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smoking gun. open.
Posted 09-07-2017, 06:01 PM | This post was last modified: 09-07-2017, 07:15 PM by Verona
Rebel Healer
Female, 2.75
33 in, 115 lbs
0 ep
© tam

Posted 09-07-2017, 07:16 PM | This post was last modified: 09-07-2017, 07:48 PM by Verona
Rebel Healer
Female, 2.75
33 in, 115 lbs
0 ep
© tam

i found peace in your violence, this part of the world still tastes like ash. the stench of sulphur is still strong enough to needle and sting at vulnerable eyes and nostrils, but the desolation of the recent eruption as rendered this place quiet and peaceful in its one way and she needs that quiet; she needs solace. the setting sun paints the smoking summit and gas clouds in a dazzling palette of vibrant oranges and brilliant rose. head cocked to one side and eyes pinned on the horizon just beyond the volcano, verona can't help but find herself lost in the colors as they blend into one another, spreading technicolor fingers deeper into the coming dark. nigh edges the sunset in dark violets, pinprick stars studding this newest incarnation of night like lost and forgotten diamonds; a whole trove of riches left behind by the divine. the brilliance of the sun fades and the night bleeds into the light, chasing the last remnants of the sun's masterpiece from the horizon. dark descends in a sheet of dim lighting, the haze obscuring the tallest point of the volcano and claiming the ridgewoman to the shadows. she wears the dark loosely as she wanders through it, her paws carefully navigating the treacherous slopes at the base of the mountain. the stone here is warm to the touch, almost uncomfortably so, and reminds her of the day akako rose from the desert to unleash his own brand of hell on the ridgewolves. bitterness floats through her, staining her insides a brief, momentary shade of black. how the others could forgive him so easily, how they could forget such treachery, was beyond her. it had been his betrayal that had cemented her into the ranks of the rebels, denying him the gratification of having another verien, another valentine, to serve his whims. verona verien ve valentine did not pray. she did not whisper her desires to the gods or beg for their mercy. she could not. not after what they had done, what they had allowed to be done, only to beg for forgiveness and whisk it away with the flick of a paw. they were flippant, they were reckless, and they would never receive her soul on their altar. her anger is sticky and all too easily replicated on itself. she feels lost to it some days, as though she might one day drown in her own sea of rage, but, today, it is quieter. there's something subdued to the burn in her chest and the glint in her eye. today, it is easily chased away by the quiet song humming from her lips, a sweet little melody with no words to ruin it. little by little, note by note, she relinquishes her grasp on her anger and allows the night to wash over her and through her, baptizing her in the waters of peace at the base of a still smoking gun.


Posted 09-08-2017, 07:26 AM |
in, lbs
The summer clung to her in fine white flakes. Or was it ash? The problem with the volcano was clearly over, but she could still smell it in the air. If only she didn't have to take this long, roundabout way to avoid the rebels and make it up to the north side of the country. Her eyes had settled on distant, blurry mountains a few days before, and that was where she was going. It just seemed that they were a long way away.
No problem. The longer she spent away from wind, the less worrying it was to her. Or, well, that wasn't really how it worked. She just bit her nails out in the desert, instead of on the mountain, and wondered how long it was going to take for everything to finally go south. Another few months? An extra week? She hadn't heard from Lyra or Tyrus in a long time. Maybe Lyra was busy. Maybe Tyrus was just a shitbag, like she'd thought he was all along. Vindication should probably feel sweeter than it did.
She just felt nervous instead of pleased that she had, probably, been right about things all along. She didn't really want some stranger to appear and take over her little kingdom. She definitely wasn't tough enough to take a stand herself. Yagrum was many things, but not heroic. There was no possibility that she would last more than one round in a fight with a large child, much less either leader of Wind.

It sucked being stuck.
Maybe that was why she was spending so much time away from home. If she came back and found that things had fallen apart, she'd at least have figured it out after the fact. Kind of like ripping off a scab really fast. Or getting hit in the face, but in her sleep.
Her eyes settled on a shape traveling across the low slope of the mountain. Opposite direction of her own route. Too blurry to tell anything else, but she stopped anyway, frowning.
The last time she had come out here, it had taken a blast of ashy wind to keep the rebels at arm's length. If this was yet another one of their little band of shitty bandits, she was probably going to have to do the same thing again. She didn't know exactly when she had stopped disliking Roswell, but it hadn't made her feel any more kindly toward the rest of the pack.
hubris, she reminded herself, spotting no necklace around the oncomer's neck. Caution was always best. It kept a smallish, slightly blind cripple alive out in the wastes. She stayed ready.
(To run away. She was, bizarrely, turning into a politician, but she was never going to be a fighter.)