Post by Timshel on Jul 11, 2009 16:03:30 GMT -5
Dawn crept into the sky, vaguely blue and blushing gently. The sun had not yet peaked the horizon which was a sickly yellow of the promise of day. In the old mountains, in the hushed forest, was a treasure. A little meadow grew between the trees. It was rather colorless in the pale light of very early morn, but even so it was bright with noise.
Bird song resounded from the trees and from the air and from among the long, golden tresses of the grass. It was the strange trill of the red winged and yellow breasted black birds, the twitter of a hundred finches, and the occasional melody of an esteemed song bird. Together they formed a raucous sonatina, most likely dedicated to the unborn sun.
They were not the only noise; a mountain river cut its path right through the open meadow. A mountain river is different from a regular river. It never grows very wide and at some places can be mistaken for a narrow brook, however it cuts deep into the ground as cold as snow. A mountain river will probably die at the shore of a lake, but supposedly they have something in common with their large, flatland brothers: an occasional few become the ocean.
This river was narrow and quick. It rushed over rocks and bubbled moodily beneath the caw of birds.
This is the story of a young she-wolf with a destiny bestowed upon by a monstrous mother wolf. On the brink of day, the young she-wolf was in the yellow meadow marveling at the perfume of a thousand flowers.
She stood close to the shadows of the conifers, comforted by their secrecy and intimidated by the flaunting openness of the space before her.
She was an odd looking creature. Her head was small and the ears on her crown ridiculously large. Her white muzzle gave the impression of grizzled old age when it was very obvious by her thin, lanky body that she was but a yearling. Her coat, reddish and sprinkled with flakes of pepper that became more brown towards her chest, was relatively healthy. She was a lone wolf that feasted only on small animals and carrion. It was evident in her eyes that she was too hesitant to take on a deer or a bore.
The wolf had one distinguishing feature: a dark scar on her square brow. The fur did not grow over the blackened skin, which looked caked and dry. It was protruding like a shadow on a summer day.
Her name was Timshel.
Sunlight had steadily been lighting the crags, the treetops, and even the little meadow until finally it showed its blinding head. The birds continued to cheer and erupt into the air as the sky became pretty and pale. The morning star twinkled and twinkled until the fire put it out.
Bird song resounded from the trees and from the air and from among the long, golden tresses of the grass. It was the strange trill of the red winged and yellow breasted black birds, the twitter of a hundred finches, and the occasional melody of an esteemed song bird. Together they formed a raucous sonatina, most likely dedicated to the unborn sun.
They were not the only noise; a mountain river cut its path right through the open meadow. A mountain river is different from a regular river. It never grows very wide and at some places can be mistaken for a narrow brook, however it cuts deep into the ground as cold as snow. A mountain river will probably die at the shore of a lake, but supposedly they have something in common with their large, flatland brothers: an occasional few become the ocean.
This river was narrow and quick. It rushed over rocks and bubbled moodily beneath the caw of birds.
This is the story of a young she-wolf with a destiny bestowed upon by a monstrous mother wolf. On the brink of day, the young she-wolf was in the yellow meadow marveling at the perfume of a thousand flowers.
She stood close to the shadows of the conifers, comforted by their secrecy and intimidated by the flaunting openness of the space before her.
She was an odd looking creature. Her head was small and the ears on her crown ridiculously large. Her white muzzle gave the impression of grizzled old age when it was very obvious by her thin, lanky body that she was but a yearling. Her coat, reddish and sprinkled with flakes of pepper that became more brown towards her chest, was relatively healthy. She was a lone wolf that feasted only on small animals and carrion. It was evident in her eyes that she was too hesitant to take on a deer or a bore.
The wolf had one distinguishing feature: a dark scar on her square brow. The fur did not grow over the blackened skin, which looked caked and dry. It was protruding like a shadow on a summer day.
Her name was Timshel.
Sunlight had steadily been lighting the crags, the treetops, and even the little meadow until finally it showed its blinding head. The birds continued to cheer and erupt into the air as the sky became pretty and pale. The morning star twinkled and twinkled until the fire put it out.