mother says (p)
Feb 19, 2015 23:14:21 GMT -5
Post by spook on Feb 19, 2015 23:14:21 GMT -5
WINTER CAME WITH ANGER
AND A BITTER TASTE OF FATE
AND A BITTER TASTE OF FATE
Salome fell more than jumped into the courtyard from her perch atop one of the ancient stones forming the entryway to the fortress. She hit the ground clumsily and regained her balance only after a certain amount of fumbling; she glanced hurriedly about to make sure no one had seen her stumble, although she was perfectly aware of her utmost solitude here. No soul had disturbed her on her journey down the mountain and to the fortress Morrigan had described—she’d quickly reconnoitered her surroundings once she’d breached the outer walls of the fortress, as well. There were, she supposed, minimal uses for a crumbling fortress.
But her mother had woken in a foul mood this morning with a fresh, obviously not self-inflicted set of punctures on the side of her face. And when Morrigan awoke in a foul mood and sharply adjured Salome to complete some menial task—Salome completed said menial task. She’d practically been raised alongside the decaying remains of her two siblings—an experience like that taught a girl to do as she was instructed. The air in the mountains had carried a significant chill this morning, boding of precipitation later in the day, but in the lower climes the sun was almost warm.
The merled girl took a moment of leisure to stretch, allowing the sun to warm her back as she conducted a cursory search of the courtyard. She was looking for—a spindly plant, Morrigan had described, but she’d also mentioned that of course it would be dead. What Morrigan wanted were the unsowed seed pods of the spindly plant in question, and Salome began to drift around the courtyard, thrusting her face into the skeletal remains of the plants that would ordinarily have flourished in the garden. Failing to catch sight of any pear-shaped white pods, Salome sneezed hard into a cluster of foliage, withdrawing her face with a wry look.
In the next instant she whirled about, standing taut facing the way she had come, her tail stiff and high over her back. A snarl touched her lips—now she smelled the other dog. Previously her nose had been too surfeited with the odors of deceased vegetation to notice it.
“Come out,” she snarled, instantly belligerent.
ooc. for Bird is the word
WINTER CAME WITH FEAR
FOR THE THINGS WE COULD NOT ESCAPE
FOR THE THINGS WE COULD NOT ESCAPE