Fireweed Rise premenstrual syndrome

Afternoon, mostly cloudy — Current Temperature: 37° F/2° C. Set near the 'border' to Riddle Heights.

<blockquote><i><font style='margin-left:20px;'>Hocus had never been a wolf at ease with the world, but his permanent cynicism had been something Trisden simply expected of him; he was not her brother unless he was worried or being pessimistic about something. In a way, it had always suited her very well, she who usually acted first and thought second or, other times, completely over-analysed things and did nothing. Rarely had she ever acted in-between, and both extremes had ruined her life; she had provoked the snake, and Theo's death had haunted her ever since, building a great wall around her core that had prevented any and all real interaction with the dark world around her.

</font><font style='margin-left:20px;'>Trisden was a child of extreme reactions. Hocus had always toed the line with the utmost scepticism, believing nothing and questioning everything. He kept her in line when nobody else could. That's why she had begged him to leave with her - not that it had taken much convincing; his wanderlust had been insatiable. She trusted him to look after her, even without having to ask, for she could never ask such a thing.

</font><font style='margin-left:20px;'>And he followed her without question. She was pleased for his compliance. She just hadn't been aware of his escalating bitterness.</font></i>

---

The mountains were finally behind her. That was an experience she didn't want to repeat in a hurry. It was so relieving to have a real expanse of grass beneath her paws, and not just the coarse wisps that grew at higher altitudes. Grass and flowers and trees - this was her environment, not the rocks and stones and sheer drops. She wasn't some crazy thrill-seeker. (Not that she didn't often find excitement, but that wasn't her fault... the devil's stain was simply impossible to wash away.)

In the near distance, the smear of red sang out like a beacon; her target. She could reach that point and then rest again. There were ruby flowers beneath her feet here, but the blanketing was thin and sparse. She wanted to walk where they were thickest. The land was familiar, vaguely comforting, but the promise of forests just on the horizon was where she really wanted to be. It was also the place the terrified her the most, but that was the whole point.

With a satisfied sigh, the young wolf hopped up onto a grassy knoll and lowered her haunches elegantly, head in the air and ears pricked. She made quite the regal silhouette, sat on that small mound, head high and a private smile full of confidence. Cedarwood wasn't far. Give her another day or two, and she'd be home, and everything she had ever feared would be right there, waiting for her.

She could do this. She could <i>totally</i> do this.</blockquote>

<blockquote><ul><span style='font-size:7pt;line-height:100%'>slight powerplay of Lif here. but I suppose there will be a backdated thread where this actually happens...</span></li></ul>
The whirling dervish had finally come out of hiding to return to harassing the world.

Though she loathed to admit it, that little stint in the willows in the rain had gotten her <i>horribly</i> sick. Sure, she had known all along that it was a bad idea to go dancing out in the rain and go chasing after hot dates, but where was the <i>fun</i> in holing herself up in some old badger den until it stopped? What had began as a few sneezes in Rihael's face had turned into a cold, but what was "<i>just a cold</i>" for a normal wolf was far more than "<i>just a cold</i>" for little Dagrún. Though she couldn't know it — perhaps her mother did— it had nearly killed her. The cough that had wracked her poor, feeble body stole all her strength from her, and she had been confined to a den for <i>weeks</i> by her tyrannical mother. Only now was she finally beginning to regain any semblance of the strength she had once believed she had...

And she was not taking it easy.

With the awkward grace of an adolescent, she floundered through the field of scarlet flowers, remembering how dearly she loved the color red: the color of <i>passion</i>, the color of <i>romance</i>, the color of <i>blood</i>. Haplessly, she collapsed on her back and stared up at the cloud-swathed sky, thinking vaguely of how handsome the dark boy who had gotten her sick was. <i>Oh, to be in love.</i> She sighed with a contrived art, and ripped a petal from a nearby flower. <i>He loves me...</i> She reached for another, tearing it with unnecessary roughness, <i>He loves me not...</i>
</blockquote>

<blockquote>The flit of a dainty white thing lingered in the corner of Trisden's vision for several moments, purposefully ignored. To be easily distracted was a weakness, and her intentions were far too grand to permit any such lapse in judgement. She was not here to <i>socialise</i>. The necessity of talking to strangers, while frequently imposed on her of late - by the Lord's name, she had forgotten how this land teamed with wolves - was something she could deal with once she was home and her place in the world had been properly finalised.

