i'm told that to be human i must stand still
you can try your hardest, but i never will
She grows restless, her world too small and confined. And so she wanders, her unsettled heart bringing her too often beyond the borders of Tephra
Today she hunts the forest, and when the call for those brave and righteous goes out, she is near enough to heed it. More out of curiosity than any strong sense of duty, but still she comes. She slips easily through the underbrush to the mountainous path, the lean and rangey body of the youthful wolf perfectly suited to such terrain. The soft, dusky white of her pelt (tinged with hints of navy) blends well with the pale stone of the mountain path, her footfalls quiet as she climbs.
She peers curiously at those who had arrived before her, wondering at the sort that answers such a call. Wondering if there are any like she, who come for the curiosity, for the adventure. She spies one that catches her eye. A man, one with the mien of a wolf in the body of a horse.
But the fairy steps forward, and she is distracted. They insist flowers must be brought to them. What these flowers could do for them, she does not know. Still, even though it is an odd request, it seems simple enough.
As they all turn away, her gaze returns to the wolf-horse, curiosity spurring her to follow him. For now, she merely observes, remaining a safe distance as they travel to the flower-strewn meadows of the Pampas. The earliest days of spring are fading fast, and they must hurry to collect their blooms and bring them to the mountain. But when they reach the meadow, something causes her senses to tingle and her hackles to rise. There is enough distance between her and the wolf-man that she can see there is something terribly wrong before she notices any effect on herself. And as her gaze turns to the others, she knows he is not alone.
Then, only moments later, she understands that she is not immune. She stumbles forward a few steps, a soft whimper escaping her throat. She shakes her head, lids drooping heavily as she tilts dangerously. She needs… to find help. Another few steps, and she can no longer move forward. She weaves and wobbles, nearly going backwards before she droops gracelessly into a sit. Her head bobs as she tips it back, a mournful howl escaping her throat. A warning. A plea. She’s not entirely certain.
Then she is tilting sideways, unable to hold herself upright anymore. She had fought, and she had lost. As she drifts fitfully into slumber, another whimper escapes her lips, and she prays Firen had not followed her.
ferran