Is the noise fading?

*Django* · (This post was last modified: 04-16-2016, 12:52 PM by Evelyn.)

Jutting trees rise from the ground like the claws of a beast from tales of old. They hook in broken stumps and linger as a threat of the inevitability of death. A lone wolf plunders through the area, belly low, and powerful claws grappling the earth below them. Their jaded gaze is set heavy within the skull and yet a swooping expanse is analyzed without fault. Spotty rain falls upon bone dry skeletons while the trees stand as testimony to the cruelty of time. Their white trunks are stark in contrast to a figure of dark coal, a black mantelpiece upon a sea of white. It is quiet here. The erratic pattern of the rain, however, interrupts whatever godly silence the land had been afforded. She paces inconsistently–expeditiously, with disrespect to the mud that squelches beneath expansive paws. This location, that was foretold to be endowed with mystic glimpses of past and perhaps future, brought Django nothing. It is quite simply, the emptiness that resonates, causing a serrated grin to turn to criminal. Upon the horizon stands a lone figure, lost in their aimlessness, with pallid face to match her surrounding. As one comes closer, it is a feeling of anxiety that metastasizes about her, implicit in the pack wolf's face. Django is outwardly repulsed, well aware of the dangers that accompany one of clan mentality. The black wolf was neither of the blood not the order, and so she has reason to expect malfeasance. But this does not harbor the nymph; one who is eager for interaction. Her confidence is undaunted as the distance is closed with each loping and bountiful stride, and the same sawtooth grin is presented. "Does she always carry herself in such depressive episodes?" Come the shrill words of a wolf all too aware of her own curiosity.

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