Wild Cherry Orchard girl in the mirror

<span style='font-size:7pt;line-height:100%'>this is gonna take plaaaaace before Borlla's thread with Ruiko and probably after her thread with Rhysis, even though I have no idea what's happening in that thread omg i worry about timelines way too much...</span>

A small chuckle lifted from the girl as she wandered through the trees, trying to hide from Bardou. It was nothing more than a game, something to take her mind off of their bigger goal to find a home. It didn't hurt to take a break every so often. She hadn't been here in forever. She couldn't quite remember, but she wondered if she'd come here with Indru. And they'd make a snack of the cherries that had fallen from the trees. The memory was faint, and she shook it out of her head. Chuckling, she looked around, before settling in the shade of one of the trees. There were cherries upon the ground, but she didn't have much interest in eating any now.

A yawn parted her jaws, and she quickly closed off the noise, ears folding back. She would not give herself away with a yawn. How silly. Pulling a few of the berries towards her, she crushed them beneath her paws, the deep red juices seeping onto the damp earth. A mischevious grin crossed her face, and she leaned forward, rubbing her cheeks and muzzle along the ground, through the sticky liquid. What a mess this would be to clean up, but she could only imagine how awful she really looked. <b style="color:#32527a">"speech."

Lurking until the end of July - Please PM/tag me to get my attention

<blockquote><ul><span style='font-size:7pt;line-height:100%'>LOL. so I saw this was in Wild Cherry Orchard and I was like "OH. I have an idea, Dag will smear her face with cherries!" and then I red your post and was like "Oh wow, frankie did that too." And then I looked back at the title and thought, "AHHH. FRANKIE IS PSYCHIC."
so get out of my head!
oh and warning: dag is apparently retarded. <s>or maybe it's just me</s></span></li></ul>Maybe they had been sisters in another life, or maybe they were both far less original than they thought, but both white girls wore red stains like carelessly drawn lipstick about their muzzles.

In the dregs of a puddle, Dagrún gazed back at a dirty, distorted reflection of herself, all the while thinking: <i>damn girl, looking fine</i>. Alright, the red splatter about her scout was an accident, and if you stared at it hard enough it looked like blood... but the child thought the contrast between the berry stain and her silver fur was both striking and lovely... in an I'm-going-to-eat-you-face kind of way. It made her look <i>dangerous</i> — which she was most certainly <i>not</i>. In reality, she was just a runaway child playing dress-up in the forest and eating whole branches of berries as if she were just a bottomless walking stomach. With an air of languid ennui, Dag strolled through the copse, staring up at the jewels of blood that sparkled high above her reach. Jealousy sparkled in her cinnamon glare as her eyes darted from one bird fluttering about the branches and then another. <i>The</i> could reach all the berries their heart desired! <i>I wish I could fly... Maybe then I could escape this stupid body..</i> For she was always so tired. But just then a spark of laughter ripped her attention away from her wretched, wingless prison of a body. She hadn't realized there was someone here. With the restraint of a rodeo bull, she shot off towards the source of the noise, just a silver streak weaving through the trees.

When she stumbled across the white stranger... she didn't really know what to do. Mouth hanging open, the silver girl stared dumbly at the other girl... the other girl who wore a red face <i>just like her</i>. Inflamed by the audacity of this stranger who hadn't asked to jack her sense of style, Dagrún regarded the older girl with an accusatory glare. "<span style='font-family:georgia'><span style='font-size:9pt;line-height:100%'><b>Excuse me, <i>I'm</i> the only one allowed to wear red.</b></span></span>" These, at least, were the rules that she'd made up in her fashionista world. But... maybe that was a bit rude —mother was always telling her how rude she was. Hastily, she added, her tone slightly apologetic, "<span style='font-family:georgia'><span style='font-size:9pt;line-height:100%'><b>I mean... it doesn't go well with your eyes.</b></span></span>" Which were only a shade different than her own. Whoops.
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(This post was last modified: May 20, 2012, 04:21 PM by Dagrún.)

There had been a slight rustling in the distance, she feared that Bardou had discovered where she'd hidden. Borlla was quite prepared to burst away again, but the wolf that appeared was quite pale in comparison to the large Bardou. And smeared in the same red that Borlla wore. The aging yearling cracked a smile, brows rising in amusement when the younger wolf spoke. Borlla got to her paws, bending down in a stretch, before settling back on her haunches, regarding the mouthy girl.

<b style="color:#32527a">"Who made you queen of the orchard?" Borlla asked, words curt, though she was quite amused by all of this. <b style="color:#32527a">"Besides, I was here first, not to mention our eyes are nearly the same color." Clearly someone was fishing for excuses. Her tail swayed behind her, moving in such a way that a cat's would when irritated, though it looked a bit more playful when Borlla did it. <b style="color:#32527a">"speech."

Lurking until the end of July - Please PM/tag me to get my attention

<blockquote><ul><span style='font-size:7pt;line-height:100%'>i'm sorry i'm so horrible about posting </span></li></ul>"<span style='font-family:georgia'><span style='font-size:9pt;line-height:100%'><b>No one had to <i>make</i> me queen of the orchard!</b></span></span>" She retorted with an alarming quickness — but her tongue had always been sharp and ready. "<b><span style='font-family:georgia'><span style='font-size:9pt;line-height:100%'>No one <i>makes</i> queens. They're <i>born</i>.</b></span></span>" <i>Well isn't she </i>stupid.<i>.</i> And Dagrún had been born a queen. She had that air of entitlement, that unshakable pride that lingered in the reedy tones of her voice....

But Dagrún didn't <i>look</i> like a queen.

All she could possibly have had going for her was that pearl white coat — but she had gone and stained it with red berries. She was spindly and small, sickly and pitiful. Her nose, if one looked past the rouge, seemed caked with snot and oozed unhealthily and some rather questionable goo had congealed in the corners of her eyes. Her breath was always ragged, always thin, as if she were threatening to die of asphyxiation at any given moment. Dagrún looked more like an uppity street urchin than a <i>queen</i>, but she acted the role with ignorant grace nonetheless.

"<span style='font-family:georgia'><span style='font-size:9pt;line-height:100%'><b>And a queen is always here first. I was always here first.</b></span></span>" Clearly, they were going to have to set some ground rules, because this copy-cat seemed a little unhinged if truth be told. "<span style='font-family:georgia'><span style='font-size:9pt;line-height:100%'><b>And your eyes are whatever color I say they are.</b></span></span>" For good measure, she added with definitive snort after a pause: "<span style='font-family:georgia'><span style='font-size:9pt;line-height:100%'><b>So there.</b></span></span>" With far less grace, the little queen suddenly stretched out in the same cat-like manner that this haughty stranger had, also reclining to her haunches.

She wore a challenge on her face.</blockquote>

(This post was last modified: May 20, 2012, 04:18 PM by Dagrún.)