01-04-2011, 12:14 PM
OOC: Serene Sands. 
Sorry it took so long. Forgive meeee! And sorry it's so long - Word Count: 1039.
IC:
Every pock contained its own pool, its own grains of sand, and likely its own life. Saraqael was barely able to cross over the crags of sea-eaten boulders without examining every divot, crack, and cranny, just in case something good was inside. As yet she had found little with the exception of some extremely tiny creatures that barely made the water flit and were otherwise invisible. To attempt to remove the almost microscopic life form was surely to kill it, marring its features until she could no longer determine its true form, so she passed on and on again, eventually making progress at a sea snail's unhurried pace. She satisfied herself by assuming it was some thing's unfortunate larvae.
Pleasantly, the rocks held other, more tangible treasures as well. If she reached between them into their cornered-in depths where the sand reigned supreme again, she found beautiful specimens of shells. Her favorite had been an impossibly detailed whelk carapace with ridges spiraling down each defined column in an amazing display of symmetry and design. Fervently running her hands over it, she tasted, penetrated, sniffed, and stared every mystery out of it before returning it to its home. Purple, orange, and pink scallop shells came into her temporary possession along with interesting debris such as glass bottles, plastic rings, and a scrap of shiny foil. Saraqael cared not to keep trinkets from the sea, instead only taking things that were useful to her or things she wanted for herself. Her clothing style demanded lighter, more fun-feeling jewelry and baubles. In her eyes, decorative shells were a little too old, and more than that, plentiful – anyone could find them around there. She preferred glass beads in outstanding colors, most of which were pilfered from abandoned stores. If she ever found a glass smith, however, she would have been willing to trade with him regularly. Never having worked with fire or metal, it seemed too cumbersome of a task to begin learning a new trade now, even one that supplemented her primary one.
Snowfall made the water out at sea cloudy-looking. The two types – fresh and salt – were at war, one a swirly, muddied specter and the other a clear, crystalline behemoth. The smaller of the duo had no hope of winning, only causing the ocean some mild irritation before being swallowed and salinated by its greater cousin. That day, the sun was beating, pounding on the pale coyote's back, waging its own battle against anything alive that was ill suited to survive underneath it. Being small, pallid, and sickly, Saraqael qualified as a perfect victim. It forced her to duck into any caves she could find, taking breaks on the way to her destination. Without fresh water (a foolish mistake), she would have to survive the journey or perish in the salty, wet desert. Rough panting sounds, like soft sawing, echoed inside the dank shadow of her refuge. The cavern made peculiar wet noises, her ears thinking that tiny bubbles were constantly smacking and popping all around her. Upon further examination she discovered that the repetitive audio was from crabs, occurring primarily when the crustaceans walked and shifted their mouth parts. Skittishly they fled at her least imposing movements, the twitch of an ear or tail sending them flying into the natural holes in the rocks. This made Saraqael laugh – rarely had she met creatures more frightened than her. Because the girl had never tasted their flesh, she waited patiently, concentrating on utmost stillness, a task that came easily to one so solitary and silent. She pretended she was beautiful, glossy marble statue, stone-frozen forever. Eventually when she peeked, slitting her violet eye open a tad, the shelled sea insects had finally deemed her so non-threatening that they walked and clacked in the open, some so bold as to encroach upon her furred flesh. In a flash, she snatched one up. Her black hands were tiny on their own, but the crab was smaller still, the size of a medium river stone but much lighter. Deciding swiftly that it was finger food and wishing to remain unpinched, she swung it into her slender, pointed maw and crunched. Two tastes emerged, one gritty and dirty, the other refreshing and sweet. Overall, it wasn't bad.
Gathering her senses, she slipped outside into the heat again. Heat was the wrong word because temperature-wise, it was still winter, meaning it was technically ridiculously cold. But still, on a cloudless day, the giant fiery ball was an opponent not to be trifled with. Wary of it and eager to be in a place more comfortable, Saraqael dawdled no more. In the interest of time, specifically, in order to make it back before nightfall, she fancied herself an acrobat. Leaping from crag to crag on the misty shore, she practically flew to her desired destination, driven to quickness by the vague promise of a sandy slit on her horizon. The patch grew in size as she became closer, proving not to be some heat-induced mirage but an actual stretch of beach, smooth and unassuming, behind the treacherous field of hard, jagged rocks with their cutting edges. Indeed, they cut. Her feet were bleeding in some places because she had not been careful but she had no time to pay attention to them, and she was grateful they were numbed from the pain by a sense of necessity. When her paw pads finally touched wet, giving sand, she sighed thankfully and dug her toes in, the moist grit a comfort compared to the rough slicing that she had become accustomed to. The scape she found herself in looked simple and serene. It was quiet, save for the sound of waves slurping the earth. It was also visually monotonous, featuring the same colors and landforms for an extensive distance. It was a veritable oasis. Looking at it, she reconciled that it was well worth all of the wound cleaning she would have to engage in back at the mansion. Saraqael wished not to think of scraping sand and rock shards out of her feet just then. Intent on enjoying the rest of her day, she sprawled on the shore, a small black and white blot.
