November 20, 2024, 05:00 PM
(This post was last modified: November 20, 2024, 07:24 PM by Morwenna.)
The scent was faint but unmistakable—rich, earthy, tinged with the musk of wild caribou. Morwenna's silvered eyes scanned the horizon, her ears swiveling to catch even the softest rustle of the vast wilderness around her. Each step forward was calculated, her body low to the ground, moving in harmony with the terrain. She had been tasked with watching the Saatsine chieftain, @Sun Eater.
This was not the first time she had taken on such a role. Diplomacy, she had come to realize, was as much about patience and perception as it was about words. And the Saatsine were nothing if not deeply entwined with the rhythm of the caribou's migrations. To find Sun Eater, she needed to follow their lifeblood.
Pausing to test the air, Morwenna caught the scent again, stronger now. The tracks she had been following—hooves pressed into the soft soil, scattering leaves and underbrush—were fresh.
As she continued along the trail, the trees began to thin slightly, opening into a sparse clearing. She slowed, her senses sharpening. If she were lucky, Sun Eater would be near. And if not… well, she would keep tracking. The winds carried more than just the scent of the caribou—they carried possibility. And perhaps, they carried him.
This was not the first time she had taken on such a role. Diplomacy, she had come to realize, was as much about patience and perception as it was about words. And the Saatsine were nothing if not deeply entwined with the rhythm of the caribou's migrations. To find Sun Eater, she needed to follow their lifeblood.
Pausing to test the air, Morwenna caught the scent again, stronger now. The tracks she had been following—hooves pressed into the soft soil, scattering leaves and underbrush—were fresh.
As she continued along the trail, the trees began to thin slightly, opening into a sparse clearing. She slowed, her senses sharpening. If she were lucky, Sun Eater would be near. And if not… well, she would keep tracking. The winds carried more than just the scent of the caribou—they carried possibility. And perhaps, they carried him.
you were born reaching for your mother's hands,
victim of your father's plans to rule the world,
too afraid to step outside,
paranoid and petrified of what you've heard.
victim of your father's plans to rule the world,
too afraid to step outside,
paranoid and petrified of what you've heard.
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