes of white spray hundreds of metres into the air. Atop the cliffs, feeling the roiling anger of the ocean through the land, was Einarr. The hulking grizzled male had been drawn here once again, drawn to this spot where time’s grip was shunned and one could lose themselves in the endless struggle between the land and the sea. It was not often that the day found Einarr in his Optime form, but this was one of those days. His frame was heavily muscled and his scars were bathed in the salt spray. His teardrop main was flecked with the white and grey of pre-mature age. The effect was startling, giving the appearance of an older wolf, even though his muscles had still not turned to fat. In his hand he held a staff, a huge branched, carved from one of the fallen trees, which he had shaped. The smooth staff felt good beneath his calloused hand. His mane blew about him in the strong wind, but he remained unmoving. This would be the place, no it was not within the lands of his new pack, but this would be the place in which he would allow himself to centre. In this place he would allow the memories to mix and blend, allow all his strong emotions to rise to the surface, and once they had done so, once they filled his chest, he would expel them into the sea, adding to its wrath, letting the great mass absorb it. Ensuring that he was alone, Einarr raised the staff and began the forms, taught to him by a friend forgotten to all but him. His body flowed easily from one stance to the next, and as it did so his mind drifted, his body knowing what it must do by instinct. Einarr had been a storyteller in another life, now he was a warrior, perhaps it had been inevitable that he had discovered the poetry in movement. The staff swept in an arc about him, his legs bent and his feet turned him. The seven foot optime moved slowly, deliberately and gracefully while all around him the battle between the earth and sea raged.
IC:
The day was overcast, thick clouds blotting out the sun and giving the landscape a muted and sullen appearance. The sea, reflecting the steel grey of the sky, pounded against the cliffs, sending up great plumes of white spray hundreds of metres into the air. Atop the cliffs, feeling the roiling anger of the ocean through the land, was Einarr. The hulking grizzled male had been drawn here once again, drawn to this spot where time’s grip was shunned and one could lose themselves in the endless struggle between the land and the sea. It was not often that the day found Einarr in his Optime form, but this was one of those days. His frame was heavily muscled and his scars were bathed in the salt spray. His teardrop main was flecked with the white and grey of pre-mature age. The effect was startling, giving the appearance of an older wolf, even though his muscles had still not turned to fat. In his hand he held a staff, a huge branched, carved from one of the fallen trees, which he had shaped. The smooth staff felt good beneath his calloused hand. His mane blew about him in the strong wind, but he remained unmoving. This would be the place, no it was not within the lands of his new pack, but this would be the place in which he would allow himself to centre. In this place he would allow the memories to mix and blend, allow all his strong emotions to rise to the surface, and once they had done so, once they filled his chest, he would expel them into the sea, adding to its wrath, letting the great mass absorb it. Ensuring that he was alone, Einarr raised the staff and began the forms, taught to him by a friend forgotten to all but him. His body flowed easily from one stance to the next, and as it did so his mind drifted, his body knowing what it must do by instinct. Einarr had been a storyteller in another life, now he was a warrior, perhaps it had been inevitable that he had discovered the poetry in movement. The staff swept in an arc about him, his legs bent and his feet turned him. The seven foot optime moved slowly, deliberately and gracefully while all around him the battle between the earth and sea raged.