there's nothing like a trail of blood to find your way back home || circinae

[Circinae]

oh, my love, don't forsake me. take what the water gave me ..

Adaptation is as much a part of their wild world as it has always been. What was Magic, if it wasn’t a form of evolution for them? A means to surviving this strange environment and its countless perils. Circinae herself had been born in the sands of the old Desert, had soaked up the sun for years and felt the shifting uncertainty of sand and life beneath her feet up until the day she’d left. Those times were only memories now, though, and even in her wildest dreams the little shifter wouldn’t think of returning to that environment. No … Taiga was home, even if it had not been by any particular design of hers.

Just as the flow of life carries an individual to it’s rightful destination, so does Circy’s ambling. She’s wolf (hardly ever anything else these days) and her silent footfalls are particularly placed, making her a noiseless brown wraith. Weaving around massive trunks and dipping through low-growing brush she slips unnoticed along the border of her home, fully intending to wind up at her own den and riddled with ideas for home-improvement. It made no difference to her that the warm, dark hole would be void of the cacophony a child brings - she longed for the return of Canaan and hungered for the chance to be a mother once more. Preparation would soothe that ache, though it couldn’t erase it.

So distracted is she that when the call first echoes inside of her perked ears it stops her dead in her tracks. The brittle hair along her nape rises, every muscle in her slender body motionless and tense. Above her spine her two-toned tails curls archly, nose pointed as a marker towards the source of the disturbance as mild confusion settles over her. “She calls for Canaan too…” The Taigan thinks, knowing with certainty that no tone so high could be mimicked through male vocals. Still, it worries her - that hint of urgency bordering on impatience.

Circinae thinks it over and exhales, leaping into activity once more so that she might fly through the twists of worn paths where the visitor waits. They’re not far from one another (fate is a funny, funny sort of thing) but she decides, for once, to shift upwards into horse before allowing herself to be visible. As the golden mare gains an outline, a firm shape, Circy slows to a brisk walk and replies with a welcoming tone of her own - high, like bells.

The resemblance cannot be mistaken. In the other mare’s eyes, the turn of her lip, the color of her coat, is Canaan and her boys. It sends her heart wild with energy, steals the air from her lungs. Breathless, she halts, tossing her vibrant head aside to displace the dark shock of forelock over her bright gaze. “Please, please come in and make yourself comfortable.” She begins softly, finding it hard to look away from that promising swell of the pegasus’ belly. “Are you looking for Canaan?” She follows, only after stepping aside. Hope alights in her, a tender flame with the idea that he might be coming soon, especially if this woman was expecting him.

“Oh, gosh, forgive me,” She laughs softly with the nod of her head, “My name is Circinae. I call these woods home.”

Circinae