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BY THE PRECEPTS OF HER PURITY
The kitsune’s tail swiped across Mr. Teatime’s joyful expression, hustling the young siberian tiger into a layer of snow. Maren, thinking this must be the time for him to crawl and hide behind her striped derriere, watched how he got up and continued to chase the kitsune Orisino once again, as if the angry response he got was just another way of encouragement. Perhaps he was mad — (they say one’s soulmate is the other’s better half) …A mad cat.
Next to that, she wondered who he thought she was. Perhaps he thought her simple as well. (Of course you come here all the time, if this is your home —) However, she decided to not take it to heart and just enjoy the mysterious air hanging around him. He, who she thought to be like her in just that one aspect; the opposite of his companion.
As dreamy as she had sounded before, as though her gaze had wandered far away through the ivory snowed plains, now her head shot back in a triangle of reality, white puffs and a characteristic, quiet glance. “You sound unbelieving of my words,” She noted; glazed with an effort to line her voice with patience she didn’t really feel. — Even though I just explained why: It is comforting. She looked at him, but rather differently this time; his eyes that had been the dark blue night before, were now like an eternally deep pit without the flickering and enchantments guiding her way. Was it just her? Or was it he who was muddled as well? Perhaps she had wanted to draw away from her sullen temper, being fickle enough, perhaps she had confused him by giving him the unusual chance to see her rare, dreaming side (as if she was capable to fool herself that she was happier, sweeter and brighter than she was). Since he didn’t seem to understand, she let him listen to her rather contrasting, but polished honesty. “...Comforting because of the illusion that I am alone, comforting because there are no scents to pull me back into memories of faces and places I am pretending to leave behind, comforting because of the thought that I can disappear if I want to — and comforting, because it is when I am lost, that I feel the closest to the Heavens and my Gods...” There was a little moment of silence where she didn’t realize that she had been keeping her breath, eyes still stuck; attempting to silence his facial features — or attempting to release herself from falling into an endless night sky. When she did realize the stocked air in her throat, her gaze wandered off with a sigh and two puffs of fog were released from her nose. But she still wasn’t sure if he understood. Troubled, she wanted to ask him something relevant that she'd quickly forgotten about. His face was coming closer to hers and was somehow making her feel like he was just making fun of her, as she had to watch the silent gold of her eyes waver and stumble as the reflections of his dark eyes, eyes like black holes, sucked her in like they would a dying star. Until the only color left in her own eyes would be that darkness within his. She felt the cold wind tangle itself in her coat and left her shiver as her feathered hands shuffled uncomfortably in his closeness. His breath had left a stain in the air that did not seem to want to go away. The silence of her eyes had gone and had left a mixture of questioning, wondering, concluding gaze; he is strange.
However, the fruits of her earlier questioning had dropped as he finally mixed in some words. Erebos, soldier of the Basin; Soldier? There were a lot of soldiers, but he had said it as if it was a big deal, as if he was special. Yet, even in chess, she didn’t think there were special kind of pawns. Even in chess, they were the ones vomited in sacrifice. She watched him bow; let him perform his little dance that she assumed he did for every negligent fool that got hypnotized by his sound and sucked into his stares. She frowned slightly, but didn’t say anything. After all, she had realized he wasn’t a cavemen, but had the protection of his herd. So he also did not really deserve her sympathy (she pitied herself more for being wrong). Trying to remember who she had met that was in the Aurora Basin, she had to conclude that it was the one herd that she admittedly was as familiar with as she was with these snowy steppes. However, she remembered their Haruspex, Ashamin, their storyteller Johnny and Ophelia the Forsaken from long ago, but never had she even had a glimpse of their homeland, or heard of their culture. There was a lot she could ask him, would he be accommodating enough. She had refilled the silence into the gold of her eyes as well as her poise. “Who I am?” She awoke from her so hidden thoughts. Like she could have found it strange that the snow did not melt around her for her desert warmth, who she was simply wasn't really a priority in the ideas and enlightenment she liked to spread. “I am the Diviner of the Dragon’s Throat,” she said. “My name is Maren,” she told Erebos, her outlandish tunes tracing her own name with different r’s and a’s.
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