May 23, 2017, 05:13 AM
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Thyri temporarily parts way with her titan companion, moving north up the coast though what she seeks to find she isn’t sure. The rain has been relentless and even in the shelter of the Shadewood they are not spared the storm’s fury though there is a sense of unease within the young mummer queen that tells her that the worst has yet to come. The further she moves north the worse the rains become until it is pouring. Champagne and cremé pelage clings heavily to her sylph’s frame, small but strong as it is. She feels the added weight of the rainwater and for a moment she considers abandoning what has quickly become a pointless mission to her, to turn back and head back to the Shadewood where she trusts the ancient and sentinel trees to shelter her from the worst of it but she has made it this far and she is already soaked through: she might as well see it through.
The problem presents itself that the Pasture offers no reprieve from the storm. There is no place to seek shelter; so the rain pelts. Champagne ears pick up a curse. It takes her a moment but she knows the words he spits. He speaks Trigedasleng. A language she is as familiar with as her mother’s native tongue and the common. For a moment she holds her breath, wondering if she has stumbled upon Hvitserk on happenstance and quickly tries to decide what she will do if she has. Despite the amends she has made with her parents she remains unapologetic about her treatment towards her siblings: she is not their shadow, not their cast off. She will cast a terrible and vast shadow that would snuff out their perfection, their light. The pale male in the distance is not Hvitserk, though, and she feels a cold rush of relief to the heat of seething fury beneath her breast. Good. She had not particularly desired a bloody spar in the storm; nor has she fancied the aspect of explaining potential injuries to Grievous when she returns to the titan.
Still she assumes he is Heda’s wolf and Thyri is torn. Between hostility and playing the role of the dainty damsel in distress. She remembers back to the conversation that her and Grievous have recently had: that she needs to learn tact in order to weave believable deceptions. If she did not practice how could she ever hope to master it? She acts like the curse he spits is gibberish to her, and she lets her proud stance fall hoping that he has not already noticed her. Her ears slick back to her skull and she lets out a tremble and a low whine. “Hello?” She calls out to the stranger, a tremor to her voice.
[/td][/tr][/table]The problem presents itself that the Pasture offers no reprieve from the storm. There is no place to seek shelter; so the rain pelts. Champagne ears pick up a curse. It takes her a moment but she knows the words he spits. He speaks Trigedasleng. A language she is as familiar with as her mother’s native tongue and the common. For a moment she holds her breath, wondering if she has stumbled upon Hvitserk on happenstance and quickly tries to decide what she will do if she has. Despite the amends she has made with her parents she remains unapologetic about her treatment towards her siblings: she is not their shadow, not their cast off. She will cast a terrible and vast shadow that would snuff out their perfection, their light. The pale male in the distance is not Hvitserk, though, and she feels a cold rush of relief to the heat of seething fury beneath her breast. Good. She had not particularly desired a bloody spar in the storm; nor has she fancied the aspect of explaining potential injuries to Grievous when she returns to the titan.
Still she assumes he is Heda’s wolf and Thyri is torn. Between hostility and playing the role of the dainty damsel in distress. She remembers back to the conversation that her and Grievous have recently had: that she needs to learn tact in order to weave believable deceptions. If she did not practice how could she ever hope to master it? She acts like the curse he spits is gibberish to her, and she lets her proud stance fall hoping that he has not already noticed her. Her ears slick back to her skull and she lets out a tremble and a low whine. “Hello?” She calls out to the stranger, a tremor to her voice.
and she speaks in a voice that sets men trembling,
with eyes painted gold and a throne built on the bones of
those who would challenge her rule
with eyes painted gold and a throne built on the bones of
those who would challenge her rule
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Messages In This Thread
come rain or come shine - by Arlo - May 22, 2017, 04:49 PM
RE: come rain or come shine - by Thyri - May 23, 2017, 05:13 AM
RE: come rain or come shine - by Arlo - May 27, 2017, 11:20 AM