when i run through the deep dark forest long after this has begun
where the sun would set, trees are dead, and the rivers were none
Though the realm of Hyaline is unfamiliar, falling into step beside Mazikeen feels like the most natural thing in the world. There is a low grumble of contentment within the dusty-rose of Daye’s muddied chest; a sound that has no words but vibrates with satisfaction - a sound that is so robust and wolf-like, that she does not shy away from the striking idea that she is more wolf than horse. Perhaps Mazikeen would feel it too - this primal, feral, instinctual part of them that becomes whole when they are together. Even when the younger girl takes other shapes, Daye cannot refuse nor deny the way her own wolf calls to Mazikeen.
It is why when a white lion appears beside her - beautiful and elegant - Dayé snakes her shaggy head forward to nip at the thickness of the folds of her pale skin (with some force, of course, because Dayé knows nothing else) beneath the now bigger and stronger Mazikeen. Dayé’s long snout pulls away to press against her chest playfully, feeling at ease beside the shifter no matter what shape she takes. It’s an unspoken loyalty that lies between them and though fear had flooded her eyes during their skirmish with the rogue wolf, Dayé knows now that she would not have to worry about Maze - she can certainly hold her own.
“Even if you don’t feel like it,” Dayé replies casually with a gentle roll of her shoulders as the pair walks side by side (an unusual sight, a white feline, and a dirt-caked wolf) “It doesn’t make it any less true.”
They are closer to the lake now, falling into a gentle silence that, for once, holds no humor or lightness between them. It isn’t sullen or sad, but for a moment, Dayé felt as though what they spoke of was too serious for playful banter. Her coffee-brown eyes flick upwards to the large feline that pads heavily beside her, watching the uncertainty in her blazing orange gaze that seems so unfitting on a countenance so fearsome. Dayé frowns, nosing Mazikeen’s muscled shoulder gently with a touch of her moist, wet nose against the thick, white fur. A soft whine leaves her in comfort. “In Tephra,” Dayé mentions as she turns her head towards the lake, the chill of winter biting at her legs where her winter coat isn’t as thick. “Raised by a lioness and the blue wolf.”
There is a hint of a smile on her dark lips, thinking of her mute mother, Diorae, and the familiar blue flame of her father, Longclaw. The memory is so long ago that it seems fuzzy in Dayé’s mind, but they had been a pack in the midst of Tephra’s humidity and smoke. It is no question why Dayé leans so heavily on her wolf skin and the accompanying ferocity that comes with it.
“What about you, Maze?”
Dayé
@[Mazikeen]