per ardua ad astra
Solo Nav Seasonal - Autumn Year 16
No fire tonight, just the quiet ambiance of the swamp and the gentle breeze stirring the leaves of his maple overhead. Draped in a thin fur, he'd settled himself in the clearing just outside of the overhanging canopy of his maple tree, so he could look at the sky. Laying on his back upon the soft leaf litter, verdant green eyes reflected the twinkling cosmos overhead. The sun had set hours ago, and a chill was creeping into his bones when he had opted to grab his only fur. Tucking his forepaws to his chest and folding them loosely over one another, he let out a soft sigh. Bug was buried in the mud of his puddle by the tree's roots, waiting for the warmth of the day to wake him again. It was just the swamp wolf and the sky right now, cloudless and impossibly dark. He stretched his hind limbs straight out, toes flexing as he relaxed into the comfy bedding beneath himself. The moon was creeping into view, its pale light beginning to tint the leaves of the trees on the other edge of the clearing, but not yet tainting his view of the stars with its glow. It would be full soon, and one of the elders would probably call for a Gathering before the winter set in. If it was going to be anything like the last one, they might need to reach out to the local packs for aid before the winter was over. If the plants died, or the waters managed to actually freeze over for longer than a few hours, they would be in danger. A flare of panic rose in his chest, and he forced himself to abandon that train of thought. The elders would decide if they needed to band together in earnest, all he could do was wait for their word and do his best to survive for now. Tracing the path of the twinkling stars overhead, the green dappled yearling couldn't help but be drawn into the simple elegance of the scattered lights way above. He remembered the stories his mother Blossom had taught him about the stars, and the way they acted as guides in so many ways. They could be used to chart paths while travelling, or mark the passage of time. Recalling the nights of his earliest months, when Blossom had sat near the mouth of the whelping den with he and his siblings, he could practically hear her soft voice in his ear. Explaining the patterns that could be traced in the stars, and how those patterns moved over time, travelling to grace different skies and reappearing at the same time the following year. Based on what shapes and patterns were overhead at night, one could determine how long it would be until winter arrived, or when spring might thaw the earth once more. He recognized the scattered stars that peeked out through the gap in the canopies above, his mother had called them constellations, and if he was remembering correctly this one was called Och Onawan Wore Fan Ochlore 'ore me Tah in Fennish, which loosely translated to Bird That Hunts For Fish in the Sea. The top half of the constellation could be connected to resemble a bird, and beneath it the gentle curve of a half dozen stars settled closer together in the sky looked like a fish leaping from the surf. It usually vanished from the sky by mid-winter, when many of the larger sea birds went south in search of better hunting. The beak of the celestial sea bird always pointed to the north star, and so even if cloud cover somehow blocked out the brightest star in the sky, he could chart his paths by the direction of that constellation at this time of year. He shifted a bit, canting his head so he could peer up and to the left of Och Onawan Wore Fan Ochlore 'ore me Tah in search of its neighbour. This one was linked to a strange tale that he had loved to force his mother to tell as a bedtime story- Mifra Lorwanochworeshay which translated in the common tongue to Flees Retribution. A constellation with a triangular shape and three short offshoots, which connected to resemble a frog in mid-leap. The tale was that of a greedy toad who had devoured the eggs of an old mother eagle who's mate had died, and thus stolen the memory of her mate that might have lived on in those chicks. When the old mother eagle had returned to her nest, she found the greedy toad among the shattered remains of shells and vowed to kill him. Blossom had recounted the tale of the toad's harrowing escape from the eagle with such emotion that the children always wriggled and yipped, thoroughly put off from bedtime by the excitement. In the end, the eagle caught the frog and cut open his belly, from which her chicks were born. It was believed by some that the chicks were able to be born from the carcass of the toad by the magic of the Great Tree of that swamp sensing the mother's anguish and granting life to her offspring- and they may have burst from the toad's body even if the mother eagle had not caught him. Young Bog had been delighted by the mental image of those gross hatchlings, slick with blood and viscera, pecking their way out of the greedy toad while he cried for help. Perhaps it was that gory footnote that had led him to develop a fondness for collecting and preserving dead things, but there was no saying for certain. (WORD COUNT: 953) Jaws stretching in a sudden, powerful yawn, the mud hued healer found his eyes slowly falling shut. The stars would still be there tomorrow night, it seemed to be bedtime now. Picking himself up with the laboriousness and effort of a wolf ten times his age, he shook the leaves from his fur and picked up the fur in his teeth. Weary and half asleep already, the yearling stumbled his way towards the mouth of his den and plodded inside. Within the safety of the roots, darkness enveloped him and only made him heavier on his paws. Navigating by muscle memory, eyes fully shut, Bog felt the soft edges of his moss lined bed. Dug into the loamy soil several inches deep, and lined with scraps of fur, moss, and feathers, the bed was soft as a cloud. However, a larger wolf would never dream of fitting into it, and thus he was safe from having to fight off any thieves of his sleeping spot. He collapsed into the padded depression, and flung the fur haphazardly over his small form. With a sigh, Bog dropped off into sleep with the speed of a rock sinking to the bottom of a lake. He was dead to the world within seconds. (FINAL WORD COUNT: 1162) |