Graceful Rooms of Alabaster Stone
08-23-2013, 02:34 PM
The land was quiet now. Well, it had always been quiet -the snow saw to that, but Cross remembered a time when the night was dawn was alive with the howls of wolves and the thunderous stamp of a thousand head of elk. In summer when the thaw came, the eagles would screech in the skies and the fish would flow in the streams and lake. Every whisper of wind would bear the scents of ice and pine and family. "Hasn't really changed," the youth murmured to himself as he stood there in the splender of the far northern summer. He was an alabaster island amidst the sea of grey-green tundra grasses and mossy rocks. A passerby would find it hard to guess that he was only a year. Judging by, not only his size, but his sober eyes and collected voice, one would've thought him an adult. Maybe he was in some ways. Cross had grown up fast after the things that he had seen.
His massive chest swelled with the crisp, spicy air. Black claws kneaded at the earth. He was torn between running off through the tundra - perhaps to swim in the lake or charge some stray herd of caribou - but no. He had seen enough of his abilities lately. To be honest, a part of it scared him - the things he could do; like ripping out a deer's throat at a full run? Or swimming across an ocean channel? Not to mention finding himself beyond the combative level of just about every wolf he came across. What sort of yearling could do those things? For so long he had been silently afraid of the world and all the grim dangers he knew it to hold. He'd been terrified but stalwart, petrified but uncomplaining - he didn't think that made him brave.
He wasn't fearless like his ancestors. He'd felt his knees seize up and his jaw tremble. He was a coward. But he was a coward who was still willing to do what had to be done. And more and more often he was finding that that was enough to keep him alive in this crazy world. At least so far.
08-23-2013, 03:54 PM
Cross slowly became aware of the fact that he was not alone. And though the fact that it had happened slowly told him he was not under immeidate attack, the warrior blood within him could not contain the slight lowering of his head and raising of his shoulders. The other male off to the side and slightly behind him, but Cross's ears were now dialed in on the slightest of movements; he didn't have to turn around.
In his travels -which were many despite his age, he'd met plenty of wolves, and against his first suspicions, most had been decent souls. He'd even been helped out by a few. But it only took one predator to slaughter the flock. Cross was painfully aware of what the violence inside a single loose soul could do, and though he had already surrendered himself to die blood one day, he did not intend for it to be this day.
Eventually, a sedate, simply toned voice was heard upon the cold winds. "Do you stand because you await a prime moment to attack? Or are you simply another observing wanderer who prefers the silence?" The white youth remained as still as stone, seeming to be perfectly content and prepared for either option. He still didn't bother turning around. His face was pointed towards the forest of pines and the mountain range far beyond. He'd been born in the roots of those vast towers of stone, but that was quite literally a lifetime ago. Back before he had found out what it was to witness death and gore. The effects had been astronomical upon his insides, but his silence on the outside had ensured that none knew just how heavy was his burden. It wasn't so much that he now detested the art of combat; no- he himself was a born warrior and always would be, and perhaps it was his curse to find security and purpose in the violence and bloodshed that he so detested. If the stranger was looking for a fight, then he would receive one, but Cross would much rather be left in peace