thread title inspired by Diana Gabaldon's novel. set for afternoon of the 18th
Ssshhhhh. . .shhhhhhhh. . .
A gentle, tuneless lullaby entered her ear and ruffled the fine hairs there, whistling across her body with the touch of a lover, save it was cold. Little flakes of snow went along with the wind's caress, settling en masse on her still, dark-pelted body like autumn leaves on the forest floor. When she finally opened her amber eyes--with some effort; they were slightly crusted shut--she heaved a great sigh. It had been a long and dreamless sleep, and she was grateful for the rest.
But she. . .who was she? And where?
The pressure on her lungs, as well as the icy wind, suggested she was high above the ground somewhere. A cursory glance forward, where mountain crags loomed ahead but not above, seemed to confirm this suspicion. The black she-wolf was sprawled next to a rock; a bird of prey sat quite close, staring at her with an unflinching golden gaze.
She drew back her lips to bare her teeth at the bird, noticing in a detached way that her face felt at once both stiff and loose. In a flurry of wings and claws, the hawk departed, glowering at her in ascent. With a small groan, she arose to her feet, and, though very shaky, managed to stay standing, puzzling out her situation.
A shiver of alarm raced through her body as she slowly came to full consciousness. She couldn't remember. . .anything. Tiny memories from long ago raced through her head at her coaxing, but like fish in a stream, they were slick and fast, slipping out her grasp as she reached out desperately for something--anything--to which to hold on.
"Muh. . .name?" she said aloud, and was terrified to discover her voice was slurred and hoarse. A whiff of burning things reached her nose, and further horrified herself as she looked round and down and found that her dark pelt was half-singed, the pungent smell of burnt hair and flesh--yes, even some flesh--hanging heavy over her, like an ominous cloud.
She shuddered. She had no name, no place, no family. Nothing. Yet she must have had something, sometime, somewhere! Someone. Wolves did not just appear out of nowhere. . .right?
Limping, she began to pace back and forth, watching her paws leave faint prints in the thin layer of snow that had fallen during her sleep. Snowe. There was a word she still had knowledge of. She cast her nose to the slate gray sky, feeling the icy droplets fall upon her muzzle in cool supplication.
"It's. . .snowee. . .snowe. . ." she murmured, and thought, well, if she was indeed born today, even in this adult state, her name must be Snowe. For the snowe had brought her to life, holding her in its freezing bosom. The snowe was good to her, so why shouldn't she honor it?
And the rational part of her brain knew that staying atop a barren mountain would yield no food, no shelter. Despite her weariness--her muscles had atrophied slightly from the long rest--she found a little path leading away from the overhang and down the summit, all the while repeating to herself words she still found familiar. Snowe. Rocke. Wynd.
Snowe carried on down Thunder Dome, having no way of knowing she traveled away from where Miyako had came.
A gentle, tuneless lullaby entered her ear and ruffled the fine hairs there, whistling across her body with the touch of a lover, save it was cold. Little flakes of snow went along with the wind's caress, settling en masse on her still, dark-pelted body like autumn leaves on the forest floor. When she finally opened her amber eyes--with some effort; they were slightly crusted shut--she heaved a great sigh. It had been a long and dreamless sleep, and she was grateful for the rest.
But she. . .who was she? And where?
The pressure on her lungs, as well as the icy wind, suggested she was high above the ground somewhere. A cursory glance forward, where mountain crags loomed ahead but not above, seemed to confirm this suspicion. The black she-wolf was sprawled next to a rock; a bird of prey sat quite close, staring at her with an unflinching golden gaze.
She drew back her lips to bare her teeth at the bird, noticing in a detached way that her face felt at once both stiff and loose. In a flurry of wings and claws, the hawk departed, glowering at her in ascent. With a small groan, she arose to her feet, and, though very shaky, managed to stay standing, puzzling out her situation.
A shiver of alarm raced through her body as she slowly came to full consciousness. She couldn't remember. . .anything. Tiny memories from long ago raced through her head at her coaxing, but like fish in a stream, they were slick and fast, slipping out her grasp as she reached out desperately for something--anything--to which to hold on.
"Muh. . .name?" she said aloud, and was terrified to discover her voice was slurred and hoarse. A whiff of burning things reached her nose, and further horrified herself as she looked round and down and found that her dark pelt was half-singed, the pungent smell of burnt hair and flesh--yes, even some flesh--hanging heavy over her, like an ominous cloud.
She shuddered. She had no name, no place, no family. Nothing. Yet she must have had something, sometime, somewhere! Someone. Wolves did not just appear out of nowhere. . .right?
Limping, she began to pace back and forth, watching her paws leave faint prints in the thin layer of snow that had fallen during her sleep. Snowe. There was a word she still had knowledge of. She cast her nose to the slate gray sky, feeling the icy droplets fall upon her muzzle in cool supplication.
"It's. . .snowee. . .snowe. . ." she murmured, and thought, well, if she was indeed born today, even in this adult state, her name must be Snowe. For the snowe had brought her to life, holding her in its freezing bosom. The snowe was good to her, so why shouldn't she honor it?
And the rational part of her brain knew that staying atop a barren mountain would yield no food, no shelter. Despite her weariness--her muscles had atrophied slightly from the long rest--she found a little path leading away from the overhang and down the summit, all the while repeating to herself words she still found familiar. Snowe. Rocke. Wynd.
Snowe carried on down Thunder Dome, having no way of knowing she traveled away from where Miyako had came.
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