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 Posted: Sun Oct 26, 2008 4:31 pm
The rain, which had started as a light mist over the marshplain, had intensified to the point of being a solid curtain of wet, falling so heavily that Bitterleaf, in the same colours as the clouds, would have been rendered invisible just a few steps away, were it not for the shining of her eyes and the glowing mark on her shoulder.
"The fourth were called the Zikwa," she was saying, already deep into a tale, addressed over the roar of the falling rain as though she weren't aware of it at all. She was telling the story to two others, both of them casting foggy lights through the greyness, a buck and a colt. Jasper had the far-away look he always had when absorbing a story, a hungry, staring sort of expression that looked into the air between himself and the words and saw every detail played out as clear as life. The buck--almost a colt still, with the awkwardness and splay-limbed stance of a Kimeti teetering on adulthood--had developed a strange intensity in all things as he had grown, until the aura of concentration had soaked into actions as mundane as eating or drinking. He did things carefully, with forethought. Even listening to a story. "They had large hearts, but their eyes burned in the sunlight, and so they took to the shadows and shared their dreams and their thoughts, laying their souls bare.
"And the fifth to hatch from the crane's eggs were the Kimeti. They loved the swamp above their siblings, and they lived to sing and to tell stories, and to hear all that the crane had to tell them. But things were not long peaceful in the swamp, and the crane--"
The story was not destined to be finished. A sudden crack of thunder, accompanied by a brilliant dagger of lightning far too close for comfort, made Jasper jump in startlement, although Bitterleaf merely glanced in the direction of the interruption with a cool distaste for the storm's rudeness.
"Some other time," she said, shaking out a mane that was plastered across her face in dark, thin strings, like blood seeping into dark water. She moved off towards the treeline to hunt for cover, not in any hurry, and Jasper followed, glancing back for the other listener to the tale.
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Posted: Sun Oct 26, 2008 5:10 pm
The dark colt's ears remained flat against his head in a desperate attempt to repel the thunder. If only such a simple act would block out the roaring of the uneasy skies. His eyes shone between flashes of lightning, brow slanted and stern as he bore into the doe. He loved her stories, which were always told with such wise understanding. Her tongue, gifted with the elegance of the swamp itself, lulled him into a state of complete submission. This is why he sat, despite rain and thunder, completely content before the glowing doe. He stole a glance at his symbol etched counterpart, expression significantly less satisfied.
His eyes finally emptied at the abandonment, ears longing for completion. Not one to raise voice against his lovely mother, Night Heron stood, well-rested legs wriggling beneath his rapidly growing body. The colt was quickly reaching maturity, his chest broadening and legs lengthening. The red glow emitting from his chest separated him from the silhouettes of the true family - regardless of his blood, he would follow Bitterleaf to the ends of the earth. Jasper, on the other hand...he never quite understood that one.
Still, he followed closely behind the lighter of the three, attention focused on the doe. "Elder," He began, voice already deep and rich like an over ripened fruit - the dark Kimeti always addressed Bitterleaf with the utmost respect. Jasper, on the other hand, was greeted as a brother. He was nothing like his mother. "Will we ever know the end of this story?"
ooc: Sorry for the lameness of my post, I'm in the final round of the lab 305 contest and it's making me fail at RP. Too nervous. D:
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Posted: Mon Oct 27, 2008 6:06 pm
"I can only tell as much as I know," she answered, scarcely bothering to lift her voice above the rain. It was not in her nature to speak loudly, particularly not to Night Heron who, to her unutterable satisfaction, seemed to absorb even the quietest whisper with an unslakeable thirst. "When I was very young--still a filly--the doe who told me this story told me that there was not an ending. 'Maybe,' she told me, 'there will be in your lifetime, but likely not in mine.' The crane's eggs hatched, and some of her children were restless. I will finish what I know of the story, one day."
Another sharp snap of thunder made Jasper jump again, beside her, and turn to cast a wary white eye in the direction of the lightning, trying not to outpace his mother's nonchalant footsteps in his nervousness. He had said nothing during the story, and maintained his silence now as they trudged through the rapidly-pattering mire, although he cast an unfathomable glance over his mother's shoulder towards Night Heron--even as gangly as he still was, he stood nearly a head taller than the doe. He had watched his pseudo-brother with the same expressionless stare quite often of late, particularly during these conversations that never seemed to carry any words from Jasper.
