Full Circle (Neithan)

[Silve]

Dark clouds, heavy with snow, were beginning to throw a veil between the winter-bound forests of Transylvania and the mighty wolf god, Fenris, in his form of the distant sun. A burst of wind preceded the winter storm, and then tiny individual flakes of snow began to drift gently down from the heavens. The light snow would not last long, and, taking advantage of her current range of visibility a silver fae tumbled out of the trees of Deor, speeding North with every muscle in her body trained on reaching the river before the blizzard could begin to rage. As the smell of her packlands faded behind her, Silve's arrow-straight dash slowed into a series of long leaps over the snowdrifts, too powdery to hold her up on paws that worked much like the snowshoes of mankind. Without regard she plowed through the freezing weather, unsure of why it was so urgent that she should be at the river. The only reason she could think of was the want for the taste of fresh, cool, running water. The small creeks and streams of her homeland were frozen, and the only moisture that could be gathered was from the snow and from the blood of kills. Perhaps it was nostalgia, or a masochistic nature, but she her heart was pulling her in that direction, so it was that direction she ran.

Being a Varg she was slow to tire, and being a trained scout of her pack she had more stamina still. She could run for days on end without tiring, and she ran with an intense love of her energy on most days, but today her run was aggressive. She was focused, this time, on destination, not journey, and she reached her destination in a shorter time than even she had thought possible. The snow was not quite so deep near the great river, and more hardened than that farther from its banks. Silve trotted, now very easily over the icy crust that was the surface of the snow. Her breathing was slow and shallow, and she showed no sign of the great energy she had expended in getting here. A look skyward had her smiling. Fenris had disipated the cloudcover, and the anticipated blizzard was no longer a hazard. Snow drifted gently, and the sun shone over the land, proud at having won a battle in the warfare that winter was for it.

With a sigh of relief the silver fae trotted over to the frozen edge of the water and slapped it with a firm paw. Within two of her strong swipes there was a fissure in the ice. Two more and a hole had been made, just large enough for her slip her muzzle through to taste the sweet waters that still carried the tastes of forests in them. She could taste the soft loam of the forests, and the sweet grass of the meadows, and she sighed at how familiar each was. Now that she was at her destination, her demeanor and posture became more relaxed as she began to take stock of her surroundings. She realized with a shock that this was only a half-days run downstream of where she had washed up without memory after falling in the river during a bear attack on her family. If she stared long enough she could almost fancy that she saw the hill that she had sat upon during each and every full moon, begging the silver orb for a friend. It was there she'd met another wandering pup, only a little older than she. There was a slight pain in her chest at the memories, and she howled quietly to herself. She dearly missed that little black Varg, or more, the adult wolf he was now. She wondered where he was, and if he was happy. If she would see him again. With a dark humor she realized that, so close to where she had left loneliness behind, she felt lonely once again. "Where are you, where are you, my dear Night Sky," she mumbled, staring off into empty space, wondering.

[Neithan]

(Forgive me if I'm a tad rusty, been awhile.)

A roiling, black shadow stretched along the western horizon, disrupting the bleak, grey skyscape. It was threatening to lay claim to the skies over Translavania, to usurp control from the steady grey of the rest of the sky and turn it into its own chaotic, roiling mass. The black clouds grew larger, approaching closer and closer to Translavania. Small flakes of snow wafted down from the heavens into the brisk, calm air, the first manifestation of the nearing storm. Fortunately for all the Kerls in the area, it veered off its course towards Translavania, promising instead only a light dusting of snow, rather than the blizzard that was promised.

Along a river in the snowy woodlands in Translavania, a silver femme scraped away at the ice, attempting to reach the sweet cold water entrapped by the veil of ice. Satisfied with her success, her tongue began to lap away at the refreshing liquid.

Meanwhile, from the south approached a Varg, a Mann. He had recently escaped the gangly clutches of adolescence, and reached full maturity. His coat was a pure black, purer than the darkest night, with the tips of his fur as white as unspoiled snow. His eyes were gold balls, that seemed as if they were burnished multiple times, marred with specks that were as crimson red as blood. He was of an average build, however his legs were somewhat long for a Varg.

