Familiar as a Stranger
Step after step - little indents in the snow.
A spattering trail painted over with the wisps and drags of tail that wouldn't stay still. The lazy wag back and forth betrayed the interest of the traveling wolf - that and the fae - that and pricked ears tilted forward so far that snowflakes came to rest on their backs. She paused just once, this stranger, to heave a hot breath across the land - watching it swirl and ghost visibly before her eyes. It twisted in the air; an invitation that couldn't be denied. The she-wolf managed to contain herself for exactly six seconds more, before lounging forward - bolting after the vapors, twisting and leaping - hitching up first her hind end then her fore, bounding across snowdrifts and barren stretches. She twirled like the fae she was in more ways than one. Fangs, white despite age, even snapped out at the puffs of breath that followed. The once clear sheen of snow was churned again and again and again - like a herd of deer might have passed with less sign.
Erratic as her movements were, there was a grace, a dance to them. And they ended with a seat in a fluffed up heap, as sudden as it was soft. Orica breathed deep, closing her blue eyes to the frozen world, drinking in the scents of snow and ice and stone that never failed to remind her of home and hearth and childhood. Blessed were those days. Days of danger and love, of sages and saints and sinners all rolled together in the struggle of one pack. Of one family. Dear gods above how the time had passed. She had a family of her own now. Beautiful pups that had grown into beautiful adults. Dear Yona had agreed to follow her into these new lands - and no doubt she'd be along when her journeys allowed. In the mean time Orica kept moving.
Well... except when she had to dance.
Her heart trilled happy and light in her pale breast. Her frame heaved and shook with excitement, but there, below the cliffs striped with such beautiful golds and silvers and whites, she sat for a time. She made those paws - still so pup-like and ready to run - hold themselves still for a time. Everything about this land was somehow familiar and yet so strange. In her time with the nomad pack that had taken her in, Orica had learned to call any land home; learned that all that makes the difference between a den and a hole in the ground is the heart you bring into it. But this? This northern air awoke something in her. Something akin to a happy sort of homesickness. She had to be close. She'd come so far. |
Orica resisted the temptation to lick the flakes off her nose - knowing that doing such would risk a chapped muzzle and cracked nose, - and wow wasn't it strange to be careful of such things again. All the little ticks and quirks of northern weather that had all been her default growing up. She made a sort of trilling sound to herself, letting her head sink into the fluff and cushion of her own neck fur. A sound of pure pleasure and bliss. Eyes like frozen pools gazed up at the stripes on the walls until she could almost begin to see them move - see them shimmer and dance and run like real rivers. Her eyes glazed as she stared. She had a premonition of something. Some sixth sense that she'd always had - alerting to her things beyond any knowledge she ought to have. It had been something she'd nurtured and worked with, since it was discovered for her by a strange wolf from distant lands who had called himself only "the shaman". He'd helped her hone this-this gift, teaching her to sense its coming and just be still. Just listen. Just watch.
And she watched the rivulets of gold and silver - grey and white all fold together and over one another. They seemed to churn like waves - or like legs. Strange markings on a pale white wolf. Gold in the eyes. Gold in the heart. Streaks of dusk over the countures of stone fur.
A sound from behind her, had Orica blinking back to herself. The crunch of snow from a paw that was not her own. She turned and looked about - to see what appeared to be a flame, in the form of a young wolf, making its way towards her. This could not be more of her Sight, could it? No. If she questioned it, then it was the waking world. Orica stood, and gave a lazy wag of the tail. "Hail, traveler," the old fae called, in a voice still sweet and high, despite the count of years levied upon it. "Where away do your paws take you?" She was a wolf more than experienced in new faces and new places. No sheltered pack wolf, she. She could converse with a cat twice her size. Or greet a warlord as a common rogue. In fact, in her time, she'd done both. Her ease was a natural, unassuming one, and her interest in a strange, fellow wolf was genuine. If she didn't like her kind, she wouldn't have been a healer - as the strange hide knapsack that slung over her shoulder testified. The scent of herbs rose up from it - a strange sensation in this world of snow. |