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Ooc — Rosie
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Gingerly, the shrouded sylph took several strides closer to where the fallen being lay — now she could see that it was a wolf indeed — and she took a punctuating, feline-like pause between each step, with forefoot hovering above the snow fall, as if waiting for the poor soul to rouse and greet her. Hopeful, she was, but not certain.
The woman’s stomach, still ravaged by knots and an uneasy stirring, fell when she reached winter’s sufferer without blockade, as she had hoped she wouldn't. The shewolf was nothing more than a small, sweet bundle of bones — and almost immediately, Olive felt a familiar sense of custodial responsibility, as she did with most hurt things, but particularly for this hurt thing. Standing over the girl, Olive tried to shield her from the worst of the mountain’s winds but her diminutive frame did not afford much shelter. Brimming with concern, Olive’s silken ears pressed against her crown and she swung her head to and fro, looking for a possible shelter.
mother.
It was only then that the misted sylph felt prompted to take a closer look at the being at her feet. Her perception was obscured by the snowfall and she squinted her mossy gaze, bringing her muzzle about an inch away from the snow-dusted form — and Olive only needed to drink that scent for a single second before her nose was virtually buried in the girl’s frozen form, her olfactory instincts registering the connection before her mind could even grasp it. All physical barriers were breached as the woman desperately cajoled and cosseted the broken thing with her fervent sniffing. A pleading whine leaked from her maw as she came to her full understanding.
No longer concerned with formalities — this was her daughter, after all — Olive dropped her finespun form and cloaked Cassiopeia with her head, neck, body and tail as best she could [she was so big, now!] still whining and trembling from the sudden gravity of this situation. Words could not be formed; her voice has been stolen from her, but her mother’s heart thudded around in her chest and all the ashen woman could do was tuck her face against her child’s, as if it was all going to be fine, that it was all going to be okay now — but Olive had never been able to make it be okay, and she was never more aware of it than at that moment.
The woman’s stomach, still ravaged by knots and an uneasy stirring, fell when she reached winter’s sufferer without blockade, as she had hoped she wouldn't. The shewolf was nothing more than a small, sweet bundle of bones — and almost immediately, Olive felt a familiar sense of custodial responsibility, as she did with most hurt things, but particularly for this hurt thing. Standing over the girl, Olive tried to shield her from the worst of the mountain’s winds but her diminutive frame did not afford much shelter. Brimming with concern, Olive’s silken ears pressed against her crown and she swung her head to and fro, looking for a possible shelter.
mother.
It was only then that the misted sylph felt prompted to take a closer look at the being at her feet. Her perception was obscured by the snowfall and she squinted her mossy gaze, bringing her muzzle about an inch away from the snow-dusted form — and Olive only needed to drink that scent for a single second before her nose was virtually buried in the girl’s frozen form, her olfactory instincts registering the connection before her mind could even grasp it. All physical barriers were breached as the woman desperately cajoled and cosseted the broken thing with her fervent sniffing. A pleading whine leaked from her maw as she came to her full understanding.
No longer concerned with formalities — this was her daughter, after all — Olive dropped her finespun form and cloaked Cassiopeia with her head, neck, body and tail as best she could [she was so big, now!] still whining and trembling from the sudden gravity of this situation. Words could not be formed; her voice has been stolen from her, but her mother’s heart thudded around in her chest and all the ashen woman could do was tuck her face against her child’s, as if it was all going to be fine, that it was all going to be okay now — but Olive had never been able to make it be okay, and she was never more aware of it than at that moment.
and all my days are trances, and all my nightly dreams
are where thy grey eye glances, and where thy footstep gleams
in what ethereal dances, by what eternal streams
are where thy grey eye glances, and where thy footstep gleams
in what ethereal dances, by what eternal streams
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Messages In This Thread
you're beside me, breathing so loud - by Cassiopeia - January 13, 2018, 01:27 PM
RE: you're beside me, breathing so loud - by Olive - January 13, 2018, 05:04 PM
RE: you're beside me, breathing so loud - by Cassiopeia - January 13, 2018, 08:38 PM
RE: you're beside me, breathing so loud - by Olive - January 14, 2018, 01:24 PM
RE: you're beside me, breathing so loud - by Cassiopeia - January 14, 2018, 07:19 PM
RE: you're beside me, breathing so loud - by Olive - January 17, 2018, 09:03 PM