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+--- Thread: Luneshale Pass chá (/showthread.php?tid=66485)
chá - Margarida - October 31, 2025
backdated to october 17th; AW!
the dawn came pale over verapaz, mist curling between the stones as margarida worked. herbs gathered in her jaws, pelts spread to dry—she moved like she had always belonged there. kemal’s words still echoed in her mind: prepare them. the mesa waits.so she did. caches packed tight, roots and bark bundled with care, each tied the way her mãe had shown her—precise, patient, prayerful. protege-os, doce terra, she murmured under her breath.
by dusk, her paws were sore, her fur dusted with soil, but her heart was light. she looked toward the glowing beyond, the land that would soon be theirs, and whispered to it softly—
soon.
RE: chá - Kigipigak - November 06, 2025
bypassing the places he knew — first the freezing dusk-river, then the kin-village of kukutux, then the lowlands where he had once seen his son and daughter-in-law make their home — kigipigak went south, and south, and as far as he could go, before he recognized nothing.
it was not a land he was accustomed to, and certainly not one he was built for. as mild as the climate felt he was a beast of the north, and his winter coat now felt too heavy; he was already weighed down in spirit, so why not in physicality? before long kigipigak was marching with his tongue out, garish and pink against the ever-dense white of his body, and he was annoyed to have made this choice.
the pass was a dry place, the earth cracked and the stones untouched by any weather or, he mused, probably any living thing. it looked like a dead place in his opinion — perhaps it was where he was meant to be? the rest of his life had died, thought kigipigak... why not let himself rest, too?
such were the defeatest thoughts that ran through the man's mind, as he bedgrudgingly kept up his pace. head low, shoulders bunched, and barely paying attention to his path — or the fact someone else was nearby, whispering lower than the wind.
RE: chá - Margarida - November 06, 2025
margarida had been bent over the last of the herbs, breath warm against the earth, when the faint crunch of stone met her ear. she froze— her head lifting, the bundle of dried sage still caught between her teeth.
the wind shifted, carrying with it the scent of another. unfamiliar. northern. heavy with cold and distance. she turned, slow and poised, her body framed by the hanging pelts that fluttered in the dusk.
beyond the low rise of the mesa, she saw him— a pale shape, broad and worn by the road. not of verapaz.
her eyes softened, though her stance remained still as carved earth. she did not call out. instead, she watched him pass like one might watch a storm roll over the plains— quietly, reverently, prepared to meet what it brought.
beneath her breath, she murmured once more to the land, a prayer for peace, for welcome.
protege-o também.
RE: chá - Kigipigak - November 06, 2025
how did other creatures live in such a place? it wasn't quite summer all the time weather, certainly closer to a cold springtime, yet kigipigak felt only discomfort; he didn't like it, and knew if he didn't find something to eat or some place to rest soon to make this trip worthwhile, he may as well turn around and —
he saw her, then. a willowy young thing, compared to himself. for a split-second he thought it was the ghost of ariadne, which was foolish and borne of old heartache. if she was anywhere it would be the lake, he thought.
her gaze was focused on him, not averting as he met her eye. a grim smile tugged at the corners of his lips, but he didn't say anything — merely took a step backwards, then allowed his body language to convey, 'sorry,' and, 'not a threat'.
then he turned his eyes away — further physicality to prove he wasn't interested in her, in any real way — and glanced left, right, lightly frowning; even from a distance this would've shown he was closer to a lost old man than anything to be feared. it was the truth.
RE: chá - Margarida - November 06, 2025
margarida watched him through the thin veil of smoke that rose from her drying herbs, her breath hitched. the stranger was pale as salt, a man carved from the north itself! his fur thick, his shoulders heavy with distance.
his apology was wordless, but she read it easily in the way he shifted, the way his eyes turned aside. she did not fear him. instead, she straightened from her work, brushing the soil from her chest with a light, fluid motion.
pobre alma,she murmured softly, not for him to hear. poor soul, adrift in this strange place.
her gaze followed the small frown that creased his brow. hunger, exhaustion— she knew those signs well. so she turned back to her bundles, selected one of the smaller parcels wrapped in cured hide, and set it gently upon a flat stone between them.
a gesture, not demand. offering, not pity.
then, with quiet dignity, she bowed her head— just enough for respect— and returned to her work, though one dark eye lingered on him still.