01-07-2011, 12:16 PM
OOC: No need to match the length. 
Saraqael is visiting Phoenix Valley! Word Count: 1251.
IC:
Saraqael blinked uncertainly at the scape she saw before her. It rolled and sloped gracefully, almost calmly, looking peaceful trapped there under all that snow. “Phoenix Valley” was more valley-like than she had expected. It was easy to name a territory after a thing it was not in order to encourage people to come or discourage them to flee and never return, or to never give an area a thought in the first place. It made sense for one so mistrustful to imagine the world that way. She approached and then took an abrupt hop backward, her eyes shooting wide with surprise, more like a rabbit than any canine. Mouth twisted to a pretty, sharp frown with brow crinkled, she shook the shock off, literally giving her coat and body a small rustle. The pack on her back shifted with her, straps digging in past her fur to chafe her pallid, pink skin, reminding her that she needed to take it off before it slit her torso into four neat sections of dead coyote. The reason for her startled reaction had been that she nearly touched the border. Thankfully the scent had jumped out at her in time to prevent her from trespassing accidentally like an idiot. That would have killed her, too, she hoped swiftly, and she imagined that Inferni did not need any more problems, or enemies, than it already had.
With her nerves settled, she did what she felt was proper, which was find a comfortable place to wait and sit down. She had traveled for ten hours from Inferni. The journey itself had been relaxing and gorgeous, especially for someone who so reveled in being alone and in nature. It had taken time to determine whether or not it was a good idea to visit another pack at all. By that point, she smelled unquestionably like the territory where she had made her home, and everyone who visited or heard about it knew also of the skulls with which they decorated their borders. They were not coy, jackal, or any other animal – each eternally smiling ornament belonged to Nova Scotia's most prominent canine species. Never before in her life had she been afraid of wolves, for they had essentially saved her life when she was a squealing babe. Her wandering parents, distraught and in winter, had stumbled upon their enclosed settlement and instead of killing them and their spawn, took the three of them in. They were fed, clothed, and sheltered by the wolves and so Saraqael also learned to love confinement and human tools, much more so than her traditional parents. The ghostly coyote learned her mother's trade and made it her own, moving beyond creating simple coats or tops or boots in traditional colors. She made pieces to suit her lifestyle, small things for flare in brilliant colors. Thinking to exhibit her wares she had donned some of them early that morning. They completely ruined her winter camouflage, which was perfect because of her black and white coloration, but they also cheered her and provided an opportunity for her to occupy herself. One of her favorite travel games was to think of a new idea for a piece of clothing. That day, it had been for a tail band, fit snug to the base and made out of soft hare fur. Imagining her own tail, she had put the band on in pink with the lacing facing upward, the tags tied into a bow with beads on their ends. It also appeared in purple and teal, eyelets down but with long tassels, braided and beaded for decoration. The only way to discover if they would sell would be to design one purposefully. It would be her first mission when she returned, in however many days that took.
Saraqael sought a place beneath the tree and allowed her petite body to fold beneath it in a cross-legged sitting position. Realizing she had sat back too far to remove her bag, she scootched forward, tearing a rift in the snow with her legs and rear. Without hesitation, her nimble fingers worked in a blur to untie every strap that harnessed her large, heavy pack to her small, bony back. She grunted slightly as it loosened, the other straps taking on more of the weight and the bulk falling at odd, pulling angles until finally all three were undone and the satchel fell to the ground softly. If there had been dyes inside, the specter would have never been so clumsy with her precious cargo. On such a potentially long trip, she thought to take them out and keep them someplace cool and dark, away from the taint of sun and heat, both of which might ruin the colors, and certainly not in a bouncing, jouncing pack on an epic journey around Nova Scotia. A small sigh turned the air in front of her face to a misty veil and Saraqael watched with her bi-colored eyes as it dissipated, diffusing into the rest of the cold mass. The sun was imprisoned behind an immovable, dark sheet of cloud-cover. Though it shifted, more of it seemed to come in from behind, preventing the heat and light so unwanted for dyes from warming the pleading forms of anything that was living, including Saraqael.
One of the downfalls to her clothing style was that her primarily small pieces provided no warmth in the winter. She looked at them, pondering lightly. On her left calf she had attached one of her larger fur pieces. It was bright orange and decorated in brilliant vermilion leopard spots, the whole thing extending down to her ankle. It tied in the back, lacing through eyelets, and the tag ends of the leather thong had been decorated with five pretty purple beads, every one separated by a knot to keep them evenly spaced and to prevent them from shifting. That one was almost warm, but the rest were practically useless for winter wear. Deep, decadent purple and cheery yellow made her upper right arm a sight to see. The color was in horizontal bands with the two outside ones the darker color and the center being the light. It had to do with the dye itself – she was only able to create such combinations if she dyed them so that they would not bleed together when she rinsed. Having the violet on the outside allowed her to wash both edges in the stream and then scrub out the yellow because it would have little effect on the other, deep shade. Her left wrist was teal and magenta, a special color she mixed from the base colors of other dyes. Both of the bands were barely six inches.
Though she was not warm, she mused that the garish hues would help anyone find her body if she died from exposure in the snow. Saraqael hoped not to make a gift of her pelt, though it would have been a fitting end for her considering her craft. Her fluorescent white base and unique coal markings could have fetched quite the price, and she was four feet and ten inches, meaning that much could have been fashioned from her pretty skin. Scarves, a pair of boots, calve and arm warmers, but nothing so opulent as a coyote furred jacket unless it was for the smallest of children. Despite the morbid nature of her thoughts, she was thoroughly amused while waiting, staring down the valley towards the barn.
