Imaq panik, they'd called Selkie in another life. The sea's daughter. Her taatax̂ would've chortled to see Sedna's blessed - cursed, a tiny voice interjected in a hiss - flounder in the foreign seas.
These waters could not belong to the sea mother. The seas of Kalaallit Nunaat, her homeland, were deceptively calm pits of tar waiting to suck unsuspecting fools beneath the ice: black, cold, a bottomless void where no wolf dared go. But this was not Kalaallit Nunaat. This southron sea was fierce and angry, grey with the winter that had befallen the land. It tossed and batted the once-mother like she was prey in its paws, twisting and tugging her as if it desired to tear the Angakkoq in two.
It spit her out on the shores of a small isle, where her soaked silhouette remained face down in the sand for some time - the shepherd made to seem ever smaller and frail by the water's weight. When she woke it was with panic plucking at her heart's strings and a cough that brought burning sea salt up her throat.
Retching, Imaq stumbled to her feet as she jolted onto pale paws - like a marionette jerking upon its string to the puppeteer's bemusement. With a shake that rattled her bones, she tried to whisk some of the water from her sodden form. Luckily, she appeared to have marooned upon the archipelago at low tide, in a rare break in the blizzard that swept through the land.
These tidbits remained unknown to her, however. Her mind was a hazy scatter of polaroids, snapshots of memories and recollections pieced together with flimsy tape haphazardly to make a sort of jumbled collage. Vaguely, she remembered the landslide - a sudden rolling sensation beneath her feet, then the booming roar of earth and rock tumbling down the bluffs. Being forced to jump into the waves below, knowing she would surely break herself into a thousand pieces once she smacked the surface of the water.
Her cursed, seagreen gaze swept wildly along the beach as she hacked the last of the moisture from her lungs - amazed, and confused, that she was even alive. Stumbling slightly, shivering with the cold, the shaman instinctively began to trudge east. The piebald's buttery crown hung low with exhaustion but her 'cracked' gaze kept returning to the vast forest looming beyond the bone-colored dunes.
There were cliffs in the distance - broken and beckoning. Imaq hoped there would be caves there. Already she knew this land to be of a more temperate climate, its cold seasons milder than those of Kalaallit Nunaat. The coniferous sentinels shrouding a forest worth's of mystery and intrigue she'd seen were testament enough to that - such a vast forest would not have thrived in the arctic circle she called home.
Later. The trees, so rare but often spoken of at home in stories, will wait.
Even if the land was not so frozen and harsh as her own, winter still claimed it with a crown of hoarfrost. She, as any northerner likely could, smelt the storm in the air. Black clouds hung low in the sky, murderously dark. The halfbreed needed to find somewhere dry to shelter from the winter's wrath and dry her coat, lest she catch her death of the cold.
When her muscles had stopped quivering enough that she could command them, the golden merle shifted into an unsteady lope - her body aching from the plunge she'd made only hours before. She continued along the southern boundaries of what the Nereides had once named Soteria, curving northward towards the havens of the cliffs along the eastern shores she'd seen from afar. She stopped only once, to scavenge on the remains of a bloated seal that had washed ashore. Another victim of this southron sea and its ire.
There the golden maiden found a secluded cove, which broke gently against the soft sandbanks of a small cave. Imaq Tupilak was cautious tiptoeing in, casting gentle greens about the cozy dwelling as her soft auds rose to full attention - piebald nose twitching as she tried to detect any signs of life. Seelie could smell no animals within and there was no sign of occupancy as she crept deeper into the refuge of the cave.
Probing along the far wall at the back revealed a smaller niche in the stone, a connected room of sorts. It was dimly lit but snug and protective. A trickling sound drew the medicine woman's attention, neptune glinting as her optics flashed to the pool of water in the corner of the space.
Her fluffy paws wisked against the stone floor almost inaudibly as she pattered closer, sniffing at the liquid curiousy with a splotchy nose. Risking a small sip, she dipped her patched tongue in and then, upon realizing it was freshwater, lapped deeply.
Her thirst quenched, the buttercream shepherd settled in the furthest corner of the sanctuary. She lowered herself to the floor, wrapping about herself almost protectively and took to grooming her damp, fleece coat of strawspun.
