Morningside Cuesta we're all falling and we all need a place to hide
All Welcome  January 12, 2018, 07:57 PM
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         The wisp of a woman pushed through the snow; her efforts seemingly futile. The meadow was wide and barren, save for the thick snow with its weak crust. Snow fell thickly all around, making every step harder than the one before, and her ankles were bloodied and bruised. Every few steps her weight would be just enough to fracture the icy layer beneath the fresh snow, and she'd pitch forward like a ship caught in a storm, scratches opening up along her forelimbs.

         Oh, how far she'd come from the sea she'd been so faithful to. How far she'd fallen from her easy grace, her place along the crashing waves. She'd followed the scent of her ward for a time, losing it somewhere inland. She'd never been the best scout; even the stars could not point her seaward again. For a while, she'd wondered if this was her punishment, if the world had found her quilty for some crime she did not know. She'd stopped wondering when she'd wandered from Teekon entirely, wandered into uncertainty and terror.

         Her leg had healed; she'd been careful. It pained her still, sometimes, and she could only hope that the pain would cease with time. When it had snapped like a twig on the rocks, the sea-witch had known that surely she had done wrong by the universe, and surely this was her punishment. Thelxiope gasped as the ice dug at her skin-and-bone limbs cruelly, but did not dare stop. For the spirits had forgiven her, sent her the stranger who'd known the way back. She'd gone then, travelling and not stopping, her ceaseless, frenzied search for the sea wreaking havoc on her already frail form; but the witch did not care. She cared only to find the sea again; and thus she pulled herself from the snow with another rattling gasp, moving towards the edge of the cuesta.
February 28, 2018, 12:22 PM
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Far from his namesake, and the place he sought with fervor, Coast trudged sourly through a desert of snow. He found no shelter that would leave him unburied, and with the flakes still falling in fat droves he thought it best he keep moving to stay warm. His trot started off confident, and he had plowed and bounded through the snow with ease. But after nearly an hour of this, the wolf found that his pace had slowed dramatically, almost to a crawl, and his annoyance ripened as the sky dumptrucked his path with drift after drift of inconveniencing snow.

He began to make out a figure darker than the cloying white around them, observing it with his shark eyes until he had discerned that it was another wolf and therefore (presently) inedible. He wasn't that hungry. It didn't stop him from approaching at a bound— seeking the small opportunity for warmth. He loosed a single short note of a howl to the slow-moving creature, then tucked his ears and kept his tail and posture lank to indicate a lack of harmful intent despite his fast approach. Coast stopped close to the small seawolf and practically threw his lean hindquarters at her, attempting to connect their sides without the added risk of offering his face for her likely disapproval.

And all this because he didn't want to pry his mouth open in the storm so that he might  articulate to her that they should walk together if they wanted to stay warmer.