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Indie had plenty of time to think nowadays, and many of her thoughts orbited around the raconteur, Donovan. It couldn’t be helped, that man was an enigma to her – one of the only wolves who could successfully shield his thoughts from her prying mind and leave the woman in the dark about his intentions… and still, she trusted him. Donovan’s obscurity did not make her uncomfortable, goodness no. Rather, she luxuriated in her relative unknowingness about the tutor who had raised her up and skillfully crafted her to be the vaudevillian that she was that day. Indie let the brute reveal himself to her as he saw fit – he was constantly surprising her by zigging when she expected him to zag, and she was often left breathless by his dizzying strategy and intellect. As such, the mottled raconteur had reappeared in her life, sought her out in these foreign wilds, only to disappear just as quickly… but still, the women had an inane sense of credence in Donovan. She knew he was safe [wherever he was], probably working on some long con and would eventually return to her – he always did.
The dark shewolf strode along the frigid shores, her feet lazily dragging in the edge of the waters. She moved jauntily, easily; her languid muscles pulled heavy on her bones, signaling a sense of divine [yet uncomfortable] relaxation. It was a day like any other and the simplicity of it was a bit stifling to the wily woman. Far too many of her days had been all-consuming nothingness, fading into one another. Indie would wake and she would hunt, then she would groom herself impeccably, teeth raking finely through her inky pelt and cleansing herself of any clinging impurity. Then she would sing for no one but herself, enjoying the company of her own voice and she would dance with no one but herself, enjoying the sensations of the earth beneath her feet. It was all good fun, but it would always end with Indie becoming bored and traipsing onward, continuing her adventure down the coast of their Blackwater Islands
[/td][/tr][/table]The dark shewolf strode along the frigid shores, her feet lazily dragging in the edge of the waters. She moved jauntily, easily; her languid muscles pulled heavy on her bones, signaling a sense of divine [yet uncomfortable] relaxation. It was a day like any other and the simplicity of it was a bit stifling to the wily woman. Far too many of her days had been all-consuming nothingness, fading into one another. Indie would wake and she would hunt, then she would groom herself impeccably, teeth raking finely through her inky pelt and cleansing herself of any clinging impurity. Then she would sing for no one but herself, enjoying the company of her own voice and she would dance with no one but herself, enjoying the sensations of the earth beneath her feet. It was all good fun, but it would always end with Indie becoming bored and traipsing onward, continuing her adventure down the coast of their Blackwater Islands
“what a lovely day" says the butcher as she raises her arm
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this wine is too good for toast drinking, my dear - by Indie - April 18, 2017, 10:56 AM
RE: this wine is too good for toast drinking, my dear - by Kalika - April 18, 2017, 11:01 AM
RE: this wine is too good for toast drinking, my dear - by Indie - April 25, 2017, 03:03 PM