Welcome to Gaia! ::

The Acha smiles broadly as he comes to bounce a bit in front of the stoic kin. He's being asked questions! A little bit of a skip later, he settles down, in front of the wold and his owner.

"Well, you see, we're from the desert," he states, with no small note of pride in his voice. "Great, large moving expanses of sand, as far as the eye can see... not unlike the oceans you have to the one border of the swamp. Except, well, it acts like snow, in some ways, too. But it's not cold, and it doesn't melt." He stops, and smiles, a little embarrassed. "But, silly me, you probably know all about sand. What about Sand dogs, though? Or cacti? Sandstorms? Or, ooh, I can tell you about mirages if you'd like!"

There was a clatter of hooves on ice as Traveller's Joy leapt out from behind a mangrove in front of her sister, Midnight Sun. "Why if it isn't my dear sister," she cried dramatically, the tone of her voice indicating that she clearly thought of her sister not-very-dearly at all. "Up and harassing our poor half brother so early? Such a disgrace, to treat one's own family thus!"

Traveller looked over Midnight Sun's shoulder to their half brother behind her, her tone switching suddenly from the theatric to the conversational when she spoke again. "Hello, Murkcrow! How are you doing?" Traveller smiled at the buck, her tail swaying behind her jovially.

Plum and Acorn had run into each other on their own treks to ... Well where ever the Kin were gathering. Neither had said much to each other, huddling together for warmth during rest periods. Plum seemed accepting of Acorn's smaller size, though she had made a sharp remark early on about the eaglehound being nearly as big as the smaller Kiokote. The trek had been grueling and depressing, already they'd seen several dead. Mostly animals but a few frozen Kin among them. The one bright spot was when Acorn found Pinecone again, the cheetah she'd thought had been lost on the journey to the swamp.

Now the two Kiokote approach the group of Kin, some playing games or racing, some talking and all waiting for what ever will come from beyond the hills.

Poor Fix never sets out to hurt anyone's feelings, but always manages to. Whether he is simply unaware of the fact that it's happened (always a chance, with him) or he is trying to smooth things over by showing a bit of conversational belly, his reply is easy and airy: "Unfortunately no. I hear they can catch fish but he never shares, so it doesn't do me any good." He pulls the longest possible face, adding as an aside to the Kiokote: "I bet the four of us all together could have a scene-stealing potential unrivaled in all of history. We'd better handle the power with a sense of dignity and responsibility."

"Maybe one day," Swan offers, "you could tell me the dream that must have given you that name. It is interesting. But I suppose we've other dreams to talk about. Your companion there was right that the Swamp has been less forthcoming about the nature of these events than He usually is to those of us that have been shown favor." He clears his throat, his eyes wandering away from her and through the snow towards the distant hills, invisible beyond the white veil. As if he could see someone coming even now. "But there has been a distinct pattern, yes?"

Shaking his head, Swan rattles his wings with a distinct sense of unease, his eyes drifting back to her and then to her Eaglehound. "It is good that we have loved ones to keep us company to help us remember ourselves," he adds.

-*-

Salt doesn't exactly object--especially not since she's seen Wildflower Breeze disentangle himself--but she doesn't acknowledge him, either, or seem to appreciate the warmth. She exhales slowly and pointedly and the wintergreen on her breath makes her seem even colder and sharper. The fuzzy cloud this sigh produces drifts around the hard contours of her skull as she narrows her eyes, which aren't even vaguely looking in White River's direction and are instead focused on an imaginary spot on the horizon. "Why would we want that?" she demands lazily. "I swear, the second we get a novelty--the instant there is a diversion--everyone is clamoring for things to be the way they were before."

Moved by a wish to save this hapless would-be romancer from further embarrassment, and perhaps the barest breath of jealous impatience, Breeze decides to make his move.

"I suppose that some simply cannot appreciate variety," he says, slipping into the conversation as casually as he slips into place not quite touching Salt's unoccupied side. Leveling a glance at the vine-marked fellow, he continues, "The cold may be uncomfortable, but it is also invigorating." Now bowing his head, he greets Salt; "It is a pleasure to see you again, madam. It's been quite some time - I hope you're well?"

The snow is deep enough that even petite mares have a hard time making their way through it: Wood Spider must throw her forelegs out and break a path through the crust on top of the snow. More than once she has misjudged just how deep the snow is and stumbled nearly chest-deep into it, blowing snow out of her nose and flicking it from her ears and hair. For a Legendary it is perhaps not the most dignified way to approach the gathering, but Wood Spider is not one to abandon something she has started.

Eventually the ground solidifies enough that the petite mare can stand with all four feet on firm ground, and she surveys the gathering. Something is not right; something has called her here all the way from the middle of the swamp. She looks about and sees a sudden rattle of white wings on a kimeti -- there is only one who has such wings, and she has met him before. She wonders briefly whether Longstride or Bitterleaf have made it here, but approaches Swan and slides delicately beside him, a pace back: not wanting to interfere in the conversation.

-*-

Beetleshell is normally not awake during the day -- but something has driven her north. Awakening one evening to find many of her bugs in a torpid state -- even Bleeder, normally so protective -- she set off to find out why. Her encyclopedic knowledge of insects does not extend that far.

The bright green doe stands at the fringes of the group: even if she were trying to hide (which she is not), her brilliant coat gives her away. She peers at the Acha especially, having not seen one before, and her jaw works: she is trying to decide what to say. Beetleshell is not shy, merely awkward. She does not often speak.