Welcome to Gaia! ::

(Looking for no more than two-three players, who are willing to be loose with post order. Feel free to hop in! No idea for plots yet so if you have any ideas please OOC them out, we can all figure out something fun. Finnavair likes to fight, if that helps.)

Spokelse is at home in the cold, and so perhaps it is no surprise that she frequently finds herself here, ranging to the northern part of the Wardwood, where the trunks become striated birch bark cloaked in the mist of falling snow. Here she is a tall white figure ghosting along between the trees, her neck arched like a proud stag's. She is nosing gently at the floating lights among the flakes, watching them flit and sway.

Her daughter, still young, is the starkest of contrasts: as unmarked as her mother, but a dusty, ashen black, a startling stain on the landscape. She is too old now to properly be called a fawn, but too young to be a doe; her compact, hard body is nothing like her mother's svelte and elegant lines. Her eyes burn with a barely-contained rage, and her glance at the wisps is as dismissive as her mother's is inquisitive.

"Someone is coming," she says, and her voice is hard as flint. Spokelse lifts her head, fanning her ears towards the sound of approaching hooves and waiting for the stranger to pierce the veil of heavy snow.

A shriek breaks the quietness of the forest, "Caw!! Caw!!". A cry of warning.

A dark head breaks the whiteness of the forest. Glowing red eyes drift slowly across the forest, tracking another patch of blackness as it moves through the tops of the leafless trees. In and out of the snowy mist, disappearing and reappearing.

Keth-Selhan watches his companion slip in and out of view. Eyes following the crow's every move as it navigates the treacherous airspace. It's not long before the air above the buck's head is disturbed. A gentle brush of feathers and a new weight is dropped upon the buck's antlers. Rush had returned.

"Three ahead. Cream, black, grey, green." The bird's words were clipped short. Abrupt. It was always this way with Rushlight. Keth had come to expect it. He made no mention of the crow's words, not acknowledging them in the slightest. But the mighty buck moved forward. A beast of strength and power, not one of slim lines or grace. He strode the ground as if he owned it, head held high and proud.

And it was in this demeanor that Keth happened across the two does...and the buck.

In the hush that follows the rumbling call of the buck, another form ghosts out of the snow: delicate, feminine. Cesambre is not petite, but her compact frame gives off the aura of being so. Perhaps it is that she chooses her steps so carefully, careful not to trip over a tree root or a rock buried under the snow.

There is something distracted and a little worried in her features, she way she stops with one leg raised, ears fanned out and blue-green eyes a bit wide. As if she is worrying about something outside of the Dreaming, so strongly that it leaks inside to this beautiful, silent place.

In honesty, Samael is not opposed to play -- but the young buck's tromp through the snow at their feet leaves him a bit taken aback, one ear twitching back and then forward again as he struggles to put the scene in order. The faint edge of memory as he looks on two does and thinks he knows them, or should know them, or once knew them, has retreated now, leaving him staring around with quiet eyes and tense shoulders.

All at once, the symbol on his cheek crinkles and crumples, his expression sliding toward amusement, instead. "...snow comes every year, and often. Does it always tell you to play?"

It is almost, almost chiding. But only almost. Samael doesn't need to, nor want to, break Cadence's spirit.