11-15-2008, 01:18 AM
[html]
http://i76.photobucket.com/albums/j40/k ... mfenv2.png); background-position: center center; background-repeat: no-repeat;">
Should this be set after the pack meeting?
500+
It was a November noon, yet the time seemed irrelevant in the colorless world. The thick, dreary clouds let enough sunlight through to the earth only so that the diurnal creatures could continue their days. The heavens seemed to threaten rain, or snow perhaps, but the biting, gelid air was not yet to freezing point, and the heavens remained silent. Nothing save for a teasing drizzle characterized the day. The cold and seemingly empty silence was broken not even by the birds. The world was silent, and yet, for those who were able to hear it, the song of the world played faintly upon the still air. A warrior was listening.
Cwmfen found herself lying in the dying grasses of Flanders Field. The cold air was crisp, yet she found it to be a clarifying factor in her thoughts. The graves surrounded her, and the spirits seemed to hover, subdued, above their sepulcher. The black female lay within the confines of the forgotten graves which rose above her like foreboding edifices. The young woman, having donned her luperci form, listened to the life-song of the grey world about her, the white orbs half-lidded as the reveled in the requiem that seemed to distinguish her soul. Her expression as she listened to nature was empty, but there was some strange ferocity that seemed to contradict the usually shy disposition that was presented by the woad-marked female. With new acquaintances and with those she knew, the black fae was usually approachable. Yet, when left to her own thoughts, when left to solitude, the wildness that had consumed her in the last year before her joining of Dahlia de Mai resurfaced, a thing ready to rip out the throat of the offender. Yet, despite the belligerency that lay dormant within the graceful form, there was tranquility.
The white gaze watched the lethargic traveling of the clouds. Her life was just as relaxed; she was floating in a sea of tranquility, wandering to some unknown and yet exciting end. The colourless day reminded Cwmfen of her meeting with DaVinci at the end of the summer season. He had been an interesting character—so bitter of his solitude. Cwmfen had given him advice—she had yet to follow it herself. The female wondered if DaVinci had found some solace; it would be wonderful if he had. A sigh escaped her slender maw, and yet she wondered for it. She was content with her life. Why now, did she suddenly feel so discontent? Perhaps she desired to love someone, to be tamed, as the hybrid had put it. Or, more likely, to be set free. A steady heartbeat, hot and strong, beat within her chest. This winter she would be mature, she speculated, and her body was curious of such things. But she was patient and steady, and could endure without promiscuity.
The black female turned over on her stomach, the black, woad-banded aurals raised and alert. There was someone coming through the dim light and the crisp grasses, but the wind was unkind and took the scent from her. She was near the boarders of the pack, her attempt at helping Dahlia de Mai with the boarder patrol. But the approach was from within the pack, not from with out.
Should this be set after the pack meeting?
500+
It was a November noon, yet the time seemed irrelevant in the colorless world. The thick, dreary clouds let enough sunlight through to the earth only so that the diurnal creatures could continue their days. The heavens seemed to threaten rain, or snow perhaps, but the biting, gelid air was not yet to freezing point, and the heavens remained silent. Nothing save for a teasing drizzle characterized the day. The cold and seemingly empty silence was broken not even by the birds. The world was silent, and yet, for those who were able to hear it, the song of the world played faintly upon the still air. A warrior was listening.
Cwmfen found herself lying in the dying grasses of Flanders Field. The cold air was crisp, yet she found it to be a clarifying factor in her thoughts. The graves surrounded her, and the spirits seemed to hover, subdued, above their sepulcher. The black female lay within the confines of the forgotten graves which rose above her like foreboding edifices. The young woman, having donned her luperci form, listened to the life-song of the grey world about her, the white orbs half-lidded as the reveled in the requiem that seemed to distinguish her soul. Her expression as she listened to nature was empty, but there was some strange ferocity that seemed to contradict the usually shy disposition that was presented by the woad-marked female. With new acquaintances and with those she knew, the black fae was usually approachable. Yet, when left to her own thoughts, when left to solitude, the wildness that had consumed her in the last year before her joining of Dahlia de Mai resurfaced, a thing ready to rip out the throat of the offender. Yet, despite the belligerency that lay dormant within the graceful form, there was tranquility.
The white gaze watched the lethargic traveling of the clouds. Her life was just as relaxed; she was floating in a sea of tranquility, wandering to some unknown and yet exciting end. The colourless day reminded Cwmfen of her meeting with DaVinci at the end of the summer season. He had been an interesting character—so bitter of his solitude. Cwmfen had given him advice—she had yet to follow it herself. The female wondered if DaVinci had found some solace; it would be wonderful if he had. A sigh escaped her slender maw, and yet she wondered for it. She was content with her life. Why now, did she suddenly feel so discontent? Perhaps she desired to love someone, to be tamed, as the hybrid had put it. Or, more likely, to be set free. A steady heartbeat, hot and strong, beat within her chest. This winter she would be mature, she speculated, and her body was curious of such things. But she was patient and steady, and could endure without promiscuity.
The black female turned over on her stomach, the black, woad-banded aurals raised and alert. There was someone coming through the dim light and the crisp grasses, but the wind was unkind and took the scent from her. She was near the boarders of the pack, her attempt at helping Dahlia de Mai with the boarder patrol. But the approach was from within the pack, not from with out.