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Location: Thornbury, CdA
Date: 10 Sept* *Foredated
Weather: Overcast, foggy
Time: Morning
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Vasiliy is by me!
There was a crispness to the air that hadn't been there the past few days. It was not yet full-blown autumn, no -- but there was a faint chill on the air, perhaps more of a smell of cool than any real sense of fall's approach. But Vasiliy lifted his muzzle and knew it was coming, and smiled broadly. He was looking forward to another winter, and curious to see just what the cold weather would bring in this place. He was certain it would not be the cold darkness of his homeland -- the sun would shine brightly here throughout winter, in keeping with its daily rhythm at these lower latitudes. He yearned, too, for the color of fall -- the trees were still brilliantly green, though perhaps some of the earliest turners had a single yellow leaf or two.
Perhaps more than anything, though, it was companionship Vasiliy desired. He had spent the last few days around his fellow d'Arte members -- two of them, rather -- and he found, on this day, he was yearning further companionship. Yet -- he dared not seek out either Robert or Hotaru for fear of making a nuisance of himself. He might try to find Eclipse -- this thought struck him brightly. The hybrid stood up and trotted out of his house, walking with obvious merriment through the village. The stone-hued wolf was distracted from his quest by the sight of the stables. In the hazy air, it seemed a quaint place, and the pleasant smell of horses -- and less pleasant scent of their excrement -- reached his sensitive nose.
He hesitated. It was important to make friends -- but even more important to work for his pack. The dust-colored wolf therefore headed toward the stables, and was busily fussing over the horses in a few moment. The stalls themselves seemed rather freshly mucked, and the straw was still golden-yellow and fluffed. Vasiliy therefore busied himself by cooing and talking to the horses, offering them each a sweet treat of strawberry from the garden.
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The song she's singing can be heard here.
The shift in the air was subtle, but she felt it. Part of this was likely due to her pelt, which was thinner than the thick plush coat of a wolf—her fur was long and more closely resembled hair, save for an undercoat that (thankfully) kept her from freezing. Still, it was far too early for her to begin wearing anything beyond the garnet colored skirt, and so she did not. Rosie was less eager about winter, but she did so look forward to sitting indoors during those long nights and busying herself. She would never be able to paint or write as some of her fellow Artisans could, but she had other talents.
Among them was singing, which she was doing now. She often sang, using it as a way to calm screaming children, and found it relaxing herself. Her voice was high and lyrical, and carried over the cool breeze. “La petite poule grise, quallait pondre dans l'église,” she sang, eyes half closed, walking without a true destination in mind. Her dainty paws carried her gently, and had she true feminine curves the sway of her bony hips might be more apparent. As it stood, only her white tipped tail gave away her motion, swinging to and fro behind her. “Pondait un petite coco, que l'enfant mangeait tout chaud…”
Each step brought with it the faint jingle of bells. These little treasures glimmered against the skirt, but the metal was dull and tarnished, much like her necklace. There was little left in the world that sparkled, and even though she looked for it, Roselle lacked the naivety of a child. Everything gold eventually, inevitably, faded.
“Létait une petite poul noir, quallait pondre dans l'armoire. Pondait un petite coco, que l'enfant mangeait tout chaud…”
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Don't tell me what to do. :|
Vasiliy is by Sunny!
The horses, at least, seemed to appreciate him. Vasiliy wondered sometimes if his closest friends would always be animals -- and even, at that, friends held at arm's length. None of these horses were his; they could all be traded off tomorrow and he could say nothing. He leaned his hand against a dark-coated mare's cheek and patted her cheek, smiling. His loneliness had a peculiar tinge to it that Vasiliy did not recognize. He did not like this feeling; he did not enjoy it in the least. He was miserably contemplating it, still patting the happy mare, when the snatches of a song came to him.
Vasiliy did not recognize the language, but it didn't matter -- the voice was what mattered, the sweet tune. He stepped hurriedly to the doorway, peering out curiously. Rosie's slight figure caught his attention, and he gawked at her openly, grinning widely. I did not know you have song, the Russian exclaimed, never realizing it would -- in all likelihood -- interrupt her singing. The dark-hued tip of his tail was wagging, and the panging loneliness of a few moments ago was was entirely forgotten in his revelry of her music.
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I do what I want
If she had been more focused on her surroundings she might have noticed that a fresher scent lingered with that of horse and horse trappings. The gray-blue head that shot around the corner startled her, making both of her ears go up high from their place amongst thick, wavy chestnut colored hair. One hand flew up to her chest and her eyes widened. It was not so much his appearance as the fact that he had inserted himself into her space before she realized he was there.
