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 Posted: Mon Jun 09, 2014 1:49 am
Astragalus ached.
It was nothing new: she had always ached. She had always hated wolves, and she had never done anything about it. It was never the time, and she never held all the variables in her hooves. She never knew enough, and she didn't know enough to tell when they'd attack - or where. So she did nothing, she bided her time, and she ached.
For there was always the feeling that she could do something - she had sharp, strong hooves, and a powerful back. She had charisma enough, even if she was not the most-liked of guardians, and she had the sort of long memory of others' character traits, strengths and preferences that might be useful, at least, for organization, or something. Most importantly, to her - she could be invisible when she wanted to be, silent, careful, and meticulous. Today, though, she was not invisible - today she ached alone in the shadow of a cluster of cypress trees, examining fungi.
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Posted: Wed Jun 11, 2014 10:29 pm
If Nemain ached, she did not acknowledge it.
No, she tended towards haughtiness and hostility these days. The threat of the wolves had not disappeared but she did not create plans for the hunt this winter. In the past her thoughts had been preoccupied with formations and vantage points, analyses of weakness and strength, and meticulous strategies for hunting the wolves and ending their reign of terror. Now she thought about defense and numbers so that she might survive even if those fools, those fools that she loved, died for their folly. With snow crunching under her hooves, she was constantly reminded of the rook's warning: snow, blood, and death.
She had done what she could and now she continued. The wolf pelt draped over her shoulders was proof of her power and might though she had rarely lifted her hooves to strike. She was no incapable of staining her hooves with blood and had done so in the past, but her violence was calculated and used to end things when her other strategies had already drawn the fight to the end when she was assured a win. This year, she was not so sure that she would be spared the scars of her herdmates. The wolves were coming.
The wolves would attack and she would help any who joined her fight and survive, but no more. If they wished to hunt, they could but she would not lead them there with the threat of inevitable death hanging over their heads.
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