Saraqael is visiting Phoenix Valley! Word Count: 1251.IC:
Saraqael blinked uncertainly at the scape she saw before her. It rolled and sloped gracefully, almost calmly, looking peaceful trapped there under all that snow. “Phoenix Valley” was more valley-like than she had expected. It was easy to name a territory after a thing it was not in order to encourage people to come or discourage them to flee and never return, or to never give an area a thought in the first place. It made sense for one so mistrustful to imagine the world that way. She approached and then took an abrupt hop backward, her eyes shooting wide with surprise, more like a rabbit than any canine. Mouth twisted to a pretty, sharp frown with brow crinkled, she shook the shock off, literally giving her coat and body a small rustle. The pack on her back shifted with her, straps digging in past her fur to chafe her pallid, pink skin, reminding her that she needed to take it off before it slit her torso into four neat sections of dead coyote. The reason for her startled reaction had been that she nearly touched the border. Thankfully the scent had jumped out at her in time to prevent her from trespassing accidentally like an idiot. That would have killed her, too, she hoped swiftly, and she imagined that Inferni did not need any more problems, or enemies, than it already had.
With her nerves settled, she did what she felt was proper, which was find a comfortable place to wait and sit down. She had traveled for ten hours from Inferni. The journey itself had been relaxing and gorgeous, especially for someone who so reveled in being alone and in nature. It had taken time to determine whether or not it was a good idea to visit another pack at all. By that point, she smelled unquestionably like the territory where she had made her home, and everyone who visited or heard about it knew also of the skulls with which they decorated their borders. They were not coy, jackal, or any other animal – each eternally smiling ornament belonged to Nova Scotia's most prominent canine species. Never before in her life had she been afraid of wolves, for they had essentially saved her life when she was a squealing babe. Her wandering parents, distraught and in winter, had stumbled upon their enclosed settlement and instead of killing them and their spawn, took the three of them in. They were fed, clothed, and sheltered by the wolves and so Saraqael also learned to love confinement and human tools, much more so than her traditional parents. The ghostly coyote learned her mother's trade and made it her own, moving beyond creating simple coats or tops or boots in traditional colors. She made pieces to suit her lifestyle, small things for flare in brilliant colors. Thinking to exhibit her wares she had donned some of them early that morning. They completely ruined her winter camouflage, which was perfect because of her black and white coloration, but they also cheered her and provided an opportunity for her to occupy herself. One of her favorite travel games was to think of a new idea for a piece of clothing. That day, it had been for a tail band, fit snug to the base and made out of soft hare fur. Imagining her own tail, she had put the band on in pink with the lacing facing upward, the tags tied into a bow with beads on their ends. It also appeared in purple and teal, eyelets down but with long tassels, braided and beaded for decoration. The only way to discover if they would sell would be to design one purposefully. It would be her first mission when she returned, in however many days that took.
Saraqael sought a place beneath the tree and allowed her petite body to fold beneath it in a cross-legged sitting position. Realizing she had sat back too far to remove her bag, she scootched forward, tearing a rift in the snow with her legs and rear. Without hesitation, her nimble fingers worked in a blur to untie every strap that harnessed her large, heavy pack to her small, bony back. She grunted slightly as it loosened, the other straps taking on more of the weight and the bulk falling at odd, pulling angles until finally all three were undone and the satchel fell to the ground softly. If there had been dyes inside, the specter would have never been so clumsy with her precious cargo. On such a potentially long trip, she thought to take them out and keep them someplace cool and dark, away from the taint of sun and heat, both of which might ruin the colors, and certainly not in a bouncing, jouncing pack on an epic journey around Nova Scotia. A small sigh turned the air in front of her face to a misty veil and Saraqael watched with her bi-colored eyes as it dissipated, diffusing into the rest of the cold mass. The sun was imprisoned behind an immovable, dark sheet of cloud-cover. Though it shifted, more of it seemed to come in from behind, preventing the heat and light so unwanted for dyes from warming the pleading forms of anything that was living, including Saraqael.
One of the downfalls to her clothing style was that her primarily small pieces provided no warmth in the winter. She looked at them, pondering lightly. On her left calf she had attached one of her larger fur pieces. It was bright orange and decorated in brilliant vermilion leopard spots, the whole thing extending down to her ankle. It tied in the back, lacing through eyelets, and the tag ends of the leather thong had been decorated with five pretty purple beads, every one separated by a knot to keep them evenly spaced and to prevent them from shifting. That one was almost warm, but the rest were practically useless for winter wear. Deep, decadent purple and cheery yellow made her upper right arm a sight to see. The color was in horizontal bands with the two outside ones the darker color and the center being the light. It had to do with the dye itself – she was only able to create such combinations if she dyed them so that they would not bleed together when she rinsed. Having the violet on the outside allowed her to wash both edges in the stream and then scrub out the yellow because it would have little effect on the other, deep shade. Her left wrist was teal and magenta, a special color she mixed from the base colors of other dyes. Both of the bands were barely six inches.
Though she was not warm, she mused that the garish hues would help anyone find her body if she died from exposure in the snow. Saraqael hoped not to make a gift of her pelt, though it would have been a fitting end for her considering her craft. Her fluorescent white base and unique coal markings could have fetched quite the price, and she was four feet and ten inches, meaning that much could have been fashioned from her pretty skin. Scarves, a pair of boots, calve and arm warmers, but nothing so opulent as a coyote furred jacket unless it was for the smallest of children. Despite the morbid nature of her thoughts, she was thoroughly amused while waiting, staring down the valley towards the barn.