Cellen awake from his nap, stretched out on the sunning rock in the middle of small meadow. He felt the late fall breeze ruffle his fur that was as dark as a starless sky from tail tip to nape. The bellowing waterfalls nearby masked the surroundings with a tranquil lullaby as its spray laced the air with a relaxing, cool mist. Coolness caressed along his fur, and the scent of wet granite mingled with the freshness of new grass.
Yawning until his tongue quivered, Cellen extended his front legs over the edge. The breeze tickled his small whiskers, teased the fur inside is ears and the silky velvet at their edges. It played with the longer fur at his cheeks, tugging at his nose and eyebrow whiskers.
Swiveling his head to turn his gaze, he saw that morning was still chasing dew-sparks from the grass.
He sat up, sluggishly he pawed at his face in attempt to bat his eyes open. A peaceful bliss flowed through him that stirred sweetness into his soul. He exhaled deeply, filling his lunge with the crispness of lively air that entwined with the aroma of volcanic rock and the bounty of ripening fruit that lay scattered around the foliage-flocked floor.
In the distance he heard the muffled sounds of footfall on grass, mixed with playful growls. He turned his head into the wind, cocking his ears. He raised his muzzle, opening his mouth slightly to capture scents. Odor turned to taste in a sensitive place at the roof of his mouth when he touched it with his tongue. Smell and flavor combined with sound, telling Cellen that his 'pack' was nearby in the meadow. Vibrant birds of paradise swooped back and forth along the opening of the rich grove. Their iridescent feathers bore rich, exotic colors that only distinguished them from amongst the boughs they sought to roost upon. Their consistent presence seemed more like raucous taunting although their song was melodious--- it livened the island morning with a distinctly tropical vibe.
The coursing river beside him ran down from the waterfall tiers and collected into a large pool beside him. Distracted, or perhaps lost within the musing of his own mind, he started into its reflecting mirror. He blinked as he did so. For the first time in his life he could hardly recognize himself at all. Where had this mantle of manliness come from? His thick mane, much like a lions, engulfed his shoulders and head with an unexpected crown of courage. Small fangs protruded down from behind his upper lip while, behind him, his tail was plumed with plush, winter primed fur. There had always been rumors that the Island of Akoya was magical, to say the least, and its’ effects were uniquely distinct from one Mokai to another. It was all a roulette of chance as to how a Mokai would appear whether they were escaping to become a feral or had become captured and made domestic.
As Cellen looked, he felt as if he were not looking at himself, but plunging though the water, back into his own thoughts, and into the past. There was no longer any definable barrier between himself and the world; between the past and the present, and between his streaming thoughts and reality. The face, that familiar image, which reflected from off the pond’s surface was a forgotten part of himself—it had been what he looked like before he was domesticated. It was strange, surreal even. A grin broadened across the Mokai’s maw as laughter rumbled from his chest.
"Damn, I look rough. Rougher than usual that is," he mumbled.
Overhead, clouds lightly whisked the skyline as a touch of vanilla glazed the morning tapestry. Nature seemed to lull with a subtle yet serene symphony accompaniment.
This was paradise. But even paradise could not remain unscathed by both flaws and fatalities.
There were dark rumors that bode upon the whispers that acknowledged the risk of coming in contact with humans, what he had heard those within Hungtingdon refer to as 'Mainlanders', who sought to capture Ferals for trophy sport, trade, for their fur and, yes, even for more gruesome purposes. Without the safety of a handler, a protector, Mokai who lived outside of the settlement were only to rely on their instincts and their firsthand experiences. One would be considered fortunate to become collared instead of being shipped off elsewhere for an unknown purpose. But fear was not something that the individual could allow to restrain them from living. Even allotting fear the smallest sliver to take hold of ones mentality would cripples ones perspective.
From the conglomerate mass of black fur and limbs, a winter primed tail swayed complacently. Cellen stretched his front paws outward as his claws grappled onto the stone surface. He laid there, listening to the cascading falls and the sweet nothings that the wind whispered through the crisscross hatching of boughs overhead. His eyes struggled to remain ajar, as his mind became swept away with the lulling sound of the tropics.
For now, the only danger that was evident was how grumpy Cellen could become if he didn't take advantage of sleeping in. Quelling the rummaging thoughts that were tossed about the wakes of his mind, the Feral sprawled himself out upon the rock and allowed himself to fall victim to sleeps seduction.
