Wapun Meadow why don't you run from me?

@Astara

Over the lower mountains the wraith had traversed, carefully avoiding the scent trails of the pack that lay to the north west. She had no intention of joining their ranks and after running into a second wolf that hailed from there, Atropos had decided it was high time to move on from the rocky range. Through midday, the creature had wound her way through the deciduous forest, unperturbed by its many darker haunts and the sounds that accompanied them.

There was a thought to linger here within this place, to keep her self fed and comfortable among the towering ancestors of the land, but something urged her onward. With a tireless gait, Atropos heeded this unspoken direction until she eventually emerged from the darkness and into the early evening sun. Paws slowed as she reached the edges of a vast, flat meadow, singular eye taking in what there was to see.

More importantly, there were smells here that were important. Spurned into movement once more, the fate continued her descent into the meadow, now on the trail of a herd, the likes of which she had not seen in some time.

another red beast come to her meadow, dredging to the surface a memory that would not quit. 

and every time she looked at her daughter, she saw it again — 

ghost, spectre, shade. 

wherever indra was now, astara hoped her soul rotted in everlasting anguish. 

she picked along the needle strewn path after the red tracker, suspicious. she made no move to conceal her pursuit — what if this was another saint come to darken her doorstep?

Though half-blind, the fate was not deaf, nor was she a fool. She heard her living shadow trail behind her, felt the itch of a steady gaze between the blades of her shoulders. Much as a hunter took littlen notice of a carrion bird followed its hunt, so the wraith took little notice of the wolf, keeping to her intent without acknowledging the other's presence. The movement of a herd was of a certain importance, carved into the stony surface of her memory so deep that it was something she'd likely never forget.

Only when she felt that she had gained upon the herd, its scent thick and heady in this particular area, did the red draped canid slow, climbing to the crest of a small hill to see her quarry: a vast herd of cervid forming a sea of brown before her.

It was here and now that she swung her head to glance back, over her shoulder to find the one that followed. Her coat was as black as the souls sent to Tarturus, sticking out in the glaring, green meadow like a sore paw. For a moment, carmine gaze considered the woman, though what conclusions she drew were a mystery to anyone but herself. Only when those initial moments had passed did she chuff, beckoning the woman before looking down over the herd once more, taking stock of its protective bucks.

the longer the blackbird stalked this crimson wraith, the more she was inclined to believe this was no fool sent on a saint's errand. however, for the first time in memory, this creature did not once acknowledge astara's trailing.

bemused (and perhaps perplexed), astara continued -- pursuing until at last atropos met a tall summit and cast her gaze downward. the scent of cervine was pervasive, as it often was in wapun -- astara drew the conclusion then that the cerise-backed huntress must have designs to pursue one.

when she glanced from the stalwart figures of the distant bucks back to atropos, she found the she-wolf studying her. whatever conclusion atropos came to was kept sheathed by silence; astara's gaze turned back to the herd, frowning as she saw a single black doe among the ruminants.

The violent violet of the other's gaze drew her own to a peculiar vision, that of a black furred doe among the sea of brown, as if a pox among the healthy. Intrigued, the one-eyed wolf took a single step forward as if would help her to see the animal better, wondering if this was a sign sent by the gods, or even her sisters. Glancing to her left, Atropos canted her head slightly, a simple question leaving her lips.

Have you seen this before? The rasp of her damaged voice was quiet but intelligible. She sought to know more about this mutated being and whether or not it frequented this valley. If not, perhaps it was a message. Perhaps not, but the more she knew, the easier the understanding would come.

the firebrand besides her had seen the doe. astara observed as she stepped forward, eyes tracing the distant figure of the coal-black cervine.

she gave a single nod; yes, once before.

once, when snow had fallen in muted flurries. an early winter -- or late fall, who knew -- day. her rook, eyes alight with lust and excitement, chasing -- chasing not dark doe, but a little red hind by the name of

indra

astara believed the doe a blackened omen. she would not approach it, not for love or for fealty. she hoped it fell into a ditch and snapped its fragile, stupidly thin legs -- but she would not fell it herself.

Yes. Yes, the dark and wicked shadow had seen it before. That single eye widened a fraction, a sudden draw to descend the hills and drive the deer away from the omen. She wished to confer with the vision, read the message in its deadened eyes, interpret the string it wound ripe for cutting. The Omen lingered on the mortal plane for reasons it could not speak. But speech was no factor to the fate, for it was not speech she used but intuition. Her ability to See.

The omen searches for its victim. How little she knew, that the canid of similar coat to her had seen the creature, had followed the creature even unto death. The doe would have no blood upon its hooves, no stain on its soul; it served as the messenger, the influencer, the manifestation of one's inner torment.

Who, among the living, walked with such a marked soul? Who was so deserved of the deathly spectre? All was a mystery yet, the threads not yet plucked by her sister, not yet drawn by her sister, not yet cut short by her own teeth.

Enraptured by the sight, by the vision become reality, Atropos yet remained in her trance her mind alive with the endless possibilities.

omg i loved that

the doe slipped off into the misty-shouldered forests. astara sent a thousand silent curses after her form: may you rot, may you die, may your children all wither and suffer before you.

how many times would the omen weave in and out of her life, like an errant thread? and would it be there, doe-eyed and watchful, as she shook her last breath from her unwinding throat?

it seemed the red-pelted she-wolf was something of a visualist - a seer - astara thought of averna and how she walked with one part of her soul in another plane. she lowered her head and scented the wind for the rest of the herd, eager to let loose her pent up energy and forget about trifles such as superstitious ladies and strange, reoccurring omens.