"But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura
when i run through the deep dark forest long after this has begun,
Deep within the shadowed forest that just outlines the blackened shore, where the sparse outcropping of trees become the dark and thick foliage of the jungle, a young girl stirs.
Cloaked in intense evergreen vines, draped in deep pigments of jungle flowers that are tinged with smoke and ash, dirt clinging to her gold-blue shoulders and haunches, she carefully inches her way through the humid wilderness. Great, large leaves - broad and fat - are pushed away from her chest, droplets of water from a recent rain staining her iridescent skin a deeper shade of blue, pulling at the darker hues in her coat. The air is thick with moisture, heavy on her pallid skin and in the ivory tendrils of her mane and forelock that are tangled with broken twigs and debris from her familiar shelter of the dark trees and brush.
Raised in silence, the yearling is keen to hide amongst the vines and branches of the jungle, nestled and hidden away from the lively bustle of the ocean’s tide or the inland grasses, or the volcano’s looming stature. She only knows of her mother; an untamed and protective lioness, who still grooms her daughter each morning and night, and who had recently taught her how to hunt.
Even though her equine shape is bright against the deep evergreen and brown, the wild-eyed girl moves stealthily between wide roots and damp undergrowth. Daye’s wolf-skin does not find her today in the midst of the afternoon sun, and though her instincts (and learned traits from her mother) keep her mostly confined to the shadows, today her growing independence brings her towards the outskirts. Her nutmeg eyes - wild and fierce - peer from beneath the shade and into the blackened shoreline in the distance, brimmed blue with the ocean’s waves.
She wonders where mother is, and if she will soon return with dinner. The palomino’s stomach churns hungrily, though it is not grass or vegetation she craves. She licks her blue-iridescent lips as she watches the dark and crinkling waves that sparkle in the sunlight, content with basking in her shadows and wilderness until mother’s paws were heard upon the damp undergrowth.
Dayé
where the sun would set, trees are dead, and the rivers were none.
reposting because her new html is too dang a m a z i n g
thank you, @[Calcifer] <333
With wild ignorance, she tumbles through the jungle haze on the hunt for adventure. She is loud, she is reckless, and she is blissfully happy. Shouldering past elephant's ears she gives a war cry as she gallops, and the native birds explode from the canopy above her. She bucks and laughs, staying on her feet as if by magic, without breaking stride as she navigates the tangle of roots and damp earth.
Only curiosity can slow her, but it isn't long before something new has done just that. A flash of pale gold and a whiff of warg is more than enough to convince her to slow, and with a heaving breast, she halts.
"Hello?" she calls with equal parts of interest and excitement. She doesn't think that maybe whoever it was could have chosen this dense, shaded grove to stay hidden from pestering little girls. She has yet to meet anyone who didn't like her.
"I'm Sibyl! And I promise I'm friendly," she adds after there is a pause, hoping to entice the elusive creature from her hiding place.
Turing in a circle, the muddy filly looks all the way around her. Her deep, sapphire eyes searching for any break in the emerald hues of the vegetation, and her dainty ears stand at attention to catch any hint of hoof or breath.
when i run through the deep dark forest long after this has begun,
There is movement that is life; not the soft rustle of leaves brushing against one another, nor the rhythmic crashing of waves. Life as in another being, and Dayé’s wolf begins to groan in protest. Her pallid, gold-blue skin bristles as the filly comes into her eyesight, covering herself in the shadow of the tropical forest by leaning back slightly on her heels, her expression stoic and unwavering. The wolf-girl is calm and still, confident in her hiding place that she will remain completely hidden from view, free to watch the other girl trapeze up and down the black shoreline.
Then, there is a split second of hesitation. The other has found her scent, thinly carried on the heavy wind of salt and sea, and Dayé freezes. She is perfectly poised beneath shadow and tree, nearly a statue save for the gentle wisp of her white mane and tail which spin out in tangled strands behind her. The wolf prowls beneath her skin,
(danger)
it whispers, and Dayé keeps her nutmeg eyes keenly focused on the white and blue filly, her heart thrumming wildly in her slender chest. There are words that have drifted to her, but Dayé is not used to hearing them. The only time she ever holds a verbal conversation is when Longclaw has come to check on her, and even then, the actual speaking is limited. He is wolf just as she, and mother the lioness, and where words fall flat, Dayé leans mostly on body language and primal sounds to show her emotions.
