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+--- Thread: Dawnlark Plains Pagwį (/showthread.php?tid=65738)
Pagwį - Silatuyok - April 19, 2025
AW!
the morning came with mist, curling like pale breath around the base of winsook's mountain. silatuyok moved slowly through the fog, her pale coat nearly indistinguishable from the haze. worn into memory after seasons of tending to wounded kin. a woven pouch, stitched from softened bark and animal hide, hung gently from her shoulder, light with what little she had gathered so far.
she paused at a bend in the stone path where low light struck green, and knelt beside a patch of early-rooted yarrow. the blooms were not yet open, but the leaves were strong—bitter, sharp, good for clotting blood. she ran her nose carefully over them, muttering quietly in her mother tongue before beginning to harvest.
ayovi needed these. the birth had taken much. and though silatuyok could not give the mother her strength, she could offer the earth’s.
RE: Pagwį - Astier - April 22, 2025
snatching this one if you don't mind!
The mountain mist stirred around him like an old memory, and Astier moved through it with quiet precision, an apparition far from the glacier’s breath. His paws stirred no sound on the path, though each step was deliberate, carved in thought. He had not intended to descend so far, but the cold silence of the heights no longer gave answers; not today.He slowed as the pale figure came into view, her shape nearly blending with the mist. The scent of yarrow was faint but present; he recognized it. Familiar, in a way only wounds and healing made things familiar. Astier watched in silence for a moment, his gaze tracing the movement of her nose over the leaves, the care in it. It reminded him of something; no, someone. But this was not her. The pull in his chest, the ache he carried with him like frost in the blood, it remained unspoken for now.
„You tend to the earth with reverence,” he began at last, voice smooth but low, nearly lost in the damp hush of morning. „Tell me, does it ever give back as much as it takes?” He stood a short distance away, not yet close, his breath misting as he regarded her with something between curiosity and weariness. He had wandered far; but perhaps not without reason.
RE: Pagwį - Silatuyok - April 22, 2025
the pale woman turned her eyes to him, soft as fog yet sharp beneath—like the edge of flint buried in snow. her ears twitched once, and she regarded the ghost-white man as though he, too, had risen from the roots.
you speak like mountain,she said gently, her numic-woven common halting but careful.
quiet. heavy.
she did not fear him, though her body remained poised. her furs—wrapped loose around a bundle of early yarrow—told stories of her homeland, of mist-walkers and herb-women, of the talon-faced gods above. the man smelled of cold things and distance, not violence. that was important.
to his question, she only smiled, slow and secretive.
earth take much,silatuyok agreed, brushing her paw against the damp soil,
but always leave enough. always...
her gaze lifted again, this time to the frost in his eyes, the ache written quiet into his bones.
maybe not what we ask for. but something. always something.
then she motioned gently to the yarrow and leaned back, allowing silence again—offering space, should he need it, to ask for whatever it was he’d come seeking. or to stay. or not. the wind would decide. it always did.
RE: Pagwį - Astier - April 25, 2025
The silence gathered around him like mist curling at the hem of the earth. He stood still, as though carved from the very mountain she had named him after; an effigy of ice and stone shaped by storms long passed. The wind stirred faintly around his limbs, lifting pale strands from his mane-like fur and tugging at the dark ridges of his cloak. He impersonated a phantom made flesh, borne of some forgotten winter. Yet beneath the stillness, he breathed: and that breath carried the weight of unsaid words.
When her voice left her throat, his ears shifted barely. As though each word she offered was a ripple across a frozen lake, and he was listening not with his ears, but with something older, something deeper. His gaze, frostbitten and unwavering, found hers with the quiet gravity of a falling star. „You listen like the land,” a quiet remark. His voice was neither warm nor cold, only deliberate. „And answer like a stream through stone.” Her face seemed familiar.
Then came motion, slow and controlled, a shifting of his weight that rolled through his shoulders like distant thunder, a fluid descent from soldier to supplicant. He moved not as one with urgency, but with a grace born of caution and thought; as if lowering himself to the earth was a ritual. His limbs folded beneath him, the heavy cloak of his fur settling like snow across slate.
Across from her, he came to rest. There, in the hush between two wild things, he looked to the yarrow, then to her paw, stained faint with earth. And something shifted in his gaze: a recognition, ancient and solemn. „Something,” he repeated, voice quiet enough to let the wind through it, „Even if not what we ask.”
The wraith sat in silence, spine straight, but not rigid, the kind of stillness that came not from tension, but from mastery. His breath misted in the cool air, visible only for a heartbeat before vanishing. His tail coiled lightly around his side, a loose curve of shadow against frost-kissed soil. „I came to forget the voice of war,” he murmured then, words slipping like water from a high place. „But it follows.”
And though his eyes never left her, they softened minutely, as ice on high ridges just before spring. „You are not what I sought,” the ghost confessed, gaze falling to her hands once more. She was a shadow with a will of her own; restless, wandering, ever-changing. A wild thing shaped by dusk and distant roads, tethered to no soul; at least, not yet. „But you are what I found.” And he did not rise. He recognized the shape of her then, familiar as a dream half-remembered, the woman he had once met alongside the white mother, long ago, beneath a quieter sky.