is there purpose to his post? no. was i feeling inspired? yes.
there is something in the storm watch butte that reminds him of plateau; the climb had been treacherous and slow going. but as he crests the top and looks down at the vast, yawning lowlands it was worth it. keen, commanding gaze watches the sway of the trees, shoulders tensing and posture shifting to rebut the wind as it whips 'round his face.
rusalka is an immovable object in it's path.
he wished the same could be said for progress. the cairn relapses into a brooding stormcloud; golden gaze cold and expression terse.
up here, everything is placed into a different perspective. the impending feeling of doom as kvarshiem balances on the precipice of failure or revival is swept away by the wind and rusalka is left feeling like the leviathan of the seas once more.
and he welcomes it home as it nestles into his chest.
February 09, 2025, 11:42 PM
ximena moves with the wind, not against it. It whips through her fur, catching the scent of blood and warmth clinging to the fresh kill held between her jaws. the hare swings slightly with each step, its lifeless weight nothing to her, a mere trophy of her efficiency.
she had not sought company when she climbed the butte—only vantage, only solitude—but as her golden eyes flicker across the peak, she finds it occupied.
rhe storm-watcher stands rigid, braced against the elements like an unyielding monolith. she studies him, the tension in his frame, the way he drinks in the vast sprawl below as if the world itself is waiting to bend to his will.
interesting.
she does not announce herself immediately. Instead, she approaches with deliberate ease, her posture that of a creature at home in her own skin, in the wind, in the stillness between them. only when she is near enough for the weight of her presence to be felt does she finally drop the hare at her paws, the soft thud swallowed by the wind.
a silent offering. or a challenge.
ximena tilts her head slightly, lips curling—not quite a smile, not quite not. she does not ask what troubles him, nor does she seek permission to exist within this space. instead, she simply watches, waiting to see if the storm will break before her—or if she will have to step into it herself.
she had not sought company when she climbed the butte—only vantage, only solitude—but as her golden eyes flicker across the peak, she finds it occupied.
rhe storm-watcher stands rigid, braced against the elements like an unyielding monolith. she studies him, the tension in his frame, the way he drinks in the vast sprawl below as if the world itself is waiting to bend to his will.
interesting.
she does not announce herself immediately. Instead, she approaches with deliberate ease, her posture that of a creature at home in her own skin, in the wind, in the stillness between them. only when she is near enough for the weight of her presence to be felt does she finally drop the hare at her paws, the soft thud swallowed by the wind.
a silent offering. or a challenge.
ximena tilts her head slightly, lips curling—not quite a smile, not quite not. she does not ask what troubles him, nor does she seek permission to exist within this space. instead, she simply watches, waiting to see if the storm will break before her—or if she will have to step into it herself.
February 22, 2025, 07:23 PM
it was a horrible thing to watch the destruction of countless of packs rusalka has called home; though he is old enough now, going into his fourth year, that it is simply apart of life. empires rose and fell. nothing lasted forever.
he thinks of his children that had departed the wilds, that he has not seen in a year ... or more and wonder how they fare.
but he stops these thoughts — just in time. the soft but decisive thud draws the corner of his golden gaze. a woman, a hare.
rusalka considers not offering any sort of further recognition, leaving an ear swiveled towards her but his gaze returns to the world yawning before him.
he thinks of his children that had departed the wilds, that he has not seen in a year ... or more and wonder how they fare.
but he stops these thoughts — just in time. the soft but decisive thud draws the corner of his golden gaze. a woman, a hare.
rusalka considers not offering any sort of further recognition, leaving an ear swiveled towards her but his gaze returns to the world yawning before him.
did the view bring you up here?inquires the commander, breaking his silence.
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