That was, if she was allowed back at all. But that particular trial could be dealt with as and when it was faced.

Still the white shape pranced, and in a moment of weakness, she allowed herself to look at it. Unsurprisingly, it was a wolf, and though she had intended the glance to be momentary, Trisden could not help but stare at the distant figure. There was no way she would be caught; the wolf frolicked where the flowers were thick, a good distance away, and for a moment Trisden spent her time simply watching, ears pushed forwards, entranced by the clash of white on red. Then, abruptly, the pale shape collapsed, and Trisden could barely see anything but tiny white legs.

How absurd. Blinking, the girl shook her head free of the trance, but it was too late. Her grand moment of pondering was lost, all because of some silly game played by some silly wolf in the distance.

Well, she thought, as she leapt from the hillock with a huff, she was heading that way anyway, so... so what? She wasn't interested. With a faint frown to mar her otherwise purposeful expression, Trisden marched on towards where the flowers were thickest, totally (<i>totally</i>) unconsciously happening to head in the direction of where the white shape had so emphatically flopped over.

Head high, she strode onwards, pushing the thought from her mind. She was on an important journey... she couldn't afford distractions.</blockquote>

<blockquote><ul><span style='font-size:7pt;line-height:100%'>cue obnoxious dag!</span></li></ul><i>He loves me...</i>

She couldn't remember if her prince charming had told her is name, but she decided that wasn't really important. What was important was that they were in love —if the flower could be believed— and all the other trivial details like how bossy he was, how sick he had made her, and what his name was... things like that could be overlooked. They had to be, otherwise... Otherwise. Well, then she wouldn't be in love anymore, and then where would Dagrún be? Life was boring when the little queen had no one to terrorize with her attention.... And on and on these thoughts ricocheted about her head, a furious blur of thoughts and images in her head raced past her eyes: <i>his eyes, when he had scared the living daylights out of her, puppies...</i>

So entranced with her fantasy was she that a dark form nearly went unnoticed.

<i>Nearly.</i>

Of course the pale yearling could never be trapped in any fantasy, no matter how delicious it was. She was distracted too easily by movement. It was as if her clay-colored eyes were unwieldy hooks that were always catching and snagging on the world around her. So of course, as an unsuspecting stranger passed by to her left, Dagrún's attention was torn away from her daydreams. The little spitfire took everything in in a single instant: this cream-and-dun girl was her age, and she was <i>beautiful</i>. There was just something unnameable in the way that she carried herself. Banal awe sparkled in her cinnamon eyes, although it was tainted by the jealousy that lurched in the pit of her stomach. Suddenly, Dagrún wanted nothing more than to be near to this stranger, pretty girl and hope that some of her raw allure would rub off on her. Maybe... just maybe if she stood close enough, someone, as if staring into the sun, might think that some of the light came from the silly white girl... She had to stop her, before she walked away. Up from the ground she sprung, grass and torn petals flying into the air with her.

"<span style='font-family:georgia'><span style='font-size:9pt;line-height:100%'><b>Oh my <i>god</i> your fur is gorgeous!</b></span></span>" She was only a girl, after all. Her head was filled with silly nonsense.

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(This post was last modified: May 20, 2012, 09:15 PM by Dagrún.)

Dagrún is the most hilarious thing since sliced bread. Congratulations, you have OHKO'd Trisden.

