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No Roots
Posted 02-11-2018, 02:57 PM |
Quilla
Rogue
Female, 3.00
Meso-runner
30 in, 105 lbs
0 ep
© Noon
Abelinda

A broken and muffled song filtered through the quiet glade, tuned somewhat by the background noise of whispering willow limbs. It was as inconsistent as it was simply joyful, trailing off to a distracted hum at times or lyrics twisting, half remembered, half eaten by oblivescence. Afternoon sun showered the soft grasses in swaying beams between the sparse trees, highlighting motes in the drowsy summer light. Moments like this, Quilla felt more magic thrumming through the still foreign land than she could even sense in the magical gems so many wore here. She pranced through the dappling shafts of light, eyes flashing from dark honeycomb to liquid gold and back again as the lighting shifted. In her jaws she carried a small, perfectly pink object, the cause of her muffled and occasionally slurred lyrics. Perfectly pleased with her own company, she practically danced through the trees, pausing in step to the tune, trotting little circles at times, woodsy tail always waving lazily behind her.

At the center of the breezy, summer glade, Quil seemed to stop at random, apparently stumbling across something she had been looking for in her wandering, restless way. The willow before her was darker than the others surrounding it, older and leaning over as if to dotingly inspect the little wolf who had come to visit. She dropped her treasure at its deep, rippling roots, revealing a lovely intact shell scavenged from the shores. “Hello little lady, dontcha wanna come over!” she belted the last line of her song unobstructed, still not entirely sure those were the words. She could only just remember the face of the native wolf so many miles west and seasons ago. Quilla was still a girl, but she adored the way the handsome male had teased some of the older females of their band with the song.

With no apparent rhyme or reason to her actions, Quilla circled her tree a couple of times before picking a spot between the roots and digging a shallow hole, still humming. Carefully she picked up the shell, shining opalescent in the shifting light, and laid it in the depression before covering it again this her nose. Not quite satisfied with the burial, she began hunting up small nuts and smooth rocks from around the area and piling them on top of her hidden plunder, merrily odd and just a little out of place in the peaceful copse of trees.

(No Roots - Alice Merton Not what Quilla is mutter singing, but this weird post is because of this song.)



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Posted 02-12-2018, 02:56 PM |
Abelinda
Rogue
Female, 3.25
Mesomorph
33 in, 115 lbs
0 ep
© Wyld
Once singing had caught those ears, did Abelinda slip away into the afternoon gloom; watching the one before her. Carefree and seemingly absent minded, a brow rose in silent question. Were all the she-wolves around here like this, or just this one? In any case, with them also carrying a shell; it was clear this one knew little of wars and it's ilk. Well, it was had to say if this would be interesting or boring. Keeping a distance and being sure to stay down wind did Abelinda only pause once Quilla did simply watching and silently shaking that head as they buried the shell. “You, are quite an oddity.” Choosing to speak up and step out into the lime light, did that hellfire gaze remain upon the girl - not sure if to take this one as some kind of addled minded fool, or just some air-headed lass. Either, from Ablinda's experience hadn't lasted long in such a state; they had been forced to change, to be trained day and night by the lash of their mentors. For war had a high price, upon the young and old -- everyone had to give their fair share.

Quilla



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Posted 02-14-2018, 06:46 PM |
Quilla
Rogue
Female, 3.00
Meso-runner
30 in, 105 lbs
0 ep
© Noon
An acorn tumbled from the jaws of the content she-wolf followed immediately by a squeak of surprise. Quil turned so fast she got a split second face full of her own tail. Twice now! She had never felt so easy to sneak up on until coming to Doutaini. Of course she had also rarely been without a handful of other cult kids to watch her back. How did one go about practicing awareness of what they weren't aware of? Maybe Gaat or Rascal would have some pointers. In the meantime she could only grin a bit sheepishly at the stranger.

“Sister, we're all a little weirdo deep down,” she rationalized with a wink. Her sunshine yellow eyes swept over her company, unabashed. The vagabond girl discovered people like wonders of the world, as if there were pyramids and oceans and sacred places in all the lines of their details. Her head tilted gently, and her spirited grin softened with recognition.

“I met a pack once whose priestesses used ash to mimic markings like yours,” she reminisced, ever living through the lives she saw in traveling snapshots. “They dressed for their funerals. Sky-burials. Tore their dead apart and let the war birds take them in pieces off the side of the mountain. It was beautiful and brutal.” Like you, intuition whispered quietly on her shoulder, though Quilla wasn't old or jaded enough yet to listen. Realization settled on her in the quiet gap between them, realization that she wasn't making herself seem any less odd, but she could only chuckle and scuff the dropped acorn with her paw.

“Not you, though,” she wagered, flicking the nut toward her little mound. “No dress up. You're pretty all on your own.” Satisfied with her buried, Quilla drifted a little closer through the glade, though she kept a manageable distance. She was no stranger to strangers after all. “Quilla, pleased ta meet ya.”

Abelinda



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