the art of belonging

This land was... strange. Ardora didn't like it one bit; she didn't belong here. The biting, cold spray of the ocean did nothing but affirm that fact, and Ardora shivered as it bit to the bone. "Damn them," she muttered suddenly, fire flashing in her eyes as she stared balefully across the water. Damn them all to the icy touch of Svelmina, she added bitterly in her mind. If only they hadn't come; then she wouldn't be in this forsaken land with none of her people around her. Thinking about it, regretting it, wouldn't help anything, though. Those days were gone. Her people were... gone. She, the queen, the Seraphine; she was all that was left along with a few straggling members who she lost track of.

Ardora sighed again. She couldn't even do the release ritual, so their spirits could be at rest with Uldormün. That more than anything she wished she could change, but to stay would have been death - and her tribe had sacrificed many of their own to ensure her survival. So the Seraphine had fled, with mothers and children in tow... until she got separated. Ardora herself finally fled to this land, and she could only hope that in the mad dash to safety that her tribe had also made it here safely.

Turning away from the ocean, and thus from the thoughts of home that plagued her mind,  she walked carefully along the beach, which was a peculiar shade of black. This was something new to her; she had never seen such a thing. She knew the lore and the stories, of course, but to see it with one's eyes was an entirely new experience to the young queen. It was striking, truly, even more so than it would be otherwise. She could recall her lore lessons; not once did they mention a beach of black sand - always the sand was cream, or a crystalline white. Not this shimmering black that reflected the light of the fire in her fur.

Wait - she knew this sort of reflection; she recognized the sparkling light that her fire caused. Was this... was this obsidian? Formed in the heart of the volcano, it was precious to her and her people; it qas quite rare and there were only a few pieces of it, mostly handed down. Back in her den at home, she had several large pieces, and in fact had a necklace with a particularly perfect piece in it. It was all left behind when they fled, and Ardora barely paid a thought to it, though it had great significance at any other point in time.

She lowered herself to the ground, listening to the soft crunch and crinkle of the stones as she did so. She scooped a pile with her paw, before placing said paw firmly on top. The light from her paw, a soft, orange and yellow light, illuminated the black stone. Every tilt and twist her paw made caused the light to fracture in numerous ways, creating a dancing firestorm in the small confines of the little bowl she created. Yes, this is obsidian, alright. There's no way it couldn't not be the precious stone, with how familiarly her light shimmered in it.

She certainly hadn't expected to find something of her home here in this cold, wet land... though truthfully, it was not nearly so cold as the snow season was home. Of course, that was when Svelmina cursed the lands, bringing upon it her rage and fury, and thus coating it in white. There her Tribe went underground to the hot springs and where the steam would warm them, and only a few would venture out for prey and meals.

It brought a smile to her face, the memories; perhaps this place wasn't too bad. Already, Uldormün was delivering omens and signs. Maybe, just maybe, this land was not forsaken as she had thought - perhaps Uldormün had laid his blessing on it, too. It certainly seemed so, with this bed of obsidian that she laid on. After all, what else could it be? Ardora was not stupid; she knew a sign when she saw one, and it made her sigh a quiet sigh of relief in knowing that her god was still watching.

"Speech" "You"