wave-wracked and wanton

Coelacanth · (This post was last modified: September 23, 2018, 05:23 PM by Coelacanth.)

@Aditya @Amoxtli @Forrest @Grayday @Komodo @Screech @Skwol @Spiritwalker @Stockholm @Sunny @Thelxiope

This Hunter’s Moon thread takes place at midnight on January 31, 2018. I would describe what the moon had looked like from my locale, but I live in Oregon.

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

No posting order. Feel free to interact with who you like, when you like. We’re going to be hunting some sea lions, telling some stories, singing some songs, dancing some dances, whale-watching, and generally raising hell. ♥ Narrator-esque posts will be made using this font and format, and a second post will be made as the moon starts to turn red. I hope you have fun! Thank you for joining in! ^^

Off the coast, a column-shaped cloud of white coalesced above the mirrorlike sea, lingered briefly, and disappeared. It was so faraway and so fleeting, one would have to be staring directly at that exact part of the sea, in that exact moment, to notice — and Coelacanth, trading her attention between Stockholm and the rest of the party with feverish delight, missed it completely.

The chilly breezes that drifted inland bore crisp reminders of winter, but in between their whispers, the evening seemed almost unseasonably warm. A fragile layer of frost had settled upon the silver sand of the cape like caramelized sugar over an exquisite crème brulee, and the sheepdog drew a ridiculous amount of pleasure from breaking through it with overexuberant leaps and bounds.

The moon hung heavy in the sky, and her reflection on the ocean’s glassy surface stretched all the way to shore. Brilliantly bright, she bathed the world and its inhabitants in a presently pale, bluish cast — but the atramentous Groenendael knew it was only a matter of time, now. Though a tinge of guilt stung her psyche, her mouth watered at the memory of her last Hunter’s Moon, and the rich, fatty flesh of the sea lions the Cortens regarded as distant cousins. Though they couldn’t celebrate in true Vargas Island fashion, she embraced the feeling of renewal and revitalization associated with the event — and automatically, her eyes flickered to her island.

It didn’t belong to Marbas anymore.