02-18-2008, 04:26 AM
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I was playing Shakadyn. All of this character's information is in her profile. She's mute, at least at the moment, so don't hesitate to have your character confused and/or angry as to why she won't speak and turn her away; I have no problem with her becoming a lone wolf if necessary. It is very bright, and very cold. The moon hangs above as if this were the olden days, as if it were a petty thief caught up in Justice's noose, waiting, agonized, for the spark of life to dim. It has a week or two to wait, as it's full and casting a pearly blue light upon the snow, refracting like so many tiny diamonds to illuminate any one path, brilliant so as to excuse the lack of daylight. The stars catch in the sky like pins through velvet, or briars in your fur. Never a lot to be outdone by something as ephemeral as a full moon (as every star believes it shall never die), they twinkle importantly, each trying to be as sunny as the moon itself. Failing, naturally, but still they march on, the thumbtacks to mark one's progress on the infinite map of the night sky. Dawn breaks, suddenly and without warning, miles away. The moon, mysterious as a god, knows this — it's an old dance, an old war, one not meant to be won for billions of years yet. It shimmers and shakes as does a mirage in the desert, unsure. It's the sort of uncertainty that none should be privy to, the uncertainty that a blossoming rock star feels before his first show, or the uncertainty of a shy child on her first day of school. It is most definitely not something that a creature so insignificant (in the grand scheme of things) as a wolf should be seeing, most especially because it, being a wolf already, cannot be cursed with lunacy should it laugh. Luckily for the moon, the one wolf watching would never dream of laughing. She, like the child, is shy, and moreover polite, unlike that barbaric Big Bad Wolf, hailing from tales that no one but the moon could remember. She also feels the sun approaching, blazing and ready to begin the day, with all of its trials and lack of subtlety. The cloak of night is far too comfortable upon her fur to stand for that. The sunlight will make her remember everything — her parents withering away, her few siblings startling and running far, far away, abandoning themselves one after the other. She barely pauses to grant the memory thought that it does not deserve; then, daybreak nipping at her heels, she runs on, searching for something lost that only her subconscious could ever make sense of. |
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