<blockquote>By the time she was nearby, Trisden had almost managed to forget about the white shape. Her mind was full of important things, after all, and they were her fuel; it was no difficult thing to be swept up in the enormity of the road ahead.

Apparently, the pale wolf liked living in the corner of her vision. Faintly she registered the fact that the shape was nearby, and stubbornly she did her best to ignore it - but then that corner of the world erupted as the wolf leapt up, all white fur and red petals and green grass, and Trisden nearly jumped two feet in the air.

Her jaw fell open instinctively to reply, but the moment that she really comprehended the excitable declaration, she was utterly and hopelessly lost for words. Her... fur... what?

Trisden had grown up with three boys (then two... then one...) and Lettie, though soft, had never really been <i>that</i> sort of girl. As far as Trisden was concerned, she was ready for the big-game stuff; she had skipped the 'boys' phase completely. Certainly, she had <i>never</i> had a 'beauty' phase. Perhaps it was just her pragmatic upbringing (all-powerful-beings-in-the-sky aside) but this was pretty much as foreign as it got.

<b>"I. <i>Uhhh...</i> Thank you?"</b>

What... what had just happened?</blockquote>

<blockquote>
Standing so near to this stranger magnified her awkward, sickly body, her awkward, shrill voice, and her awkward, <i>stupid</i> attempt to start conversation. As the other girl's head swung towards her, Dagrún felt a sharp stab of something like regret or shame. Suddenly she realized just how <i>weird</i> she was, how weird she <i>looked</i>. And judging by that dumbstruck stare etched on the cream girl's face, she thought so too...<i>Stupid, stupid, stupid!</i> There had to be better ways to start conversations. Her mother didn't seem to have any problem with talking to others. She was poised, articulate, a <i>lady</i> in all accounts.... But Dagrún... Dagrún was just a ill-looking shrimp who had grown herself quite an ego in the past few months. Without any other girls her age to talk to or compare herself with, that ego had swelled beyond reason.

And now it had been popped by this harsh, wild-looking girl and was quickly deflating.

Fumbling to reconcile her woeful lack of manners or social competency, the white yearling began to babble. She made no apologies, and instead of moving away from the unwarrented compliments, she continued down the same path she had been headed all along —this time at a nervous, breakneck speed. "<span style='font-family:georgia'><span style='font-size:9pt;line-height:100%'><b>Do you groom it a certain way or is that just your natural color? Do you think you could show me? I mean... I do this thing with berries on my face that looks kind of cool... Only there aren't any — </b></span></span>"

The rational part that still remained to Dagrún finally managed to find an off switch, and she shut up quite abruptly, realizing she was just digging herself deeper into a hole. "<span style='font-family:georgia'><span style='font-size:9pt;line-height:100%'><b>I'm... sorry. Got. Carried away. I'm Dagrún.</b></span></span>"
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<blockquote>Once the shock began to slowly wear off - it would not do to be so dumbstruck, how ridiculous! - Trisden really began to see the girl in front of her. It was rare for Trisden to feel particularly big as compared to anybody her age, but this... she was a wisp of a wolf, really. Her nose said that she was not much older than herself, but she could have been six months old, if the timing wasn't all wrong.

Smoothly Trisden regained her composure, head lifting slightly as she assumed the automatic position of looking ever-so-slightly down her nose at the other wolf. It was not really a conscious gesture, but nor would she be in a hurry to correct herself if she realised she was doing it. She stared at the fragile white girl, bemused by her sudden shift from outrageous questions to embarrassment, and listened with something near patience (or perhaps she was just rooted to the spot) as the rambling continued. She literally had nothing to say in response to any of it. Berries... on her face? Just... what? What?

Was this a test? For just a moment, Trisden glanced upwards, offering the cloudy sky a confused frown before returning her stare to the white girl.

