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| http://i24.photobucket.com/albums/c13/v ... ablebg.jpg);background-repeat:no-repeat;background-position:top;"> Mew Sadira Flander's Field
Word count: 371
Carefully adjusting the plastic flowers, Mew sighed. It looked truly stupid, didn't it. She'd found the flowers in some building in town, it probably used to be a shop or something. They'd been pretty, she thought, even though they were clearly fake. The femme missed the flowers and green grass of summer and spring, tired of cold winds and snowflakes. Snow was always exciting in the beginning, but now she longed for the growing things to come alive again. She'd been counting months, and had decided it was due with spring soon. But none of this was the reason she was here, now, with the flowers. They had been stored away in her den along with other funny objects she'd found, not intended for use for anything at all. Until she'd stumbled upon a picture in a human book, showing a graveyard much like the one they already had in their pack lands. The gravestones had been accompanied with flowers and toys, and candles and other pretty things, probably from the families of the deceased, or someone tending to them. It had inspired Mew, because she knew where her children lay, and it was marked by a stone, at the hand of Colibri. So she'd put the book aside and gone home to find the flowers. And though it had seemed like a good idea at the time, Mew now felt foolish. No matter what she did with the flowers, she didn't seem to be able to make it look even slightly natural. Getting up on two legs, she took a few steps back and looked at the rock and the little bumps in the ground that gave away where they all lay individually. The femme then sighed again; it simply would not do, and bent down again to remove the flowers. It had been a good thought, but it just didn't fit. The plastic flowers made plastic sounds as she plucked them out of the snow again, looking at the grave with a mixture of feelings. Sadness for her own loss, sadness for their loss, and sadness because her flowers were not pretty. All sadness and none of the strength she normally had in her. She was getting old, probably.
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[html] http://i76.photobucket.com/albums/j40/k ... ump/12.png); background-position: top center; background-repeat: no-repeat;"> Sometimes Lannen felt like a wide-eyed child again as he took in all the world had to offer. It seemed there were some days when he didn't feel jaded, when he didn't feel the edges of his mistakes pressing so closely upon his choices. Sometimes he felt young again, and new. As if on some days the sunlight could erase the years from him and leave him with all the awe of a child.
The white wolf wasn't naive. He knew that he was a product of his choices. And every day he was closer to making peace with himself. But today was one of those days when he could forget that he had ever erred in judgement, act, or feeling. He had freed himself, at least for the moment, of the things that weighed him down. And now he was new again. And now he could try, fail, and try again.
His wanderings today brought him to a unique place. He recognized it as a place of loss and felt quiet in his soul. Wooden brown eyes fell upon a ghostly figure, but when he blinked again he realized that the figure was no ghost, but a woman with a white pelt. On two legs, he treaded carefully. He didn't mean to intrude upon her solitude, but she seemed alone. Lonely. "They're lovely," Lannen offered in an abnormally hushed voice, looking at her flowers.
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| http://i24.photobucket.com/albums/c13/v ... ablebg.jpg);background-repeat:no-repeat;background-position:top;"> Mew Sadira Hi 
Word count: 331
She'd heard him approach, not knowing who he was but allowing his presence though he wasn't part of their pack, obviously. His smell had a trace of belonging somewhere somehow, but Mew could not pinpoint it, thus she probably didn't know who they were. New flocks of confused wolves formed and died all the time, and it seemed - to her at least - that it was only Dahlia de Mai and Inferni who persisted. She had thought the male would leave her alone, but it seemed he had had other plans, and as he spoke Mew swirled around, not startled at his presence, but perhaps mildly startled at his approach. Ears and tail erect, Mew was easy to read. What.. I, oh. I didn't.. really like them that much. Uncertain, she turned her head to look at the little stone again, and muttered. They don't look much like the real thing at all. She wasn't angry like she would have been any other day; this was a good day, perhaps, for a stranger to meet her. Normally any non-pack wolf who had the nerve to travel this far would have been met with her scorning, and advised to leave. Lately, though, she was milder. Blame Lubomir, blame age, blame her dead children, but it all added up towards a less angry Mew. A more calm, tolerant woman. Today especially. Turning her head to him again she noticed how similar to herself he looked with that color of pelt he carried. And he was not in the Sadira bloodline - if he was, she would have known. It was strange to meet one who was not, yet white-pelted, and it tickled her curiosity. She would let it be, however, quite taken aback at his approach in truth. Glancing at the flowers in her hands she looked up at him again, smiling sheepishly. They're.. plastic, you know. Human. I suppose it looks kind of strange on a grave this small and insignificant.
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[html] http://i76.photobucket.com/albums/j40/k ... ump/12.png); background-position: top center; background-repeat: no-repeat;"> Lannen had developed a particularly nasty habit of tripping about borders that did not belong to his tribe. Call it curiosity, call it a death wish, he just couldn't seem to keep his feet from crossing the invisible boundary lines of claimed territories. And oddly enough, so far his experiences as a trespasser had been lovely. He couldn't quite figure it out.
There was something about this land that breathed magic through him and whispered home over and over again. But he was so far from the home he knew and loved. He wasn't ready yet to accept this place into his heart. He kept telling himself this was just a place to stay the night, to fight off the biting cold of the wind from the road. But now, these lands seemed to become something more, like some unfulfilled promise waiting for him to utter the words.