Sorry it took so long. Forgive meeee! And sorry it's so long - Word Count: 1039.IC:
Every pock contained its own pool, its own grains of sand, and likely its own life. Saraqael was barely able to cross over the crags of sea-eaten boulders without examining every divot, crack, and cranny, just in case something good was inside. As yet she had found little with the exception of some extremely tiny creatures that barely made the water flit and were otherwise invisible. To attempt to remove the almost microscopic life form was surely to kill it, marring its features until she could no longer determine its true form, so she passed on and on again, eventually making progress at a sea snail's unhurried pace. She satisfied herself by assuming it was some thing's unfortunate larvae.
Pleasantly, the rocks held other, more tangible treasures as well. If she reached between them into their cornered-in depths where the sand reigned supreme again, she found beautiful specimens of shells. Her favorite had been an impossibly detailed whelk carapace with ridges spiraling down each defined column in an amazing display of symmetry and design. Fervently running her hands over it, she tasted, penetrated, sniffed, and stared every mystery out of it before returning it to its home. Purple, orange, and pink scallop shells came into her temporary possession along with interesting debris such as glass bottles, plastic rings, and a scrap of shiny foil. Saraqael cared not to keep trinkets from the sea, instead only taking things that were useful to her or things she wanted for herself. Her clothing style demanded lighter, more fun-feeling jewelry and baubles. In her eyes, decorative shells were a little too old, and more than that, plentiful – anyone could find them around there. She preferred glass beads in outstanding colors, most of which were pilfered from abandoned stores. If she ever found a glass smith, however, she would have been willing to trade with him regularly. Never having worked with fire or metal, it seemed too cumbersome of a task to begin learning a new trade now, even one that supplemented her primary one.
Snowfall made the water out at sea cloudy-looking. The two types – fresh and salt – were at war, one a swirly, muddied specter and the other a clear, crystalline behemoth. The smaller of the duo had no hope of winning, only causing the ocean some mild irritation before being swallowed and salinated by its greater cousin. That day, the sun was beating, pounding on the pale coyote's back, waging its own battle against anything alive that was ill suited to survive underneath it. Being small, pallid, and sickly, Saraqael qualified as a perfect victim. It forced her to duck into any caves she could find, taking breaks on the way to her destination. Without fresh water (a foolish mistake), she would have to survive the journey or perish in the salty, wet desert. Rough panting sounds, like soft sawing, echoed inside the dank shadow of her refuge. The cavern made peculiar wet noises, her ears thinking that tiny bubbles were constantly smacking and popping all around her. Upon further examination she discovered that the repetitive audio was from crabs, occurring primarily when the crustaceans walked and shifted their mouth parts. Skittishly they fled at her least imposing movements, the twitch of an ear or tail sending them flying into the natural holes in the rocks. This made Saraqael laugh – rarely had she met creatures more frightened than her. Because the girl had never tasted their flesh, she waited patiently, concentrating on utmost stillness, a task that came easily to one so solitary and silent. She pretended she was beautiful, glossy marble statue, stone-frozen forever. Eventually when she peeked, slitting her violet eye open a tad, the shelled sea insects had finally deemed her so non-threatening that they walked and clacked in the open, some so bold as to encroach upon her furred flesh. In a flash, she snatched one up. Her black hands were tiny on their own, but the crab was smaller still, the size of a medium river stone but much lighter. Deciding swiftly that it was finger food and wishing to remain unpinched, she swung it into her slender, pointed maw and crunched. Two tastes emerged, one gritty and dirty, the other refreshing and sweet. Overall, it wasn't bad.
Gathering her senses, she slipped outside into the heat again. Heat was the wrong word because temperature-wise, it was still winter, meaning it was technically ridiculously cold. But still, on a cloudless day, the giant fiery ball was an opponent not to be trifled with. Wary of it and eager to be in a place more comfortable, Saraqael dawdled no more. In the interest of time, specifically, in order to make it back before nightfall, she fancied herself an acrobat. Leaping from crag to crag on the misty shore, she practically flew to her desired destination, driven to quickness by the vague promise of a sandy slit on her horizon. The patch grew in size as she became closer, proving not to be some heat-induced mirage but an actual stretch of beach, smooth and unassuming, behind the treacherous field of hard, jagged rocks with their cutting edges. Indeed, they cut. Her feet were bleeding in some places because she had not been careful but she had no time to pay attention to them, and she was grateful they were numbed from the pain by a sense of necessity. When her paw pads finally touched wet, giving sand, she sighed thankfully and dug her toes in, the moist grit a comfort compared to the rough slicing that she had become accustomed to. The scape she found herself in looked simple and serene. It was quiet, save for the sound of waves slurping the earth. It was also visually monotonous, featuring the same colors and landforms for an extensive distance. It was a veritable oasis. Looking at it, she reconciled that it was well worth all of the wound cleaning she would have to engage in back at the mansion. Saraqael wished not to think of scraping sand and rock shards out of her feet just then. Intent on enjoying the rest of her day, she sprawled on the shore, a small black and white blot.