09-06-2018, 12:23 PM
A winter storm brews but it is not like the others. This one has thunder, and in Oleandar’s lifetime, she’s not had many snowstorms that boom. They’ve always been hushed – silent as they blanket everything, perhaps sometimes the whistle of a strong wind. This storm bubbles and cracks, the full moon flashing through fast moving clouds that keep her covered mostly (only letting her light peek through when there is a break in the clouds).
The daughter’s, almost always together, take shelter in a mammoth ash tree. Usually on they’re on their mother’s trail, though they’ve lost her for the last few days and when that occurs, they normally stay put and camp while they wait and their mother returns. It’s more of a herd structure that does not get broken by time or distance, less to do with the dependence they had when they were young.
Wrena, the sleek, red-bay with scaled reptilian wings and eyes of fiery embers lights a fire and bids her sister adeau. She mentions something about finding something to eat, or do, or light afire or something, Oleandar hardly listens but flicks her ear in a quiet goodbye anyway. This is an often thing, Wrena leaving for a few hours and returning, whether it’s scandalous or something monotonous Oleandar doesn’t speculate. A small fire burns warm in the center of the tree they’re in and for some reason snow does not fall on its flattened middle. It’s ancient and enormous branches spread like a palm and seem to weave a sort of roof above, making a perfect dwelling for large flying creatures. It is a shelter that gets used often by the daughters; there are usually big porcelain basins of crystalline water, fruits for snacking, mosses for bedding and a few other primitive amenities. The small fire pit, Olea thinks, is most delightful. Being lepiddoptera keeps her fur sleek and short, so the cold gets to her warm blood much easier than normal horses – or even Wrena, the dragon-girl with fire in her veins.
Olea feeds the flames with a few more sticks, the fire making the innards of the tree’s woven branches glow many stories above the ground. The snow lightens to allow some to see if they’re passing under, but still the thunder rumbles above, cracking loudly every fifteen minutes or so. Snow is gathering now, and by dawn it will be a few feet, Olea predicts.
Oleandar
the moth-child of elysium & city
apologies for babbling XD
<3 @[Break]