Post by Destra on Oct 1, 2013 22:09:58 GMT -6
Who stole the Soul from the Sun…
This world is something of a paradox. The people in it fail to appreciate one another and those who have the capacity and want to appreciate others are often the outcasts. The same thing has arisen in the wolves of Vox Populi. Destra wasn't a part of any of the packs, but their politics still affected her. Since she had met that Aivlyn fellow her life had become even more secluded. The wolves guarded their borders as though the ghosts of the fallen were on the look out to steal their souls. Even the prey had sensed the tension and fled from the fields.
Where once lush grasslands, soft as feathers, had graced Destra's small black paws, now only dry straw prickled her pads and where the rabbits and bounded from their burrows to her jaws, only dust flicked across the horizon. Her stomach growled, her mind begged for food, the female hadn't eaten for a good three days. She didn't know whether she would really be able to scrape by this winter and fall hadn't even set it. It was an interesting life of a loner, your perspective is always in the present, but also the distant future, both at the same time. There was never any thought given to tomorrow or next week, but always to months away, to the next season. What mattered before does not matter now and what is pertinent now will not matter tomorrow but will arise in a month.
With a hollow sigh, the world snapped back into the view of the always important present and away from the view of the birds. Destra's tongue lapped over her muzzle, parched and aching for water once again. The heat had begun to take it out of her and her exhaustion was starting to show with trembling forelegs. With her ears flicked back and her head low, legs liquid and tongue lolled out with a steady pant, the black ghost traveled along the horizon again, haunting the pastures of the wild lands of Vox Populi. Water was a necessity, no longer a simple choice. If she wanted to survive she had to get the stream along the lines of Lingua Veritatis. To not be seen though, was the challenge.
…In a world come undone at the Seams?
