11-22-2021, 08:41 AM
this is backdated to a day after this, sorry for the long wait @Asamir & @Meldresi. heading into this w what we discussed earlier
[narrow width=800]it is not the terrible red everything and the pain that screams through her that rouses the nightingale: it is the eyes of the old things here that are felt crawling over her lumine fur that wakes the widowraith – well, more so than the fever had kept her shivering and shuddering and so stubbornly unsleeping. vivid, vicious agony is there to greet her as she snarls; so unbearably loud in a skull gone aflame, eyes gone to filmy-hot tears and fangs still yellowed, still gnashing for the great white. still seeking to make her mark for the wild hunt for her people to follow; for that wild heart yet to be feasted upon.
there is no place more that she will hold hatred in her heart for than here; where she has found someplace that seemed more cave than the rest that towered here; where things lurk at the edges of day and dawn and dusk and dark. until now, she had held herself from straggling to the threshold; nestridden by what throaty plague had come to lie her fitful and furling in what had followed only hours prior. until now, she had forced herself to stay for her newlyfound son's sake.
until now — now, where she is more shrike than anything anything anything; reaches for her inkling if only to hold and hoard, hoard and hold. but he is beyond the reverential strain of her arms, beyond her when he should be by her ...and so she settles for glowering at this mauve-eyed malady that darkens the door of this ...not-den. the things that were here did not feel like the haltija she had come to know and long since expected to be heckled by.
moonshed hackles ridging all along her spine;
her voice is an unhymnal hiss, taut and whisper-thin: "why have you brought us a shade, my son?"
oh, ukko damn her — please let her carve into that flesh with bjørn-bloodied fangs and see for herself if she was real. material and made.[/narrow]
the staff team luvs u