Seeking shelters of old, he was traversing across Translavania to the river. The cliffs overlooking the snake of water were riddled with caves, as if they were pumice. Once he had called one of these caverns his abode, and was seeking another to weather out the storm. The varg began to lope toward the river, wanting to reach shelter before the storm smashed into Translavania. He was almost to the river when the storm veered away. The Mann stopped, disappointed that he no longer required the services of the shelter. He had traveled all this way for nothing. But maybe it wasn't all for naught....

He continued forward, seeking some sort of recompense for his travels, of water or food of some kind. It was unlikely that any Lera would be at the River, but if the ice could be peeled away, the water of the river would make an adequate beverage to quench his growing thirst. He envisioned the cold water. The sweet, sweet water of the River, lapped greedily into his mouth, returning his strength. He walked faster, wanting to reach the water and head home as soon as possible. However, there lay surprises where least expected.

The Mann stopped the river. He stepped cautiously forward, wary of thin ice, a feature of frozen bodies of water this early into winter. It could be fatal if the ice broke and he fell into the freezing river. He began to dig into the icy coat of the river, attempting to penetrate past it to its blood of water. He progressed slowly, digging carefully through the ice. The Mann eventually was successful and lapped up as much water as he could, every bit as good as he had imagined. The Mann howled to Fenris gleefully, seeing something he hadn't seen in a long while.

[Silve]

The taste of the water was marvellous, as expected, and as the silvery fae let the thoughts run as they would, with little participation on her part, she returned to the small break she had made and lapped up a little more. It settled well on her full stomach, as earlier that day she had taken down a rabbit. Her very own specialty. There came a pause in her steady lapping at the water when the sound came to her ears of ice breaking further upstream. It was only a slight sound, audible only to those equipped to hear like a wolf was. A silver-toned muzzle slipped from the water and back to the surface as Silve turned her head to see what had caused the disturbance. Scenting the air meticulously, she was frustrated to realize that she was downwind of the ice-breaker, so the spores were being carried in the oppisite direction. With a snort of impatience, she lifted her right forepaw, ready to seek the culprit by sight rather than by scent when another sound, much louder than the first came clear into the air.

Even with her winter coat as dense as it was, she shivered. The noise was so familiar, yet she hardly dared to believe it. Eyes so blue that her parents had once been sure that she was blind pierced through the light snowfall, stopped by a wall of fur. Black fur tipped in white that resembled a star-studded night sky, and golden eyes with crimson flecks that had once made her uneasy, but now were only a part of the Varg that she held dear. The howl had easily been classified as that of Neithan, a dear friend, and perhaps something more. The body, eyes and fur were the same. Suddenly the wind turned, and a welcome scent was carried to her. Shaking her head slowly with humor, the phrase that her father had spoken so many times came back to her, and she repeated them in little more than a whisper. "If it sounds like a duck, looks like a duck, and smells like a duck, it must be a duck." She let that thought overcome her for a moment, then lifted her head and replied in kind to his howl.

As the long note faded away, she yipped and yelped with happiness and excitement, and ran headlong to close the distance between herself and someone she had been searching for over the summer months. Her recklessness lasted her, only to the edge of the ice on which he stood. One wolf-length was all that separated them, and yet Silve could not continue in good conscience. In her mind she was reasoning with herself that, if she could break through the ice with a slap of her paw, then the weight of two adult wolves would be more than sufficient to do the same. With a snort she growled goodnaturedly, "Get off that ice so I can greet you properly, my Night Sky, or I may be tempted to come out there, and bring us both to an untimely end." As if to prove her point she rested her front paws on the edge of the frozen surface and stretched her neck to get closer. She whined with frustration, dancing paw to paw, waiting for him to come safely onto solid ground. "Winter is not good for fishing," she teased, remembering the time he had caught fish on one of the nights they had spent together as Kerl.