September 09, 2018, 04:57 PM
Since Coelacanth has a relatively minor role in these threads, please feel free to skip her and please TAG HER if and when you interact directly with her. Thank you! ♥
Coelacanth stood at the water’s edge on the opposite bank and peered down.
She is thirsty, and a flurry of intent sniffs from her dry, cracked nose tells her that the area is untouched by her captors, but she faces the glimmering surface with fraught consternation. Tremors race from the tip of her nose to the tip of her tail…
The beast who gazed back at her, wide-eyed and unnerved, distorted and blurred by a breeze skimming across the lake’s placid surface, was not a stranger.
She was a nightmare.
A memory.
A slinking, skeletal creature.
She experiences the dawning of the day as a mole might, reflexively blinking tears from her Neptune eyes and squinting in the fragile, rose-blush light. The velveteen of her cheeks is so sticky and coarse with a blighted mixture of caked earth, saline, and grime that the moisture doesn’t soak in or trickle down. It lingers in purulent globules that stretch into strings at the innermost corner of her almond-shaped eyes.
Horrified, the Aralez lifted her muzzle and drew back a pace, craning her neck to regard the clean symmetry of her limbs and the plush slope of her flank. Despite her character profile, which KJ never gets around to updating, the sheepdog had recuperated fully and was at her optimum weight [read: still tinier than most wolves, because doge] at a trim forty-five pounds. Her atramentous pelage gleamed like a rook’s plumage, shot through with cobalt and indigo, and her Neptune eyes were bright. She stepped forward to peer timorously at her reflection a second time.
The arch of her spine is a crenelated bridge, the knobs of her vertebrae bordered by the crests of her shoulders and hips. The scalloped gradient of her ribs stands out sharply — it is something she was able to conceal when she had the luxury of grooming and feeding herself regularly, but now the lank and greasy strands of her dusty oilslick fur press flat into the divots between her bones. She is a slinking, skeletal creature…
“No,” she breathed, glancing furtively across the lake. “Bad dog.” She wanted the spectre to go — and she lifted her velveteen flews, the bridge of her muzzle wrinkling.
She had forgotten this place — but the lake remembered.
She is thirsty, and a flurry of intent sniffs from her dry, cracked nose tells her that the area is untouched by her captors, but she faces the glimmering surface with fraught consternation. Tremors race from the tip of her nose to the tip of her tail…
The beast who gazed back at her, wide-eyed and unnerved, distorted and blurred by a breeze skimming across the lake’s placid surface, was not a stranger.
She was a nightmare.
A memory.
A slinking, skeletal creature.
She experiences the dawning of the day as a mole might, reflexively blinking tears from her Neptune eyes and squinting in the fragile, rose-blush light. The velveteen of her cheeks is so sticky and coarse with a blighted mixture of caked earth, saline, and grime that the moisture doesn’t soak in or trickle down. It lingers in purulent globules that stretch into strings at the innermost corner of her almond-shaped eyes.
Horrified, the Aralez lifted her muzzle and drew back a pace, craning her neck to regard the clean symmetry of her limbs and the plush slope of her flank. Despite her character profile, which KJ never gets around to updating, the sheepdog had recuperated fully and was at her optimum weight [read: still tinier than most wolves, because doge] at a trim forty-five pounds. Her atramentous pelage gleamed like a rook’s plumage, shot through with cobalt and indigo, and her Neptune eyes were bright. She stepped forward to peer timorously at her reflection a second time.
The arch of her spine is a crenelated bridge, the knobs of her vertebrae bordered by the crests of her shoulders and hips. The scalloped gradient of her ribs stands out sharply — it is something she was able to conceal when she had the luxury of grooming and feeding herself regularly, but now the lank and greasy strands of her dusty oilslick fur press flat into the divots between her bones. She is a slinking, skeletal creature…
“No,” she breathed, glancing furtively across the lake. “Bad dog.” She wanted the spectre to go — and she lifted her velveteen flews, the bridge of her muzzle wrinkling.
She had forgotten this place — but the lake remembered.
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Messages In This Thread
ooh, babe, i must be dreaming again - by Maegi - September 08, 2018, 12:02 AM
RE: ooh, babe, i must be dreaming again - by Moor - September 08, 2018, 02:44 PM
RE: ooh, babe, i must be dreaming again - by Coelacanth - September 09, 2018, 04:57 PM