Post by Crystal M. V. Rosepaw on Mar 10, 2009 22:21:03 GMT -5
War Commander...
The weight of the title rested heavily on her shoulders, threatening to break her. She had seen how fell Darter had borne it, graceful and tactful, his calm smile and strong sword arm reassuring; maybe the only reason she held any grasp to sanity at that tender point in her life. And then, Finnerator. (Or something like that, she dared not speak the name for fear of saying it wrong.) The second leader had been an otter, whom had fearlessly commanded ragtag troops in time of battle. A battle in which she had played her deadly part, but battle still. And then Rinafera Woxwitty. The, ah, third. His reign, even if he was absent, currently, was still active. She refused to beleive he'd not come back to them.
War Commander. Leader of the entire fort and ship, of everything belonging to the Guardians. She nearly trembled. Could she hold this power until Rinafera returned and took it back? Panic swelled up within her, another drowning, smothering emotion. But her green eyes were dead, void of any at all. She would not, could not, let her fears be known. She had rescently given up her journal in paranoid fear that it would let others know her to well.
Internal and external climates clashed, one holding the other in a choking grip, the other twisting the knife in the other's stomach. The day was the first good spring-like day that beamed down gracefully on the Guardian's fortress. The night before it had rained, but some beast walking the stars had erased the clouds with heaven-crafted hands, and picked the fairest of blues for the atmosphere, and the purest whites for the staining clouds. The sun was tilted just a bit to the west, perhaps half after high noon. All trace of any remaining raindrops was gone, leaving only the sweet smell of a good rainfall. It was a tad bit humid, and just cold enough to forbid any sane creature from wearing shorts outdoors.
Inside of her, the climate was different. In fact, there was no climate. Her insides painted a reeking image of an abandoned home. Cobwebs and dark shadows of spiders gathered in corners, where the small, whimpering cries of wounded thoughts lay to die. The entire place smelled like blood and carrion, and the wind howled through broken stones and boards of it's structure. Wooden stairs missed boards, and the remaining ones were worn, proving that the place at once been a happy home, and each thought raising or descending them made them creak and moan with the want for the happiness to return. Somewhere in the house was locked away the little child that she had once been, bright eyes now forever fearful, passing mirrors and seeing only the wretched creature she would become, seeing the shadowed demon inside of her become real and fleshed. Fear and panic and anger were written in words of blood on the walls.
But she did not let it show, for nobody but herself could obtain her nightmares.
Crystal McFox Vallian Rosepaw stood stiff in the main hall of her splendid home. The cobwebs in reality had been brushed away, the place still lonely, but lively again in the daylight. The tools used for repair now sat 'just in case' rather than being used daily. She stood on the stage, a broom in her paws. She slowly moved it back and forth, the dull swish-swish of it lost. She laid it down, blinking her emerald orbs and wandering outside, into the sunshine she longed would turn her heart to normal rather than a grave.
In the sun, she looked pleasant enough. Her fur was dirted in a few places, unable to be kept clean due to it being white. Her hair, down to her waist again now, was tied back by a set of ancient cream bandages, looking as though they had been washed. She rolled down long blue sleeves that nearly covered her undersized paws, their black pads tough and scarred. Her limp, due to her bad right leg, was hardly noticeable; she even walked on tip-toe, making her strides long and lanky. Her dress swished at the heels of her black boots, and the dull thump of her broadsword on her unwounded side was comforting. The lavender sash about her thin, emaciated-like waist was also containing her kama, out of simple habit. She had, for the first in a long time, discarded her cloak. The head warrior stepped out into a beam of sunlight, admiring the way light bent off her fur.
War Commander Rosepaw. Oh, dear.
ooc; You obviously don't HAVE to post, but it'd be nice. Your character'd be more 'in the loop' so to speak, I suppose. At this point, it in not sure in character that Rinafera is not returning. Crystal and Shard just think they are standing in until he comes back from a visit to Salmandraston.
The weight of the title rested heavily on her shoulders, threatening to break her. She had seen how fell Darter had borne it, graceful and tactful, his calm smile and strong sword arm reassuring; maybe the only reason she held any grasp to sanity at that tender point in her life. And then, Finnerator. (Or something like that, she dared not speak the name for fear of saying it wrong.) The second leader had been an otter, whom had fearlessly commanded ragtag troops in time of battle. A battle in which she had played her deadly part, but battle still. And then Rinafera Woxwitty. The, ah, third. His reign, even if he was absent, currently, was still active. She refused to beleive he'd not come back to them.
War Commander. Leader of the entire fort and ship, of everything belonging to the Guardians. She nearly trembled. Could she hold this power until Rinafera returned and took it back? Panic swelled up within her, another drowning, smothering emotion. But her green eyes were dead, void of any at all. She would not, could not, let her fears be known. She had rescently given up her journal in paranoid fear that it would let others know her to well.
Internal and external climates clashed, one holding the other in a choking grip, the other twisting the knife in the other's stomach. The day was the first good spring-like day that beamed down gracefully on the Guardian's fortress. The night before it had rained, but some beast walking the stars had erased the clouds with heaven-crafted hands, and picked the fairest of blues for the atmosphere, and the purest whites for the staining clouds. The sun was tilted just a bit to the west, perhaps half after high noon. All trace of any remaining raindrops was gone, leaving only the sweet smell of a good rainfall. It was a tad bit humid, and just cold enough to forbid any sane creature from wearing shorts outdoors.
Inside of her, the climate was different. In fact, there was no climate. Her insides painted a reeking image of an abandoned home. Cobwebs and dark shadows of spiders gathered in corners, where the small, whimpering cries of wounded thoughts lay to die. The entire place smelled like blood and carrion, and the wind howled through broken stones and boards of it's structure. Wooden stairs missed boards, and the remaining ones were worn, proving that the place at once been a happy home, and each thought raising or descending them made them creak and moan with the want for the happiness to return. Somewhere in the house was locked away the little child that she had once been, bright eyes now forever fearful, passing mirrors and seeing only the wretched creature she would become, seeing the shadowed demon inside of her become real and fleshed. Fear and panic and anger were written in words of blood on the walls.
But she did not let it show, for nobody but herself could obtain her nightmares.
Crystal McFox Vallian Rosepaw stood stiff in the main hall of her splendid home. The cobwebs in reality had been brushed away, the place still lonely, but lively again in the daylight. The tools used for repair now sat 'just in case' rather than being used daily. She stood on the stage, a broom in her paws. She slowly moved it back and forth, the dull swish-swish of it lost. She laid it down, blinking her emerald orbs and wandering outside, into the sunshine she longed would turn her heart to normal rather than a grave.
In the sun, she looked pleasant enough. Her fur was dirted in a few places, unable to be kept clean due to it being white. Her hair, down to her waist again now, was tied back by a set of ancient cream bandages, looking as though they had been washed. She rolled down long blue sleeves that nearly covered her undersized paws, their black pads tough and scarred. Her limp, due to her bad right leg, was hardly noticeable; she even walked on tip-toe, making her strides long and lanky. Her dress swished at the heels of her black boots, and the dull thump of her broadsword on her unwounded side was comforting. The lavender sash about her thin, emaciated-like waist was also containing her kama, out of simple habit. She had, for the first in a long time, discarded her cloak. The head warrior stepped out into a beam of sunlight, admiring the way light bent off her fur.
War Commander Rosepaw. Oh, dear.
ooc; You obviously don't HAVE to post, but it'd be nice. Your character'd be more 'in the loop' so to speak, I suppose. At this point, it in not sure in character that Rinafera is not returning. Crystal and Shard just think they are standing in until he comes back from a visit to Salmandraston.
