07-30-2020, 10:15 PM
What all of the North shares, besides a penchant for independence and solitude among its residents, is a cool humidity - though unlike the Taiga where the fog curls between the trees like a familiar cat, in Nerine it blows in and out at the whim of the sea, and on the Isle it freezes, gilding trees with ice and tracing hoarfrost across the beaches. In the highlands of Nerine, the fog streams like water, back into the sea or south to the low Taigan wood, and it reveals a sun that lingers close and bright, blazing its light to break and bounce against the wild granite cliffs.
When the sea-mist shreds and breaks away and midday light strikes him, he gleams, the dapples he takes from his mother shining like gold, like drops of summer sunlight bursting against his skin. Beneath him, his shadow wears the reflected light like a brindled fawn curled between the forest ferns. His mother would call it gaudy and roll her eyes as though he can control his skin and only shines out of an excess of teen-aged ego. Others might find the play of flickering light lovely, the bold shine in sun and the much more subtle way he gleams at night when the bright moon is wide and full, and the loveliness might distract the eye away from the truth, that beneath the benefit of his hide he is nothing more than a gawky colt barely past his first year. He is thick-kneed and thick-necked and the tarnished silver strands of his tail barely brush his hocks as he strides across the moorland with a frown he doesn't mean to wear. His mane stands stiff and short and upright - a thing of his father's, though he can't recall it - and the mottled gold-brown wings fold unevenly at his sides, one hanging lower than the other, a habit purely his own.
Wherewolf's pace is brisk as if he is on important business, though he is, in fact, going nowhere, only in circles, slowly growing mad. He is bored and sick of the wild winds and crashing sea and the staring sky that watches him no matter where he is. The colt is sullen and brimming with an anger that his family does nothing to soothe, but there is nothing in Nerine to vent the angst that builds in his chest like boiling steam, so he travels the high, empty, grassland with his sharp-tipped ears laid back and his mother's scowl curling over his soft lips. With nobody near, he squeals a curse at the smooth blue sky, the worst one he can think of, striking the grass and rolling his eyes for emphasis.
He sees the girl, then, quiet, small, delicate, and a whispered voice in the back of his mind tells him that he should apologize.
"What do you want?" He demands of her, instead.
When the sea-mist shreds and breaks away and midday light strikes him, he gleams, the dapples he takes from his mother shining like gold, like drops of summer sunlight bursting against his skin. Beneath him, his shadow wears the reflected light like a brindled fawn curled between the forest ferns. His mother would call it gaudy and roll her eyes as though he can control his skin and only shines out of an excess of teen-aged ego. Others might find the play of flickering light lovely, the bold shine in sun and the much more subtle way he gleams at night when the bright moon is wide and full, and the loveliness might distract the eye away from the truth, that beneath the benefit of his hide he is nothing more than a gawky colt barely past his first year. He is thick-kneed and thick-necked and the tarnished silver strands of his tail barely brush his hocks as he strides across the moorland with a frown he doesn't mean to wear. His mane stands stiff and short and upright - a thing of his father's, though he can't recall it - and the mottled gold-brown wings fold unevenly at his sides, one hanging lower than the other, a habit purely his own.
Wherewolf's pace is brisk as if he is on important business, though he is, in fact, going nowhere, only in circles, slowly growing mad. He is bored and sick of the wild winds and crashing sea and the staring sky that watches him no matter where he is. The colt is sullen and brimming with an anger that his family does nothing to soothe, but there is nothing in Nerine to vent the angst that builds in his chest like boiling steam, so he travels the high, empty, grassland with his sharp-tipped ears laid back and his mother's scowl curling over his soft lips. With nobody near, he squeals a curse at the smooth blue sky, the worst one he can think of, striking the grass and rolling his eyes for emphasis.
He sees the girl, then, quiet, small, delicate, and a whispered voice in the back of his mind tells him that he should apologize.
"What do you want?" He demands of her, instead.
@[Aela]
