From the courtesans of dragon blood tree’s and phosphoresce, granite stone creations, came an overgrown glade, weathered by the tests of time and a hitherto far more primitive. Soya, lichen and lemongrass tones dyed what was left of the threadbare and bedrock foundations, contriving ruinated paths that held no true destination. Albeit, wildflowers, botany and herbs alike grew in rich plethora, encroaching the land in a brew of lavish sages, olivine mosses and spring-bud greens.

Cracks ran thick, thin, obliterated and abandoned, where vines plagued with stricture.

The mountains, even, were blighted in a sheet of periglacial clouds, passioned by a celestial whisper and autumn’s boreal, crisp embrace. You see, Lebraid had one goal; knowledge was formidably power, and if she were to conquer, understanding this foreign world was a must, an advantage far more nefarious than those who chose ferity without calculation, be it a case of damfool naivety or simple dull-wittedness. She, of course, would never plunder to such a frail, lowly level, even at death. A raw, cacodemonic rumble surged past Lebraid wet, cimmerian jowls –– stout paws trampled the drab, khaki pastures as she paced overtop, crown sunken and eyes nocuous. She poised a macabre demeanour, hairs licking the rim of her spine like a gluttonous inferno, intent with opportunity, supremacy and a means to get exactly what she wanted, one way or another. To rise, there must first be an absolute premise.

Text | "Speech" | Skill 

code by Cloudy

Bellamy had proved elusive. Just when Alexander suspected he was on the trail of his mother it had disappeared again, leaving the male frustrated and hurt. Bitterness had begun to stir in his heart, directed at the Raiders, even if it wasn’t all deserved according to his mother. But had things not escalated, had his mother not wavered due to those bastards, then she’d still be here with them. Bellamy had broken, a shadow of her former self. It started first with the death of his father, and grew further with the Raider’s ire with Haydee and the pack. In the end, Bellamy had felt the bulk of the blame still remained with her, as the pack’s founder, as a leader who had not shown Haydee the right way to lead. She blamed herself for everything… and he feared the next time he might see her, it would be as a corpse, just as the last time he’d seen his father. His white tipped, cream tail lashed in frustration, head dropped lower between his shoulders as he stalked forward with ears flicked back. His body language spoke of his sour mood and his eyes reflected it. He was angry, and he didn’t care if it was right or wrong to blame the Raiders. They certainly weren’t as blameless as they liked to make themselves seem. And if they were able to be assholes, they why couldn’t Ethne, or Polaris, or whatever the fuck the pack decided to call themselves? Sorry, asshole role was taken? He shook his head with a grunt. Fuck it all… he didn’t want to try and play nice with them anymore. He wanted them to fuck off, and if they decided to continue to be confrontational every time they saw one of their wolves, then Alexander would happily return that energy. Out of respect for Hay he wouldn’t approach first, but given the opportunity he wouldn’t lie and say he wouldn’t go for them just for talking shit. A feminine scent invades his nose and green gaze flicks up towards a woman his age. She reminds him of a feline, edgy, sharp, with an aura that wasn’t exactly inviting. Alexander exhales and returns his gaze to the land in front of him. Angry and bitter as he is, there is still that part of him that doesn’t want to lash out at others, if he can help it. But he teeters so close to the edge, the fur on his body prickling, almost like something is crawling under his skin, that even a single word felt like it could make him snap. "Speech," 'Thought.'

table coding by bunni ♥

 

 

Even beneath the harvest’s sun, atlantis-green and pistachio miscellany bore no rimy armour, nor did it wane into frailty, atleast not yet. Soon, perhaps, it would be held captive under winter’s grasp, brazen in linen of chalky, diaphanous snowflakes —— mere presumptions, howbeit —— that’s all it ever was, and most of the time, she wasn’t far from wrong.

It’s served her well for many years, and having been reborn thrice, one learns a thing or two. Memories, however, did not; they were overcast, a daze, a chimera that breathed in the dark with no true path or premonition. You see, all that remained ardent was the vague reminiscence of her offspring -- where, pray tell, had they gone? A glister of dubiety, spritzed with corralled trauma and unpredictable tendencies, polluted Lebraid’s boreal, stony glare, therein falling upon that of a carob, charcoal and off-white dire, a boy. She did not care if their ages were similar or naught, mossbed jacket pulling tautly at the bitterness billowing from their own pale, limestone gaze. And whom might she owe this great displeasure? There was null emotion, distilled in the pits of hell as she bludgeoned them far below it, “What?” She’d bark, tones threaped in lees of glass and ghostly animus, inveilging them to speak, rather than stare like a dahm fool.

She’d sooner expunge it from their face, if that be the case.

Text | "Speech" | Skill   

code by Cloudy