Hush Meadow Some dance to remember, some dance to forget

The sun beat down on the meadow, beckoning all who lived there to come out
and enjoy the wonderful day. Rabbits and voles were entwined within the grass,
hidden from their predators while enjoying the lush spring plants. A cream figure
strided into the meadow, her body moving in a way as if she were dancing. Chant
drifted across the grasses, striding to and fro, humming a merry tune. Why did
wide open spaces attract her so much? Perhaps it was because she could get a
full view of the wondrous sky; it was always hidden by the canopies of forestry.

"Oh?" she questioned aloud as something leapt away from her. A grasshopper!
Her tail wagged a bit, and her pup mode seemed to be engaged. Leaping forth, she
released a playful yip, cream toned paws landing next to the small grasshopper. It flew
a foot forward before landing on a long blade of grass. Smiling, Chantille gave the insect
its freedom. She layed on her stomach in the grass, sighing lightly to herself.

The jolly female rolled onto her back, gazing at the sky. Wispy white clouds floated by
slowly, carried by the soft breeze. The grasses around her rustled as the wind shifted
its direction of flow. The meadow seemed to release a sigh, as if it were relieved that the spring
was finally here.

(This post was last modified: Apr 19, 2012, 10:33 PM by Chantille.)

<blockquote><ul><span style='font-size:7pt;line-height:100%'>quote from "It Is Good To Wait in Silence for the Lord God to Save: Lamentations 3:17-26"</span></li></ul>
There was something dead in the jaws of the half-wolf. It was a rabbit, twisted and broken... yet, remarkably unbloodied. There was no scarlet stain smeared on his jaws that cradled the dead body so gently, so carefully. This was not a rabbit that had been hunted and murdered. In fact, it had been dead for quite some time already, that much was obvious from the putrid stench that haunted the corpse. Flies buzzed jubilantly about the ginger muzzle of the priest, and a warning growl rose from his throat. <i>This one isn't for you.</i> This rabbit wasn't for him, either. This rabbit was for Pangur, now, floating away in whatever afterlife awaited them all, be it heaven or hell.

And so Kiche would be the undertaker. He would bury it.

Perhaps a burial would have been a strange practice for a wolf, but Kiche knew little of wolves. Perhaps he could have eaten the rabbit —he had been considering it, originally. Not far from the borders of the Hollow, he had stumbled upon the creature, limp and lifeless. It hadn't been dead for <i>too</i> long. And... although he was loath to admit it, the taste of blood and meat made his mouth water. Maybe it was the smell, and maybe it was his morals, but as the red saint stood over the body, he began to feel sick to his stomach. It had been so long since he had last thrown up, he had thought he was past that. But no. He still felt <i>dirty</i>, wrong, vile. <i>This one isn't for you,</i> he told himself. Instead of breaking his fast on this pitiful departed soul, he carried it here into the sea of wavering grasses and began to dig a hole. As the half-wolf worked, he whispered prayers, "<b>My soul is deprived of peace, I have forgotten what happiness is; I tell myself my future is lost, all that I hoped for from the Lord.</b>" The soil was thick and hard, here, for some reason, and the effort made him grunt and pant. But he continued, "<b>The thought of my homeless poverty is wormwood and gall; remembering it over and over leaves my soul downcast within me. But I will call this to mind, as my reason to have hope: the favors of the Lord are not exhausted... </b>" His breath was nearly exhausted. "<b>...his mercies are not spent; they are renewed each morning, so great is his faithfulness. My portion is the Lord, says my soul; therefore will I hope in him.</b>" This labor, one of penitence and love, began to ease the burden that had fallen upon his troubled soul. These words, which had been repeated so often on those Sunday mornings by the black box came back to him easily. Like the smile of a long lost friend, they washed away his grief and shame. "<b>Good is the Lord to one, who waits for him, to the soul that seeks him; it is good to hope in silence for the saving help of the Lord.</b>" Finally done, he gazed down at his work.

It appeared he had dug deeper than he had intended to.


</blockquote>

(This post was last modified: Apr 23, 2012, 03:45 AM by Kiche.)

like my art? comission me!

Chantille lay in the grasses, lids fluttering like a butterfly before closing.
She rested for a few moments, listening to the birds around the meadow, with the
occassional bee flying near her. Suddenly, there was a voice. It was not
talking though, it seemed as if it were almost chanting- perhaps praying?
Curiosity pulling like strings at her, Chant rolled back onto her stomach, putt-
ing pressure on her paws as she rose up. Eyes looked around before focusing
on a creature made of tawny tones. Another wolf.

What was he doing? She watched his mouth move as he dug at the earth
in the most focused way. Tilting her creamy head, Chantille watched this bizarre
act take place before her. After his mouth seemed to stop moving, she stepped
forth cautiously, her paws gingerly touching the grasses below. "Hello?" it
was not a full greeting, since it was more so a question. "I... I hope I'm not
interrupting anything..." she said. Her neck wound back a bit, head drawing
away.

Chantille was a bit embarassed for just speaking aloud towards this wolf- what
if he was not friendly? She frowned a bit, looking at a small yellow flower between
her paws. Tail lowered as her head lifted back up, chocolate gaze looking to Kiche.
He seemed to be an interesting character, and she wanted to know what he had
been doing. It was not like her to ask in a blunt manner, but perhaps she could
ask him later if he felt like speaking with her. If not, she completely understood. She
had interrupted him, not the other way around.

(This post was last modified: Apr 23, 2012, 01:33 PM by Chantille.)

