|
|
Post by skellri on Oct 28, 2017 21:02:41 GMT -6
| A cold and dreary day was fading. A blazing red sun skipped through rifted clouds, appearing like ruby shards against a dull grey sky. A puff of air is visible with each breath she draws, the chill of winter threatening to encroach upon Hireath once more. Kyber neither welcomed it nor disdained it. She was a creature of the north, it was simply part of life and she found no need to fret about it. Granted, she would be spending it beneath the webbing of entwined coniferous trees rather than the base of the mountain. Kyber quickly dismisses the thought with a low grumble, and slowly begins moving forward as if to flee the thoughts that stirred in the depths of her mind.
Her pace was slow and perhaps even sluggish to passersby. However, she was nearly silent spare the soft crunch of leaves beneath her ginger footfalls. She was renowned for being light on her feet, at this point in her life deliberate thought was not a factor in that. It was simply habit, one she had no intention to break. It did her many favors in life. She was not one to draw attention to herself, even in this relatively new situation of hers. Kyber cast a glance to her left before focusing on the trees dotting the path in front of her. She hears a mourning dove sing its melancholy song as she follows an unseen path in the gnarled flora of the wilds.
| 247 words | @ anyone | ooc ; weeps i'm rusty |
| |
|
|
|
|
Post by striaga on Feb 8, 2018 13:21:31 GMT -6
H A T C H E T
It is not often that Hatchet weaves her way this far. The water's large call at the southern point, overreaching to Sirith, makes her spine tingle.
Hatchet's heavy step makes her head bob. The small pony ripples as she moves; there's a roughness in her step. Hatchet rolls the names of other Valkyries over in her head: Delta. Clementine. Nott. Froya. Others. Some of them are weak. Their weakness turns Hatchet's tongue and makes her scowl, rough and angry. There is no place for that weakness here. Her leave had been momentary, a quiet permission to visit the coast and pray to Cascade; Hatchet passed the time while traveling by turning her coat various colors. Kaia's gift to her had been good.
She can remember, if she tries, a brother, born blessed, like her. The impetus for her imprisonment. The wild mare shakes her head and huffs dredlocks out of her face. Snow and grass crunches underfoot. It's cold and Hatchet doesn't mind it. Life has been cold to her, after all. There is nothing to make the ferocious Valkyrie still in her viciousness. She has determined, a long time ago, that she will be even worse than the burliest of Raiders; she will make the patriarchs look weak at her side. She will rip them apart, seize the throats and tear. It is what she must do. There's nothing else but those actions.
Much like the horse she is momentarily about to run into, Hatchet moves mostly-silently. The crunch of twigs and leaves underfoot is all there is to her presence, a rippling dark presence in the spatters of nature's shadows. But there's only a momentary pause when she spots the mare; Hatchet's ears flick back and the fur on her back twitches.
Then she speaks, and her voice is a growling deep tone, falling rock and crashing waves: "Who goes?"
WC:312| Post 1 |
|