When the storm picked back up she would be tucked away safely, dozing tiredly and resting her battered body.
These waters could not belong to the sea mother. The seas of Kalaallit Nunaat, her homeland, were deceptively calm pits of tar waiting to suck unsuspecting fools beneath the ice: black, cold, a bottomless void where no wolf dared go. But this was not Kalaallit Nunaat. This southron sea was fierce and angry, grey with the winter that had befallen the land. It tossed and batted the once-mother like she was prey in its paws, twisting and tugging her as if it desired to tear the Angakkoq in two.
It spit her out on the shores of a small isle, where her soaked silhouette remained face down in the sand for some time - the shepherd made to seem ever smaller and frail by the water's weight. When she woke it was with panic plucking at her heart's strings and a cough that brought burning sea salt up her throat.
Retching, Imaq stumbled to her feet as she jolted onto pale paws - like a marionette jerking upon its string to the puppeteer's bemusement. With a shake that rattled her bones, she tried to whisk some of the water from her sodden form. Luckily, she appeared to have marooned upon the archipelago at low tide, in a rare break in the blizzard that swept through the land.
These tidbits remained unknown to her, however. Her mind was a hazy scatter of polaroids, snapshots of memories and recollections pieced together with flimsy tape haphazardly to make a sort of jumbled collage. Vaguely, she remembered the landslide - a sudden rolling sensation beneath her feet, then the booming roar of earth and rock tumbling down the bluffs. Being forced to jump into the waves below, knowing she would surely break herself into a thousand pieces once she smacked the surface of the water.
Her cursed, seagreen gaze swept wildly along the beach as she hacked the last of the moisture from her lungs - amazed, and confused, that she was even alive. Stumbling slightly, shivering with the cold, the shaman instinctively began to trudge east. The piebald's buttery crown hung low with exhaustion but her 'cracked' gaze kept returning to the vast forest looming beyond the bone-colored dunes.
There were cliffs in the distance - broken and beckoning. Imaq hoped there would be caves there. Already she knew this land to be of a more temperate climate, its cold seasons milder than those of Kalaallit Nunaat. The coniferous sentinels shrouding a forest worth's of mystery and intrigue she'd seen were testament enough to that - such a vast forest would not have thrived in the arctic circle she called home.
Later. The trees, so rare but often spoken of at home in stories, will wait.
Even if the land was not so frozen and harsh as her own, winter still claimed it with a crown of hoarfrost. She, as any northerner likely could, smelt the storm in the air. Black clouds hung low in the sky, murderously dark. The halfbreed needed to find somewhere dry to shelter from the winter's wrath and dry her coat, lest she catch her death of the cold.
When her muscles had stopped quivering enough that she could command them, the golden merle shifted into an unsteady lope - her body aching from the plunge she'd made only hours before. She continued along the southern boundaries of what the Nereides had once named Soteria, curving northward towards the havens of the cliffs along the eastern shores she'd seen from afar. She stopped only once, to scavenge on the remains of a bloated seal that had washed ashore. Another victim of this southron sea and its ire.
There the golden maiden found a secluded cove, which broke gently against the soft sandbanks of a small cave. Imaq Tupilak was cautious tiptoeing in, casting gentle greens about the cozy dwelling as her soft auds rose to full attention - piebald nose twitching as she tried to detect any signs of life. Seelie could smell no animals within and there was no sign of occupancy as she crept deeper into the refuge of the cave.
Probing along the far wall at the back revealed a smaller niche in the stone, a connected room of sorts. It was dimly lit but snug and protective. A trickling sound drew the medicine woman's attention, neptune glinting as her optics flashed to the pool of water in the corner of the space.
Her fluffy paws wisked against the stone floor almost inaudibly as she pattered closer, sniffing at the liquid curiousy with a splotchy nose. Risking a small sip, she dipped her patched tongue in and then, upon realizing it was freshwater, lapped deeply.
Her thirst quenched, the buttercream shepherd settled in the furthest corner of the sanctuary. She lowered herself to the floor, wrapping about herself almost protectively and took to grooming her damp, fleece coat of strawspun.
When the storm picked back up she would be tucked away safely, dozing tiredly and resting her battered body.
"...and all around was the bitter arctic cold and the immense silence of the North..."
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