As the weather worsens, Arlo continues his way north. Rain has finally reached him, gentle at first and doesn’t slow him down too much. However, by the time the day has come to an end, the rain is pounding against the ground. His coat is soaked within seconds and he grumbles, squinting against the water she smacks against his face with no reprieve. When he can’t see more than a few feet in front of him, he comes to a stop and ducks his head to try and get a little relief from the battering. Left out in the open field of the pasture, currently free of herds that have long moved on to escape what he’s going into full force.
Arlo sucks in a breath and forces himself to continue. He needs to move on from the pasture and find some kind of shelter to wait out the worst of it.
However, after several minutes of trying to make his way through, the rain comes to a complete stop. The wind still blows and he feels the fleck of water here and there but it is nothing compared to his soaked coat. He braces his feet and begins to shake out his coat, sending water this way and that, only to have the rain return. “Joken skaikrasha!” he curses in frustration as the steady rainfall continues to hinder his travel.
Arlo sucks in a breath and forces himself to continue. He needs to move on from the pasture and find some kind of shelter to wait out the worst of it.
However, after several minutes of trying to make his way through, the rain comes to a complete stop. The wind still blows and he feels the fleck of water here and there but it is nothing compared to his soaked coat. He braces his feet and begins to shake out his coat, sending water this way and that, only to have the rain return. “Joken skaikrasha!” he curses in frustration as the steady rainfall continues to hinder his travel.
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
May 27, 2017, 11:20 AM
Arlo hates the timing of his trip and the storm. In addition, he hates he’d stranded out in the open, vulnerable in the weather. The weight of the rain clogs his senses and the crashing of water around him makes it difficult to note the presence nearby. Eventually he sees the wolf before he smells her and his ears fall back against his head. The girl is small, bothered by the rain more than he. It is difficult to walk through with how far it is coming from the sky and he barely has the attention to focus on more than himself and getting back home.
His head lifts, debating approaching the pitiful girl or not. He’d just shed the weight of a child not long ago and he has no desire to help another. This one is of no importance or threat to Drageda, now given their distance. He chuffs through the rain though it is likely to fall silent by the time it reaches the girl. “Hello,” he responds, sliding back from his thoughts to focus on his current companion, though his attention is still pulled to his mission.
His head lifts, debating approaching the pitiful girl or not. He’d just shed the weight of a child not long ago and he has no desire to help another. This one is of no importance or threat to Drageda, now given their distance. He chuffs through the rain though it is likely to fall silent by the time it reaches the girl. “Hello,” he responds, sliding back from his thoughts to focus on his current companion, though his attention is still pulled to his mission.
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