Shadowwyn Moor a stately pleasure dome decree

ah--now this is the kind of chaos she enjoys! open land, dead trees strewn across it. it is utter destruction, and the barbarian takes great pleasure in it, racing across the moor. she is long and lean, a bolt of dark lightning; the yearling is long past childhood but feels it in her veins once more as she gallops, feeling freer than she has in moons.

but conquest is always at the forefront of her mind, and she stops to ponder it, fur still lifting on the wind. for though there is much land around, the scent of wolf is heavy on the air. packs, and many of them. taking vast swaths of territory is never easy, and beating down enemies to do so only makes it harder.

it is the blood spilled, however, that makes the victories that much sweeter. any blood--she would rather die on the battlefield having fought then live in cowardice. it will not be an easy road, but the path to heaven was paved with thorns, hmm?

tashkent stands on a small hillock, looking out. staring down the mountains, and wondering if she could take them on all by herself.

well, she can, and will. of course.

Nunataq was now practicing camouflage - a self-invented game, where getting caked with mud and all kinds of dirt was necessary and being clean was the opposite of the definition. To reach this goal she had stopped grooming herself and increased time, which she spent rolling in substances of various kind. The end result was a lanky adolescent wolf that reeked like a vile swamp-monster and was in a dirty-brownish color. No one at home seemed to care and the girl decided that she was on the right track in becoming invisible and untraceable.

The other activity was long hours spent roaming in the nearby territories. Sometimes she practiced hunting - for the most part she lacked the ellegance and skill-set to be efficient, but her determination to succeed compensated this. And therefore today we found her in the Shadowwyn moors, focused on chasing a hare accross the wet fields, splashing water everywhere and jumping over the fallen logs. And past a dark wolf that was observing the landscape as a self-proclaimed queen of the moorlands.

the girl will be pleased to know that she has succeeded in camouflaging herself. she is naught but part of the dirt to tashkent until she gets close enough that the movement in the mud is not normal; a growl begins in the princess's throat, but soon quiets as she realizes her 'enemy' is a young girl, less than a year, playing. tasha smiles, a low croon of greeting escaping her maw.

goodness, you scared me! she calls out, affecting some fright. you blend right in! she hops down from the hillock and strolls toward the youngster, tail wagging gently behind her. you would make a very good soldier, she commends, giving the girl a stiff nod as her eyes rake over her form. she needs a bath, more like, tasha wryly thinks. the enemy would never see you coming.

what is your name, qız? the barbarian asks, tilting her head in query.

Nunataq could smell the victory for a fraction of second, but a wrong-taken step, trip and a wham and a splash make her fall face first in the moor. When she finally got up and had brushed dirt away from her face and eyes, the hare was long gone, leaving her looking after it longingly.

But she did not have much time for self-pity and remorse, because a dark wolf, who she had not noticed previously, approached her, talking a great deal, most of which Nunataq received with a disinterested and bored expression. And when the speech finally came to an end on an upward-going note, she furrowed her brow a bit, pretending to look for an answer.

Which she did not in reality. With a bored yawn and a meh! she looked away from the lady, sat down began to clean her face from the liquid mud that was dripping from her forehead into her eyes.

tasha's smile turns sickly sweet as the girl turns away with a scoff, beginning to clean herself instead. insolent brat. it is rude not to answer questions asked of you, qız, she remarks coldly, watching the child with gaze frosted over. did your parents not teach you manners?

she settles on her haunches gingerly, a moue of distaste flitting over her face at the feel of the muck. if you do not give me your name, i will give you one myself, tashkent muses, eyes dancing away to stare at their desolate surroundings. wrxïn, perhaps. it suits you fine. a cruel joke, but a funny one. she resists a laugh, waiting for the other to speak.

When will people learn to simply shut up? To stop wasting words and expect others to do the same? After all Nunataq was so tolerant to every fool, who had not yet realized that they were not going to squeeze a single word out of her. And how often it was that seemingly intelligent and interesting people became these bantering idiots, trying hard to convey meaning of their verbal outbursts with overdone gestures and bad acting? It never made sense and caused more confusion.

She sensed the change of tone in the other's voice and paused briefly in her grooming activities, to give a yeah, yeah, bugger off look. Then she turned away again to scratch an itch behind her ear, stood up and shook her coat. Her eyes were still watering from the smaller grains of sand that she had not been able to remove, but otherwise she felt pretty fine now. The stranger now appeared to be very smug about something, which interested Nuna just a tiny bit (in high dilution with who cares), and then turned away, having caught scent of a muskrat and eager to follow it.

"wrxïn it is, then," tasha spits, snorting as the girl turns and pads away. she is wasting her time here. "best of luck with that attitude, dumb child."

with a sweep of her tail, tashkent moves to walk the other direction, curious as to whether the pup will follow. if she had to bet on it, though. . .she'd wager she will be alone when she leaves the muddy lands, having not gotten a word out of the wrxïn.

The stranger says something more and Nuna stops to look over her shoulder and listen. From tone alone it is clear that the lady is both smug and upset at the same time for some reason, which piques the adolescent's interest for a second or two, but then it wanes. She is not the kind of person, who dwells much on "why"s, when it is about other people's attitude or emotional states. In her experience there were two kinds of people - the ones, who went straight to the point, and the others, who wasted her precious time by saying or doing nothing of importance.

It did not take much contemplation as to, where should she place this lady. She shoved her half-filled file in the mental drawer called "Rubbish", and returned to tracking the rodent. Good Lord, at least these guys did not speak.