07-20-2009, 08:18 PM
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Arachnea’s Revenge, outside the Dahlian boarders. Set early morning on the 20th
500+
The sun had not yet risen, and the songs of night grew quiet as the reign of the shadows fell to a quiet close. Soon the sun would arrive and sing his golden songs of glory, but not yet. The world lay within the grey, colourless shroud, a purgatory of night and day, and yet not twilight nor dawn. The birds fell silent and the nighttime hunters grew still with mercy.
The warrior had set out before the grey had settled in, rising from the soft foliage at the base of the tree. It grew increasingly difficult to move as she once had, the heavy weight that she carried tiring in a strange way. The woman, although she was lithe of form, was strong and enduring. And yet, this pregnancy made her tired. With each passing day, her heart grew heavy knowing that soon the time to birth the litter within her would come, and that the litter within her was a spawn of darkness, of incest, of obsession. The life within her...it did not belong to the male she loved. It was that thought that made her heart heavy—or was it love? She did not know. Love.... She knew what it felt like now, but she was still a foreigner to that world. She was a creature of war and thus of Death. The Morrigan had blessed her day of birth. The pied Raven guided her Dreams. The songs of War sang in her soul. She was not a creature of Life. Yet—did she not live? Did she not protect the lives of others? So why was there conflict within her? Why did the once-calm waters of her soul rise up against one another?
The black fae paused upon the boarders of her pack, looking north to where Inferni was nestled near a place burned and long forgotten. She stepped across that intangible barrier, crossing into the unclaimed lands as she occasionally did. The Raven Spear sung with the song of iron and steel, sensing the dangers that could befall its wielder and calling upon them in challenge. And she moved with that ephemeral grace, with that transcendent fluidity until the boarders could no longer be seen, and she sat. And the warrior breathed deeply the soft, colourless air, calming her mind. Once, her mind had been enlightened, and she could still feel the tranquility of her soul. But the black soot of Corvus Vendetta continued to remain smeared upon her soul, waiting to be cleared by the soul of another. But it was not yet time.
Her woad-marked knuckles pressed into the ground as her left cradled her large womb. A spider crossed over the fist that gripped the Raven Spear, those legs moving through the fur and across several faint and long forgotten scars. The white orbs, which had fallen shut so that she may better hear the world speak, unveiled themselves, and she beheld the spider in contemplation. Spiders: the spinners of fate. And what does Fate say? But, as her Dreams of late, the spider was silent and moved on. She straightened herself suddenly—had she heard something, smelt something? Or had she simply sensed something, as wolves could? The woad warrior did not lift the weapon, but her senses scanned her surroundings, and there was a flicker of wild anticipation within her. Had someone come to answer the challenge of the Raven Spear?
Arachnea’s Revenge, outside the Dahlian boarders. Set early morning on the 20th
500+
The sun had not yet risen, and the songs of night grew quiet as the reign of the shadows fell to a quiet close. Soon the sun would arrive and sing his golden songs of glory, but not yet. The world lay within the grey, colourless shroud, a purgatory of night and day, and yet not twilight nor dawn. The birds fell silent and the nighttime hunters grew still with mercy.
The warrior had set out before the grey had settled in, rising from the soft foliage at the base of the tree. It grew increasingly difficult to move as she once had, the heavy weight that she carried tiring in a strange way. The woman, although she was lithe of form, was strong and enduring. And yet, this pregnancy made her tired. With each passing day, her heart grew heavy knowing that soon the time to birth the litter within her would come, and that the litter within her was a spawn of darkness, of incest, of obsession. The life within her...it did not belong to the male she loved. It was that thought that made her heart heavy—or was it love? She did not know. Love.... She knew what it felt like now, but she was still a foreigner to that world. She was a creature of war and thus of Death. The Morrigan had blessed her day of birth. The pied Raven guided her Dreams. The songs of War sang in her soul. She was not a creature of Life. Yet—did she not live? Did she not protect the lives of others? So why was there conflict within her? Why did the once-calm waters of her soul rise up against one another?
The black fae paused upon the boarders of her pack, looking north to where Inferni was nestled near a place burned and long forgotten. She stepped across that intangible barrier, crossing into the unclaimed lands as she occasionally did. The Raven Spear sung with the song of iron and steel, sensing the dangers that could befall its wielder and calling upon them in challenge. And she moved with that ephemeral grace, with that transcendent fluidity until the boarders could no longer be seen, and she sat. And the warrior breathed deeply the soft, colourless air, calming her mind. Once, her mind had been enlightened, and she could still feel the tranquility of her soul. But the black soot of Corvus Vendetta continued to remain smeared upon her soul, waiting to be cleared by the soul of another. But it was not yet time.
Her woad-marked knuckles pressed into the ground as her left cradled her large womb. A spider crossed over the fist that gripped the Raven Spear, those legs moving through the fur and across several faint and long forgotten scars. The white orbs, which had fallen shut so that she may better hear the world speak, unveiled themselves, and she beheld the spider in contemplation. Spiders: the spinners of fate. And what does Fate say? But, as her Dreams of late, the spider was silent and moved on. She straightened herself suddenly—had she heard something, smelt something? Or had she simply sensed something, as wolves could? The woad warrior did not lift the weapon, but her senses scanned her surroundings, and there was a flicker of wild anticipation within her. Had someone come to answer the challenge of the Raven Spear?