macaria

palest shadow; darkest light

The night-sky is beginning to fade away, gently sweeping the dark blues with a slick brush of rosy pinks and silky purples. Her golden-amber eyes watch the curve of the sun crest the distant hillocks just before they reach the thick woodland edge. Her father's body glides into the shadows and she next, her eyes taking time to adjust to the blotted out light. The fog swirls at the edges of the well-worn path, travelers before them had already disturbed it's peaceful blanket across the mossy forest floor.  His big burly body pads ahead of her, familiar with their surroundings – Mac has been practically lost since birth, barely grasping a rough idea of a map in her head. She does know she is in fact headed toward home, her father's body language and her general lack of stupidity tells her this simple, vague fact. The sounds of the waves have faded away now and all that fills her small cupped ears is the gentle thumps of her father's carefully placed footfall and the ravens beginning to wake and call out their daybreak celebrations.

The traveling kin are now beginning to see more forest and the air has lost it's salty crisp. She quickens her pace to a trot, only to catch up to the warmth of Archibald's rib cage and then match his walking pace just behind his shoulder. Her skin prickles and her nostrils tighten, widening to suck in more smells. Her bright eyes doing the same, hungry for her surroundings and swelling until the white brims of their outer-lining show. She says nothing, but she's sure that her father has not missed the transpirings of his yearling daughter nearly jumping from her dappled skin with wonderment. As they walk she attempts to take in everything from the smells, the soil, the trees, the budding foliage to the cold streams they keep having to cross. She memorizes landmarks best of all – old trees, big boulder, faces carved in the sentinel trunks or ruins of some sort. The whole way she does this.

 Her winter fur has gone, after much rubbing and meticulous maintenance (the others teased that she preens like a common swan), has left behind a sleek, leopard dappled silvery coat. It is thick and short, still sleek like the thin-skinned children of lighter builds. It is almost metallic, sparkling like sterling around the chiseled patches of dapple. Her tail is still all except for it's tasseled end, quirking and spinning constantly, hanging just above the dirt and roots. The day's temperature is proving fair, no bite to the air but still not quite warm. The clouds roll over them, few and far between, big and fluffy like wads from a cotton plant. The breeze is sweet and gentle, carrying with it the smells of fresh water and new vegetation. They walk all day under a cloak of sunlight, climbing and descending and trotting across flat ground and then hills again.

She walks close to him but is careful not to stumble into him or get her cloven feet in the way of his walking. She can hear the churning waters ahead and now it's almost approaching evening. They're path has yet to end though, or even approach an end. Her legs are starting to ache, the hoof she injured months ago has started to throb as well. She ignores it but her body cannot quite hide the subtle limp. She remains quiet though, naturally. The next few miles feel like forever, but alas the mists can be seen boiling from the rushing water spilling onto the rocks and into it's crystalline pool. She sucks in a deep sigh, watching the distance for any change, for a body or a light to be seen ahead. The sun is setting now and the sky blazes an orange like flame, the clouds have adopted sharp edges and started to gather in more and more. The branches and fragile newborn growth catches the beams of warm light reaching out across the horizon. For a moment everything is gleaming gold.

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