"Maybe," continued Bitterleaf, "the story won't end in my lifetime. Perhaps she was wrong. But maybe you will live to know the ending, and learn what happened to the crane's eggs." She said nothing of Jasper, but then again, Jasper had not asked.
ooc: nooo, no nervousness. YOU WILL DO SO WELL. *cheerlead* I mean it, too. Lab 305 is sexy sexy.
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Posted: Tue Oct 28, 2008 5:52 am
The colt lowered his head regretfully, a basic understanding for the ways of story-telling long since engraved into his young mind. Although he did enjoy the occasional traverse into another way and time, he preferred the here and now. In short, he wanted the end of the story now - but if there was one thing he had learned from the stoic doe, it was patience. That everything he wanted to know would come to him in time, and no sooner than necessary. He was still too young to know everything he hungered for.
Lifting his spotted legs delicately over sopping masses of moss and rocky protrusions, Night Heron accepted Bitterleaf's teachings in silent contemplation. Perhaps he could finish the story one day; Until then, he would treasure every syllable she spoke, searching the spiraled vines of her prose for eternal meaning, even when there was none to be found. He was, after all, quite young. "But no one could ever tell the story as well as you, Mother." Offered the colt, his face unmoving in childlike seriousness.
As with every conversation Night Heron began, there was nary a mention of the sky-colored buck, who by now had surely grown accustomed to Heron's disinterest. Despite the obvious occurrence of sibling rivalry, the colt's cold approach was not limited to Jasper. He seemed to have a growing distaste for all males, and on the opposite end of the spectrum, his attentions for his Mother grew fonder and more frequent by the day. But, on rare occasions like this, when Jasper's unease had intensified, Heron would cast him a sincere glance - one both reassuring and teasing. Whether the latter was intentional or not had yet to be discovered.
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Posted: Sat Nov 01, 2008 1:27 pm
Bitterleaf didn't answer the compliment directly. Although accessible on the side of flattery, she was not one to reward shameless admiration, either. "An unwise assessment, Heron, given that there are many storytellers you have yet to hear." Her words were largely drowned by a rumble of thunder, and the racket of the rain falling on the canopy as she found her way through the roots of a stand of mangrove, moving towards the greatest, thickest trees.
Jasper returned Night Heron's look with a flat, expressionless one--his face was ever unfathomable--and shook his ears with agitation at the wet. He spoke before Heron had time to: "A buck downwind of Ghostthistle's mound told me this story, some months ago. He also had no ending." He received no reply, but felt obligated to continue: "He told it well." Whether this was a subtle argument to Night Heron's assertions or simply an offhand statement was difficult to say.
They were already drenched, and the rain was filtering through the leaves quite efficiently, but here, at least, they could clamber up onto the broad roots of the ancient trees--some so old and vast that the roots were more like platforms than narrow balance beams, even slick with rain when leapt onto. This she did, gracefully and unthinkingly, followed by Jasper, who moved with the same ease and fluidity. The glow of his neck cast strange patterns on the trunk of the tree when he availed himself of a luxuriant scratch.
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Posted: Sat Nov 01, 2008 2:33 pm
The thunder was quickly defeated by the colt's keen ears, turning skillfully toward the doe. Heron's naivety was to be anticipated, the colt's cheeks growing warm in response. He had grown to expect the doe's scrutiny, and even enjoyed the attention, regardless of her intent. Be it a gentle scolding or a single phrase of vague approval, Heron felt little from her statements but a swelling pride or budding excitement. He lowered his head, fervently grasping the suggestion of his guardian, though the addition of Jasper's voice to the lesson was not accepted so warmly.
The young Kimeti raised his head toward the buck in defiance, a mask of irritation replacing his once serious expression. Ears splayed flat beside a damp tuft of blue, his eyes cast a fog, not of hatred, but of rosy contention. These same eyes fled the buck before long, their preference being the glowing coat of Bitterleaf. He followed cautiously behind the two, hooves far softer than his elders, yet he had always pressed forward without complaint or dancing feet. He had been taught to walk sooner than most, a feat which nourished the colt's infantile ego, a trait he repressed before his mother.
Finally safe from the buffeting rain, Heron made his way across colossal roots to rest beside the two. He watched thick, cold drops slide between the curtain of leaves above, narrowly dodging a hit to the snout. He eyed the storming skies curiously, still mostly unaware of the swamp's secrets. "Mother," He quietly began, eyes once again resting just below the doe's. The falling of swamp water from the skies had become a crucial conundrum in the young one's mind. "Why does water only fall...sometimes?"
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