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.
@[Sibyl]