Wapun Meadow Across Dimming Asterisms

aw!

Dawn spilled across the meadow like liquid gold, brushing the wildflowers in soft hues of rose and honey. Petals trembled beneath the weight of dew, scenting the breeze with something sweet and heady; something almost too delicate for this world.
The golden mistress stood at the edge of it all, where the cool shadows of the black cottonwoods kissed the field. She was still, poised as a sculpture shaped by time and wind, her tawny fur touched by the first breath of sun. Golden eyes drifted over the sea of color, unhurried, unreadable. She moved eventually; slow, deliberate, each step whispering through the grass as if she feared disturbing the serenity around her. A pronghorn flicked its ear in the distance, alert but not startled. Shiruyeh paid it little mind. She was not hunting, not today; no, today was for silence, for thought.
Near the heart of the meadow, the creek murmured its quiet song, and she paused beside it, lowering her head to sip. The water was cool, clear, sweet; enough to bring a sigh from her lips.
She lingered, one paw trailing through the shallows. Perhaps she was waiting; perhaps she was not. But in the hush of early morning, with sunlight climbing over the blooms and breeze playing through her fur, she looked like a mirage given shape. A secret held by the meadow itself.

knockknock

He was slowly growing accustomed to his new home—the one Drøugr had granted him entry to: the Stone Circle. He had only been there a few days, and he was tending to the wounds he could reach with his tongue. The others, one could only hope, would close with time.

Àskell found his thoughts drifting often to his brothers, to his father—or rather, it was the reverse: he rarely managed to think of anything else. Those moments of forgetfulness were rare. That wound, raw and gaping, would only be soothed by vengeance.

He had left the Stone Circle behind, seeking the gentler fields of Wapun—lands free from the rumblings and the fiery spirits of the northern colossi. It was there he encountered a woman so small he could have stepped on her without noticing—a stark contrast to the towering figures of the camp, and to the colossus he was himself. Caught off guard, he had stood in silence, sheepish before his own astonishment.

She did not wear the flame-wrought mantle of steel and ice, the signature of the northern tribes. Like the cunning assassins of the East, she was clad in the exotic hues of distant lands Àskell could only dream of.

His lips curled. She stirred old memories within him—bitter ones, lingering like the fresh wounds that still marred his flesh.

odessia is a judgmental character, and has been since she came into the game. i have nothing against the other players in this thread, or i would not have joined it to begin with. feel free to consider this a cameo, since i am unwelcome several people have nudged and reported me. odessia was reacting to other wolves' appearances, which i based off descriptions and artwork in their profiles.

Odessia was beginning to think there was something in the water around here to make everybody so malformed. Everywhere she looked, there were wolves with freakishly long fur, overgrown to the point they could barely move, and weird markings left and right. She had taken to sparsely drinking anything as of late, worried she might come down with some sickness that would leave her looking hideous. Little did she know her underbite was hardly a thing of beauty.
She stood atop a knoll, watching a brown wolf with overgrown hair around her cheeks and neck as she moved like she was in some kind of trance. She didn't seem to be doing anything, and that gave Odessia pause. A wolf without the instinct for constant survival was not exactly a model subject of their species. The brown wolf went for a drink, and at least that seemed relatively normal. Odessia wasn't quite convinced.
Just when she was about to approach and test the stranger's sensibilities, the most largely grotesque looking beast of a wolf—if you could even call him that—approached the other female instead. Odessia watched as his expression went sour, and the white wolf settled in to watch the scene from a distance with light blue eyes catching the sunlight.

you're more than welcome to join!

A turn of her head, slow as a dune shifting beneath moonlight. Her paws pressed the meadow’s soil like silk falling over glass, delicate, but never uncertain. Each step seemed measured not by urgency but intent, her form swaying in fluid lines, effortless as drifting smoke. There was no hurry in her presence, only the stillness of someone used to watching others reveal themselves first.
Golden eyes found him; towering, wounded, trailing ghosts. He was a monument cracked by time, and she studied him as one might study a ruin: with distant curiosity, and the faintest trace of suspicion. „You walk as a ghost wearing flesh,” she spoke at last, her voice a soft murmur, scented with foreign vowels: „Heavy. Angry. Loud.”
She circled slightly, not in fear, but in quiet challenge. Her tail, plumed and elegant, arched behind her like a desert banner caught in the gentlest wind. „Tell me…” The maiden paused near a bloom of white wildflowers, soft petals brushing her ankles as she tilted her head, the movement subtle and precise. „Did the earth chew you up and spit you out just to stumble in wildflowers? Or is there purpose to the blood you’ve left behind?”
Then her gaze flicked, swift and brief, toward the edge of her vision; a pale figure, white as morning bone, lingering beneath the boughs near the creek. Blue eyes like shattered ice, too clear to ignore. A she-wolf, watching. Shiruyeh did not address her, not yet, but the presence was marked, catalogued, stored.
Her attention returned to the giant before her, unbothered, the slightest narrowing of her eyes betraying her continued curiosity. She stepped closer now, not enough to threaten; but enough to dare. The edge of her shoulder brushed the sun’s light as if it belonged to her.