The white pelted woman seemed sad. And why wouldn't she? Lannen knew this was a place for the dead. His wooden brown eyes wandered down to the stone she had arranged the plastic flowers on. It seemed so small, and almost alone. For some reason, and he didn't know why exactly, he imagined that those below the ground were small and delicate.
She didn't seem to like the flowers for some reason. She didn't seem to think they were good enough for the ones in the ground. His heart went out to her, and it was odd to feel it swelling for the other. Compassion, a foreign tongue his heart did not speak. Had not spoken for so long. "I think the fact that you thought to bring them at all is beautiful," he offered the woman. He looked at her once more. "My name is Lannen," he offered again.
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| http://i24.photobucket.com/albums/c13/v ... ablebg.jpg);background-repeat:no-repeat;background-position:top;"> Mew Sadira Slight ramble, sorry. Lecture-time, when I should be doing other things than this, always gives me more inspiration for 'Souls than I should have 
Word count: 424
The male who looked so much like herself ignored the negative comment she threw at her children's grave. It was small - insignificant in the big picture. Surely her grief would have been greater had she ever gotten to know them? She didn't know, all she knew was that they were dead - and it was her fault. He did not - however - ignore her awkwardness, and quickly offered something she interpreted as mild consolidation, which caused the femme to blush. What was this awkwardness, all these emotions - was she truly turning into a monster of female hormones, just over Lubomir? Where was the cold strength, the focused mind of Mew Sadira? At present, she didn't know. What was left was a little bundle of a woman, hurt and lonely (at least lonely in regards of her children) - and in love with a male whose mental health was... questionable. She did not feel miserable; she felt greater than she ever had, with him at her side, but her mate stirred something in her that she could not control, and it confused her. It confused her enough to find herself in situations like this - exposed and awkward in the presence of a stranger. She cursed herself, mentally, and attempted to gather her posture. The blush had already been released and could not be taken back, so instead she bent down and carefully placed the flowers by the stone on the little grave, and got up again to look at him. Hopefully, the blush would go unnoticed in all her other action. The smile she wore was slightly less sheepish as she faced him the second time, and she nodded her head as she spoke. I'm Mew Sadira. Lingering on silence for a moment, she continued, replying to his first sentence last and his last sentence first. She was backwards - her standing at her own children's graves was backwards - so why should she not reply to him backwards? Thank you. I don't really know why I did it, though. As the last words escaped her mouth she turned her head to the side and downwards again, looking at four little heaps of ground - four heaps who would soon be covered with green vegetation once again. It made her heavy at heart and she'd perhaps rather not talk to the stranger - or Lannen, as his name was - about it. Though, as she was here and caught in the midst of it, it might be inevitable. She'd find out.
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[html] http://i76.photobucket.com/albums/j40/k ... ump/12.png); background-position: top center; background-repeat: no-repeat;"> The woman seemed so introspective, not that Lannen found that out of place at this moment. He felt a hush in his soul, too. It was a labor to speak around the silence that ruled here, like a gentle sovereign. He found that his usually sonorous voice came out as a gravelly whisper. It was odd to hear the sound of his voice so quiet when it usually rang inside his head. But he found that it came naturally to be quiet here.
The white wolf nodded as Mew introduced herself, his eyes sweeping over the mounds of dirt in the ground. It jolted his memory, a vaguely familiar feeling washing over him. And he remembered, a day cold and cloudless at the end of last spring. "I didn't understand when I did it either," he said. His wooden brown eyes shifted back to the white wolfess. "I buried my sister last spring."
His voice wasn't sad so much as thoughtful, almost lost. He hadn't thought on his sister in months. Of course, memories had passed through his mind, but he had not dwelt on that specific part of her life. He wanted to remember her as alive, vibrant, trickery and energy shining in her gray eyes. Lannen spread his hands and shrugged. "It doesn't make much sense to me, but it seemed to be the right thing to do."
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| http://i24.photobucket.com/albums/c13/v ... ablebg.jpg);background-repeat:no-repeat;background-position:top;"> Mew Sadira Word count: 395
He was strange, this one. They meet in a place which is heavy with the message of death; a grave subject - and one that tied everyone together. And then, for no reason, he was sharing intimate information with her, as if they were on a level of deep trust, although they were strangers to one another still. Mew didn't find it uncomfortable, in fact his confession calmed her, took some of her awkwardness away. She knew, now, that he had been in a similar position, and recently, and that he - too - had acted and done things he did not understand because of it. This image of herself, aside from the difference in eye-color and gender, spoke of first-hand recent experience with grief - and instantly some amount of trust was given him.
Their subject was awkward, touchy, and though some of her tenseness had been removed by his words, and she no longer felt as if she was caught at doing something odd, she still did not want to overstep the social rules and limits she was bound by. By asking him of his sister she risked that - as people were different, and she did not know how he was. Instead, she confessed her reasons for being here - it was only fair, after his revealing. These are my children. It was seldom she spoke about it aloud, and she found it difficult. Not in the sense of controlling her feelings so they did not overtake her, but because she didn't seem to be able to find the words. The right ones, the fitting ones. They died as they were born, late last spring. They were similar in distance from their losses, on the timeline. It did not mean their losses were the same, and though Mew still suffered with the guilt every day, she did not know any circumstances around the death of his sister. My mother dug these small graves and put them here - apparently she felt it was fitting. Although, I don't know what I would have done anyway, so I guess it's very fine. Now I have a place to visit. Green eyes studied him, face open and earnest. He was her friend already, to her, just now. Another day he might not be, but today they shared this grave subject, and he was her friend.
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