Yet her face broke into a beaming smile, small teeth flashing as a rolling laugh escaped her feathery throat. “Oh monsuier, you startle me.” Her hand fell, brushing against his arm in a friendly manner. She was a true Parisian girl; unabashed, Rosie was the example of femininity…if not for her sharp hips and skinny waist. “Eet is not a very good song,” she went on, tilting her head slightly. “For leetle ones. Eet is…how you say, sillee?” The French woman did not know this native tongue well yet, and Vasiliy was a foreigner as well. She hoped desperately he could understand her. A bolt of sharp worry caused a faint line to crease between her brows, and her tail wagged behind her—not out of joy, but in the terrible squirrel-cage of self.
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Vasiliy is by Sunny!
He remembered the songs his family sang -- they were bawdy things, full of dirty lyrics and uninhibited women. Vasiliy could enjoy these songs as any other good Russo, but he also yearned for the softer and prettier songs -- songs shunned by uncles and aunts alike. Singing itself was a thing Vasiliy could not do. Like any other art, he found it beyond his capabilities, and therefore used his voice only to speak and howl where necessary -- and this last, he did less than the usual canine.
Her smile and touch provoked greater joy in him, though Vasiliy attributed this to the show of friendliness. The voice was difficult to understand, although not impossible. His father would have spoken better with her, having a greater knowledge of tongues -- but Vasiliy's determination made him eager, and he strained to understand. Grinning and wagging his tail himself, the stone-hued wolf shrugged. I like anyway. Is good song, and you have good voice. He realized, quite suddenly, he had nothing else to say other than to compliment her voice, and spent a harrowing few seconds struggling to find his tongue. He almost commented on the weather, too, when it occurred to him he'd interrupted her. Oh! Where you were going? Sorry, I interrupt.
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<----- sucks forever
There had been no jaunty songs for Roselle that went beyond the limits of her (mostly) safe world. She knew lullabies and poetic, sad things that had given her comfort when the world collapsed around her. These foreigners would perhaps never understand the rich complexity of her verse, but she did, and she knew that they felt what she meant if she did it right. Sometimes it was less about what was said and more about what was communicated in tone, melody, pitch.
The compliments left her beaming, though Roselle was equally careful not to seem as if her ego had somehow fed from this. While praise was well-taken, she did not desire to look like it was her only reason for such performances. She hadn’t even realized he was there a moment ago! “I am just walking,” she explained, slowing her speech down. It helped with the accent, though her voice was still thick with the Parisian influence. It was likely she would never (despite her attempts to master the language) speak properly. Had she been of higher blood or influence, this would not have been so.
“I like to walk,” she went on, and held his face with her eyes. “Are you biz-ee?” He certainly seemed like he might have been, and she did not desire to intrude upon his work.
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Vasiliy is by Sunny!
Although their accents were at odds and Vasiliy could not completely understand her at first, he liked her accent. Perhaps it was simple solidarity in encountering someone like him -- someone with only a rudimentary grasp on this language, their foreignness and strangeness proclaimed in each word and every odd emphasis of speech. He nodded slowly and smiled, though he was not quite certain how to respond: his first instinct was, naturally, "I like to walk, too" but he choked that response back with some effort. Unfortunately, after scrambling for something else to say, the dark-hued Russian was not certain just how to respond, and so he opened his jaws and said only, "um." His quiet thereafter was immediate and awkward.
Walking is -- good, he said, lamely. His smile, which had become almost pained, became excruciating. The granite-colored male leapt at her question, shaking his head vigorously. No, no, he said. I give treat to horses. No big deal, he said, waving a hand. He'd already passed out treats to most of the equines therein; those who hadn't yet received their tidbit could wait until later. A packmate might need his help -- or perhaps simply want his company? He could only dare hope it was the latter.
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Nope still me. Also lol how do I write a french accent
There was something reassuring about not being the only foreigner to find sanctuary across the sea. Rosie had loved her homeland, and she would always yearn for the French countryside, but these were memories made sweeter by the dark shadow of sorrow and loss. Her heart had been ripped from her and a thousand, tens of thousands of tears and laments cried to an unmoved sky. There was no sun for her in France, not when she saw his face everywhere and was looked upon with pity. Who could ever love a woman that was not able to produce life?
Semi-curly hair, fine and soft like her otherwise feathered fur, spilled over her shoulders as she watched the Russian seem to struggle with his words. She was angelically patient and found it endearing how he behaved. Though still very much a stranger to everyone (something she decided to change with winter fast approaching), Rosie wanted to know as much as she could about these people who had become her pack. Surely they all had something in common, to drive them here.
“You are good with horses too?” She asked, surprised. “I did not know; I think you sail more, oui? I am not very good with horses,” the dog went on, and craned her neck towards the barn. “Maybee I try and help?”
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