Who, incidentally, was apparently called Dagrún. <i>Got carried away?</i> <b>"Are you... okay?"</b> Trisden asked slowly, cautiously, half-afraid that any encouragement might set the loony girl off again. If this was a test, then she was not going to fail it. And even if it was not... well, it was the saintly thing to do. Talk to the clinically insane, that is. Nobody else would.</blockquote>

<blockquote>
<i>"Are you... okay?"</i>

Wow, she was going to need a bandaid for that one.

Suddenly remembering herself and the pride that had been hidden behind a cloud, she tried to stand a little straighter. With her chest pushed out so ridiculously, perhaps she looked a little bigger and a little less pathetic. But the congealed gunk that caked her eyes and nose still gave her away as the pathetic and sickly girl she really was. But she had <i>spunk</i>, damn it. "<span style='font-family:georgia'><span style='font-size:9pt;line-height:100%'><b>Of course I'm <i>okay</i> what kind of question is that?</b></span></span>" This girl was frighteningly beautiful and so worth fawning over, but she wasn't so pretty that Dagrún would let herself be <i>insulted</i> like that. She was so upset that she was beginning to feel a sneeze coming on again —why was it that being angry always made her sneeze?

Taking a step closer, she added with burgeoning dignity, "<span style='font-family:georgia'><span style='font-size:9pt;line-height:100%'><b>I just lose track of my manners sometimes.</b></span></span>" On further inspection, the white spitfire picked out the scents of the mountain rolling off of the other girl's coat. She smelled like <i>adventure</i>. Mother would have <i>killed</i> her if she had ever tried to climb the mountain that loomed only miles away on the horizon. Looking harder, Dagrún also decided that this girl... this girl was not a <i>real</i> girl. She looked too coarse, too hardened, too... <i>jaded</i> or something like that. She seemed like she was some woman of the world... but less... <i>womanly</i>. Suddenly some of the glamour began to fade from the cream girl's aura. A light sneer curled about her lips casually as her ego began to rebuild itself. It was only the scent of adventure and that proud look she wore that gave her that rough, uncharted appeal... She wasn't <i>really</i> beautiful when you got up closer —at least, that was what Dag's ego would have her believe.

"<span style='font-family:georgia'><span style='font-size:9pt;line-height:100%'><b>So have you always been a tom-boy?</b></span></span>"
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<blockquote>Trisden thought that it was a perfectly good question, thank-you-very-much. She watched as the weedy little thing puffed out her chest and tried to look grand. Was she trying to be funny? Or... was something just really, seriously wrong with her? Displeasure flickered through her expression, finally cutting past the bewilderment, and her tail twitched upwards without thought as Dagrún stepped closer and off-handedly tried to excuse her poor manners.

Trisden did not enjoy the critical way in which this headcase looked at her, just as she did not enjoy being judged by anybody. She did not need <i>approval</i>, not from pure strangers who meant nothing. Her mother, Kade, and powers greater than all of them - their opinions mattered. Others who Trisden happened to like, their opinions mattered a bit, too. And while she would behave properly and with dignity, it did not mean she had to stand by and be treated like - wait, what?

<b>"A tom-boy?"</b> she repeated, abruptly pulled back into this conversation. Because apparently they were having a conversation now. Whoops. The girl frowned, and took a step forward, head lowering to be level with this fragile upstart, ears pushing forwards and eyes gleaming. She did not feel bad for trying to intimidate somebody who was so much weaker than herself - the very fact that she had found anyone who fit that description at all was a beautiful novelty. No way was she going to pass up the opportunity. Besides, she had a reputation to uphold; 'talking to the headcase' did not mean she had to put up with being belittled. <b>"I am not a <i>tom-boy</i>. My name is Trisden Lyall, and I am <i>heir</i> to the <i>greatest pack</i> in all of Relic Lore."</b> Technically. So long as her mother and Kade forgave her. But that... that was just a minor detail. Not important right now.

Besides... not that she really cared, of course, but Trisden didn't think she was that hard on the eyes.</blockquote>