01-15-2009, 05:24 PM
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Yes, fresh meat! Come play! Clicky in the post for the song, just for flavor.
It had taken some time to get the fire started. Not only did she have to locate dry kindling in the dark, she had to light it the hard way after losing the last book of matches last week. That had caused some major irritation on her part, sending her black wolven form snarling over retraced and retraced steps searching for the colorful matchbook. After a while, she'd given up on them just like she had on those Vegas imbeciles whom the matches had come from. She didn't need to able to read the name of the Las Vegas hotel scrawled on the front to be reminded, the matchbook had carried the stench of the place. Them, and the things that brought back their memory, she was happy to be rid of--those who'd called her Madison Square for the stupidest of reasons.
The optime coaxed the flames to life, then turned to the large parcel she'd carried all this way. With loving hands, she removed the hide that was twined round it to keep out the wet and snow to reveal a Spanish guitar. She settled against the tree with it allowing the heat to warm the strings--that never should be played at such temperatures, she'd learned--as well as her bones. She wrapped the hide covering about her shoulders like a blanket. Damn, was it cold here. The desert had been cold at night, but this... This was brutal. Madison knew she'd been foolish to come this far north in the dead of winter knowing her Mexican coat wouldn't be enough. She cradled the guitar and strummed the first few bars of some old song. The Feh'yuri women were the ones she missed. They had been desert flowers, an oasis. They came to mind whenever she played. Without so much as a goodbye, she'd left them. That was why the three-year-old had come north--she deserved the suffering.
During her travels in this land, Maddie hadn't missed the scent of wolves inhabiting the area. She hadn't had much luck with packs so far in the months between Vegas and Halifax, but she was largely indifferent. Let 'em come. Slumping under the beat up straw hat, a tune passed her lips to accompany the guitar's twang. "Ah know what Ah am..." Dadada da duh! "Solitary man..."
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It had taken some time to get the fire started. Not only did she have to locate dry kindling in the dark, she had to light it the hard way after losing the last book of matches last week. That had caused some major irritation on her part, sending her black wolven form snarling over retraced and retraced steps searching for the colorful matchbook. After a while, she'd given up on them just like she had on those Vegas imbeciles whom the matches had come from. She didn't need to able to read the name of the Las Vegas hotel scrawled on the front to be reminded, the matchbook had carried the stench of the place. Them, and the things that brought back their memory, she was happy to be rid of--those who'd called her Madison Square for the stupidest of reasons.
The optime coaxed the flames to life, then turned to the large parcel she'd carried all this way. With loving hands, she removed the hide that was twined round it to keep out the wet and snow to reveal a Spanish guitar. She settled against the tree with it allowing the heat to warm the strings--that never should be played at such temperatures, she'd learned--as well as her bones. She wrapped the hide covering about her shoulders like a blanket. Damn, was it cold here. The desert had been cold at night, but this... This was brutal. Madison knew she'd been foolish to come this far north in the dead of winter knowing her Mexican coat wouldn't be enough. She cradled the guitar and strummed the first few bars of some old song. The Feh'yuri women were the ones she missed. They had been desert flowers, an oasis. They came to mind whenever she played. Without so much as a goodbye, she'd left them. That was why the three-year-old had come north--she deserved the suffering.
During her travels in this land, Maddie hadn't missed the scent of wolves inhabiting the area. She hadn't had much luck with packs so far in the months between Vegas and Halifax, but she was largely indifferent. Let 'em come. Slumping under the beat up straw hat, a tune passed her lips to accompany the guitar's twang. "Ah know what Ah am..." Dadada da duh! "Solitary man..."