The moon was silvering the branches again. It was kissing the green leaves with a pale filigree that seemed both phantom and real, making them glisten with the power of its silver and glow with the doom of its light. It also licked the pale birches bark with a reflection of something so fine. And it trickled into all the cracks and creaves of the other older barked trees. Trickled the love of its shaddows into every place that would have it, but most brilliant of all with the loving kiss of the waxing moon, was the lake.
Sitting among the wooded silvers, gazing out upon the moon as it reflected so perfectly in the lake. She saw nothing special in this pool, but she felt a little chilled by the wind, and a little thrilled by the moon and the thrill of it all. They were a night or so away from the full moon, and at times such as these it was easier to loose track of yourself, easier for the beast in your heart to take over again and make you run through the forests. Easier indeed for a great many lupine to remain in the woods then risk being seen, risk endangering others for rialing the more beastlike emotions.
And it was for this reason she sat on the undergrowth, soft mosses and grasses pressing against her, as she sat singular and alone and did nothing to seek sleep. 'She' was Mary-Alise, if any human knew her at least this was her name. But in the darkness of her mind, she thought of herself as she should, with the name her parents had given her, 'Fleur' she had once been. And so be it to her face or to her hind no matter what you thought her name was, it is thus we shall refer to her. For her mind is where this stews, and to call her anything else would be to confuse.
So Fleur sat very still, feeling a strange emotion, and thinking only of it. Loneliness is an emotion that rarely occurs to the wolf, seeking company is not something they regularly act upon for the main reason that a wolf is more lone than pack. Singular and free they are as dangerous as when pack bound and duty made. And it is for such a reason that this empty seeking feeling made her stop. Alone with their emotions wolves were fine, to sleep or hunt or travel they are fine alone. But humans, with their soft pink fleshy ...
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So Fleur sat very still, feeling a strange emotion, and thinking only of it. Loneliness is an emotion that rarely occurs to the wolf, seeking company is not something they regularly act upon for the main reason that a wolf is more lone than pack. Singular and free they are as dangerous as when pack bound and duty made. And it is for such a reason that this empty seeking feeling made her stop. Alone with their emotions wolves were fine, to sleep or hunt or travel they are fine alone. But humans, with their soft pink fleshy bodies, and their easilly worried minds, they are much more vulnerable and so should stay in packs, or so she believed. Torn with the tradition of her born kind she did not know how to feel about this. But locked in this rather defenceless pale flesh she could do nothing.
The many layered net of her stolen petticoat pressed against her legs, and the weight of her upon it had left little painful dents on the back of her legs. She had stolen this thing a while ago, its bottom was torn and becoming rather tattered but it was still sewed mostly together, which is always a good thing. The top of it was not so sturdilly stitched, it was made of a silk so thin that ever line of her pale breast was pronounced through it, it had only bare thin straps to keep it up and one of these was becoming undone already. And for the little she knew she understood that even in summer this thing was not enough to keep a person happy, not with these long pink arms that get cold so easily, so naked in the light are they. So she had indeed stolen something to go with it.
A pale shawl, beginning too to show wear and tear, it was draped over her shoulders and crossed at her front, her fingers teasing at the messy fringe in an almost nervous manner. Stroking them carefully as her eyes searched across the smooth lakes surface. It was at this time that she thought she was completely alone, and for such a reason a passing ditty some street singer had sung came to her lips. Although she changed its words a little, and sung it in a manner much softer and quieter than she had before, but this night was quiet and the accompanying wind mellows a gentle song behind it. And so her voice carried a little thurther.
' Slowly, silently, now the moon
Walks the night in her silver shoon;
This way, and that, she peers, and sees
Silver fruit upon silver trees;
One by one the casements catch
Her beams beneath the silvery thatch;
Couched in his kennel, like a log,
With paws of silver sleeps the dog;
From their shadowy cote the white breasts peep
Of doves in silver feathered sleep
A harvest mouse goes scampering by,
With silver claws, and silver eye;
And moveless fish in the water gleam,
By silver reeds in a silver stream.
Her voice was not the sweetest, but it was not gruff or hurried and had a pleasant enough tone. Its notes sang long and slow sometimes, leaning it out in a melancholic manner, a wolfsong. Her eyes began to roam the closer shores of this lake now, and the song died in her throat as she saw a figure.
Her eyes widened and she blinked a few times. Then shutting those pale china blues and leaning her head forwards, nose first and taking a deep breath of air, angering that the wind would not tell her sooner of this presence. Being humanoid has its good parts and its bad, the worse being the lessened scent. She could smell a good deal better than most humans but not even vaugly as wonderful as that of a longer snout might give. The Wolves had their scent, and the humans had their coloured sight. If it was a fair swap or not cannot be remarked upon, but it was certainly a swap.
Still, she could smell a little more than the normal human could. And so on these figures she could smell a little, but not any of the scents were those she knew, so as she stood and began to swing round in the forrest in a manner as swift and as silent as she could manage with these pathetic pink feet, the animal parts of her analysed the scent. They smelt the horse strongly, for horses smell strong to humans let alone to wolves, they could smell the mans sweat, the sadle leather polish that had been used, they could smell the fabrics the man was wearing, and all that but those were the first smells. What was more interesting was the smells inside those smells.
The horses loyalty, the way the leather polish marked the smell of the gun polish, and in that mans sweaty smell and taste they could sense a great sadness, and it was almost as if those mixed senses knew that in their true form they would of been able to taste the salty tears unshed from his eyes.
She crept thought the forest slowly, and paused behind a tree directly away from this man. At a closer distance she could see his features a little more clearly, the long dark hair tied behind his throat, the other everyday features that make and break people. She did not know what to think of this man, and clutching the tree and peering she realised she would not know much more. So taking herself carefully back a little she lifted the shawl from her shoulders and pulled it over her head. Still it covered how bare her petticoat was, but it also covered her short boyish blond hair, and it crossed beneath her chin, hiding a little more of her too bare body.
Well bare by human standards at least. Having corrected her appearance she leaned forwards again, waiting to see what the man might do and beginning slightly to worry. But worry and fear were things that rarely crossed to the front of her brain. Currently it was the want of company to fill that lonely voice in her chest, and also the fascination that was a part of her nature, something in this horse and his boy that made her want to dance forwards and nip at their heels while still cowering slightly away, the want of any wolf I assure you.
Poem : Silver by Walter