The wolf takes over (she is young, the two worlds of equine and canine are blurred, and she cannot control which form her soul decides to reveal herself as), her transformation causing an obvious shift in the trees and shadow. She snorts softly, the same deep brown gaze focused on the little girl, though the pallid form of an adolescent wolf has taken the young mare’s place.
On slender, cautious paws the white wolf emerges - caked in grime and mud from her shadowy hiding place, the ends of her white fur tinged a soft honey gold. She is not yet full grown, and appears lanky and almost clumsy as the damp earth begins to give way to warm sand beneath her paws. The feeling causes the young wolf to stop, her head low so that her shoulder blades nearly pierce through her skin behind her, the wild of her eyes peering into the crystal blue irises of the filly. Dayé is slightly bristled (to appear larger, despite her fear), but remains hauntingly silent as she halts.
Dayé blinks at her expectantly, sinewy muscle tight beneath the mass of pearly white fur.
Dayé
where the sun would set, trees are dead, and the rivers were none.
The movement she had been hoping to see send a thrill of excitement coursing through her small body. Her feet seem to have a mind of their own as she does a little jig in place, but as the leaves part to reveal her would-be-friend she falls motionless.
The pale wolf stalks towards her and for the first time in her life, Sibyl is speechless. Her sinewy muscles are coiled, ready to launch her into a twisting leap away should she need to, but she hopes that it will not come to that. With her dark, blue eyes glued to the creeping predator, the inexperienced filly simply waits for whatever will happen next.
The young wolf eventually halts, and this is enough to convince Sibyl that she will not be lunch. She smiles, the adrenaline making her feel funny, and stretches out her muzzle to snort in the strange scent which had first captured her attention.
She had heard stories of shifters, but at the moment she is convinced she is winning over a wild wolf. She had spent plenty of time trying to befriend Tephra's more feral creatures, though none had been so potentially dangerous as this one. But now she is convinced that her hours of practice will pay off. She doesn't smile, just in case that would be mistaken for baring her teeth, instead she seeks to mimic a motion she has seen some fox kits making towards each other.
In what would easily be considered and odd display, the girl reaches her front legs as far forward as her muscles will let her, causing her spine to stretch and her head to drop in a make shift play-bow. With all her strength she tries not to giggle, and gives a little toss of her head before wondering how she is going to stand upright again.
when i run through the deep dark forest long after this has begun,
The deep brown of the wolf’s eyes stare unwaveringly into the foal before her, the soft pink color of her tongue running over black-lined lips. Part of her allows the wolf to stalk forward, prowling eagerly towards the midnight and ivory filly, a rumbling in her chest and stomach fueling each softly-padded step. She had yet to hunt for herself, and though she had exposed herself from the deep darkness of the treeline, she suddenly finds the primal urge to sink her teeth into the soft and supple skin of the dancing filly’s throat, to paint the dark sand beneath their feet with sticky, bright red blood.
But part of her - the other part, the one that is equine and curious and young - refrains from this action for a moment longer. Driven by fear yet coupled with the intense need for interactions with others, the storm-grey wolf is stuck in between, hovering undeniably between both hunting and inviting the stranger back into the shelter of the tropical forest, to run beneath the shadows and chase the birds that live within the jungle. Her head lowers curiously, especially when the filly seems to leap into a different position, one that causes the wolf’s ears to flick cautiously back and forth.
Dayé’s slender snout lifts carefully, sniffing before allowing a sharp snort to escape the darkness of her nostrils. The display is somehow familiar, despite the curious way the position appears on that of a young filly. For a moment the wolf merely watches her with cunningly sharp eyes, frozen beneath the intense heat of the sun. Then, something seems to click, and cautiously the wolf’s forelegs splay before her, her pale rump in the air to mimic the navy and alabaster filly.
Her darker-tipped tail sways cautiously behind her in a slow manner, lips rippling as a muffled bark escapes her mouth.
Dayé
where the sun would set, trees are dead, and the rivers were none.