<blockquote>
"<i>Hello?</i>"

He had assumed he was alone. Startled, his head jerked upwards and his hackles rose instinctively. Had they been watching the whole time? In an instant, his sense of healing solitude and comfortable privacy were shattered. Kiche did not enjoy the idea of being watched. Grief was a private matter, grief was <i>his</i> matter. That prayer, that beautiful prayer he had spoken was not meant for her ears. It was meant for him, for the rabbit. So convinced was Kiche of all this that he had quite made up his mind to shoo her away before he even bothered to look her way. For a moment, he considered ignoring her and just continuing the ceremony as if he had not been interrupted. But no doubt she would probably continue to watch. With a deliberate slowness, the ginger male swung his gaze in the direction of the voice, his face an inhospitable mixture of emotions painted on a callous landscape of features —warning eyes, an indifferent mouth, unwelcoming, flat ears. The flies that continued to buzz around his face fanned his vexation, his desire to be alone.

But just as the two scorching coals of his eyes fell upon the girl, the flames went out. She was a harmless little thing, a soft, well-groomed looking creature. <i>This is my grief speaking. This is my instinct and sin speaking,</i> and thus, his features softened. After all, he was a missionary in this heathen land, and it would do him no good to guard his God and religion where it was meant to be shared. <i>You just a rash child,</i> the saint told himself, <i>Think with less haste.</i> Thank Pangur he at least had had the sense to not <i>act</i> with similar haste. "<b>You're welcome to join me, if you like,</b>" the man said simply, his tone sober as he gestured towards the hole he had dug with a dirtied foreleg. All of a sudden, Kiche realized just how <i>covered</i> with dirt he was. In fact, he might as well have been a small mountain of dirty. Bashful, he amended, "<b>I apologize for my... appearance... Graves are a filthy task.</b>" He did not, however, explain himself, assuming with the usual prejudiced manner that this girl would know a funeral service when she saw one.
</blockquote>

like my art? comission me!

Chantille accepted his invitation, padding forward carefully. He was digging a
grave. The scent of the deceased critter flowed into her nostrils, and she tilted her
head in wonder. Nodding at him, she did not mind his dirted appearance one bit.
"Well, sir, I must say, you did a wonderful job." she smiled kindly at him, her
chocolate eyes giving off a friendly glow.

She leaned forward, peering into the hole. It was a lovely grave, and would do the
rabbit justice- or whatever it was this wolf was trying to do. Her eyes peered from the
dark hole back to the gingery wolf "I apologise for not introducing myself. I am Chantille.
I also apologise if I startled you...." her tone grew a bit sullen, for the way the wolf had
turned and looked at her when she first called out....well, she could see the fire in his eyes.

Chantille teetered on her front paws now, looking back into the hole. Her eyes then shot
over to the rabbit, which had no blood on it- why? She wished to find out more about this
grave digging from the wolf, but had no desire to ask right away. Perhaps he would inform
her of what exactly it was he was doing.

<blockquote>
Incredulous, his reply was a curt snort and, "<b>It's a <i>hole</i>, my lady. There isn't a wonderful thing about it.</b>" For a moment, his firebrand gaze lingered on her inquisitive, kindly face, wondering if she was usually given to superfluous conversation or just a dunderhead. Really, complimenting him on his grave-digging was a rather pointless... seeing as well, it took no skill to dig a hole... one just kept churning in the earth. Or was it some heathen courtesy, admiring holes? Perhaps wolves, who practiced all sorts of strange customs, valued digging. Snorting once more, he rolled his eyes, his focus directed back towards the veritable abyss that yawned at his paws that were black with mud. <i>Whatever,</i> if she wanted to make pretty, superficial <i>chit-chat</i> then she was welcome to it. She could gush over his hole all day, if she liked.

Woven into a tapestry of ramblings there was a name, Chantille. <i>Fitting enough,</i> he concluded after scanning her up and down once more out of the corner of his eye. It seemed just as pretty, willowy, and <i>girly</i> as the rest of her. Knowing what was expected of him, the saint responded with a grunt, "<b>Kiche.</b>" Conversational niceties did not come easy to the man, who was not used to talking to those he was unfamiliar with without a very good reason — the theft of a rabbit, or a falling head over heels, for instance. Besides, he was not here to make friends and babble on about himself or herself or how nice a <i>hole</i> he had dug. There was work to do.

"<b>Well,</b>" he said tersely, giving her a critical look, "<b>is there anything you'd like to say?</b>" Vaguely, he flicked his snout in the direction of the dead rabbit lying beside the grave.
</blockquote>

like my art? comission me!

She was delicate, and when Kiche's harsh look fell upon her, she stiffened. "I have not a word to say. You can continue praying if you'd like" Chantille did not favor the way in which this wolf seemed to judge her... In fact, it has seemed as if every wolf she came in contact with was assuming she was a super kind, girlish wolf. This was far from the truth. The creamy woman only wished to get to know a wolf before actual judgement was placed upon them.

She had known what praying was only from an elder within her old pack. The man, named Hiska, had prayed to someone in the sky for more food to become available during a harsh winter her pack had endured. No, she never actually learned any prayers from the elder, but she listened to him during that whole season.... The winter before she had decided to leave.

Chantille's paws began to knead at the earth as she carefully watched Kiche at work. He was unique, she could tell. Was he like that crazy old Hiska in her old pack? Did they speak to the same entity in the sky? Tilting her head slightly, the lady could feel herself wanting to ask the stranger about his beliefs. Instead, she stood, eyes less friendly to meet his rough gaze.

(This post was last modified: May 01, 2012, 03:04 AM by Chantille.)