It's in the Energy [o]

[V.anadium]

There would come a day when my muscles would break down into little proteins, when my mind wasn't as sharp as it is now. With each day in passing my joints were beginning to ache just a little bit more, and each day I watched the young ones around me grow taller and older, and I was reminded that life wasn't long and that I would soon be passing. But, unlike before, when I was younger and I was still in my prime, I wasn't scared of death. I had served this Earth well, even if I wasn't always right in the head each moment of the way. I had years of insanity, seen in my flaming amber irises. The crazy was still behind them, it had never completely left. I was a killer at heart, a war hero, a warrior.

Years of battle had hardened my mind. I was no longer afraid of death, and I would welcome it with open arms when it came to me. But no, I wouldn't take my life. Ever. Suicide was for the weak, for the ones who couldn't bear pain. I hated pansies, so very much. With the cool breeze rushing past through the tree trunks, I could feel the bitter hold of winter beginning to die down. I was waiting for spring to come; this winter hadn't gotten it's hold on me, and I wasn't about to give in to it's icy fingers.

I stood up, my mind still in a calm state of peace. In the last few years of being Renegade's Delta male, I realized I had been truly home. Nyx was there, though I didn't see her much. My sons were alive, my daughter was alive. My nephew Anakaros had been alpha, and my granddaughter Harley had grown to be a beautiful woman. Although I know there are definite problems with our family, at least I had been home where I belonged.

But now I was here in Terra Ignum. Renegade had fallen to those who had plagued my family for centuries. I had followed Cesaru's two most horrendous spawn to this very place. My life wouldn't end in vain; I would eliminate the tainted lines in this family if it was the last thing I did.

I closed my eyes for a few moments, before opening them to look out at the beautiful territory. I felt at peace; all was quiet. I wondered where the rest of the pack members were. Standing on the little hill I had been resting on, I looked out at the trees beginning to bloom, the snow beginning to melt and the grass poking through the thin crusted layer of frost. Maybe someone would come along, but maybe not.


Chara: Xecir
Notes: Open for anyone.

[huzzah!]

Were there no heroes? What about gods? Women and men, with hearts of gold, laced with battle scars, who walked with dignity for the path of the rightiousness and true. Who protected the innocent, and expected nothing in return. Jester, Minstrel's teacher, often told her, a good story had to have a good villian. And yes, she could agree to that. But villians seem to pop out of nowhere. From juvenile delinquents that stole her kill to those who commited more wild crimes.

Minstrel paused from her train of thought, and out from her mouth, her purple tongue flicked, eyes wide with curiosity. After all, the fog was thick and the stories that lurked in such a place were strong. Minstrel, being a teller of tales, was strong in element with tales of myth and lore. And what was better than a demon hole, sucking souls and chewing on bones. Perhaps she was a bit of hypocrite, hating the villians that lurked underneath her nose, but eagerly going to a destination where villians were sure to hang. But in Minstrels's mind, there was no wrong. This hole, this demonic thing was a story but the villians, they were oh so real.

Whipping her tail backand forth, she 'tasted' her way through, as snakes, her bretheren were known to do. Her jaws would part and the tongue would slip out, flicker before diving back in. Both smell and taste combined, a powerful beast with a rather beast like appearence. She flicked her ears and sighed, wondering once more, where was everyone.

Didn't anyone enjoy a good story? Or were Bards and poets not a welcome thing in this society? Minstrel frowned at the thought, displeased by such a notion. Surely, everyone loved a good story! It is what calmed a savage beast, can lull a scared child, truly even a good story could haunt a savage dictator. After all, the pen is mightier than the sword.

Then again, that was Minstrel's ways of thinking and with a flick of her ears, and sigh from her lips, she opened her mouth and started to recite.

In a world that is dark grey, the knights of white would arise, and with blades that were true, they would smite the wicked and with hearts of gold would lay down their lives for the wicked. But just as their is good, their is evil, and the warriors of the wicked, black in color and heart, the tongues were poisonous and as the whites and blacks clashed with evil and good.

She licked her black lips, and looked aroun eagerly. Yes, the climax was rising, a climatic story attracted good crowds, she learned that from experience. come out come out wherever you are! she sang and continued to walk, to find a good perch out of the fog, after all, a bard had to be in contact with anyone, easy to find.

blood spilled and in the end, there was no wolves to rise, no soldiers to take up the role of either warriors. the legacy was dying, or would be dead if not for the revenge thirsty wolves, brothers and sisters that rose to the occasion, to fight the murderers who destroyed them. And still they raise their swords today, histories as old as time and hate that is explainable, but that burns, a flame that cannot die.

[V.anadium]

The slight scent of wolves was always on the wind. It was a natural occurrence and nothing to be worked up over. Though with each passing minute, clumped in groups of ten, his senses sharpened slightly. There was perhaps someone on the wind, someone who had wandered along and found him. Or maybe they hadn't. Maybe they were just passing through. Either way, I was curious to see what the land was going to bring to me. It seemed only females had been through this area recently; maybe some sort of womanly trail? I snorted at the thought; I wasn't any kind of pervert, and I wasn't interested in getting any. I was growing old, I was far too gone for that. Plus, I had already met the love of my life, who had passed on. But I did not want anyone else.

I pushed these thoughts from my mind as it always made me sad to think about Nyx. Bright amber eyes turned to see anything out of the ordinary, anything that moved, but from what I could see nothing had shifted. I could hear a slight whisper on the breeze, but for a good half hour or so I was pretty sure it was just a whisper of the wind. But soon enough, I heard the ending of some sort of mantra, the beginning to a tale.

...brothers and sisters that rose to the occasion, to fight the murderers who destroyed them. And still they raise their swords today, histories as old as time and hate that is explainable, but that burns, a flame that cannot die.

An interesting tale from what I had heard. I quickly saw the stranger appear, a female, as I had predicted. "An intriguing mantra, I do admit. Would you mind telling me the rest?" I was the old timer here, if anything, grandpappy should be telling her the story; but, as it seemed, she was quite the poet, and I had a feeling she was dying to get something out.

[huzzah!]

For a moment, Minstrel truly believed that she was alone in this godforsaken fog, doomed to stumble the gravestones and crosses alone. If there is one thing that any bard hates, is to be alone. There are many stories of a lone hero, who walked into battle alone, confident with solitude. Minstrel was not one of those wolves.

Which was why Minstrel leaped with joy, hopping on her toes. Her tail whipped across her head with excitement, but she mangaged to keep her ears trained on the vocals of the old audience member. With a low bow, extending richly colored brown paw, Minstrel nodded. but of course.

Interesting mantra, did he say? Well, prepare to be intrigued! They say that leader of the white knights, or so history calls them had a brother, who although quiet at first, was pained with the lost of his brother. The same had happened with the wicked warriors, and the leader's sister, whose heart was blacker than ever before rose to the occasion. When soldier after soldier died, and soon the ranks began to diminish in number, until the wicked sister and the righteous brother remained. Not even age and injury could stop the two from ripping at one another throats. When finally, the two fell, with exhaustion, and died. With the red crimson that blossomed from their throat, and with undying compassion and love for their people, the blood turned to a beautiful blossom that stretches to the sky in eagerness. For memoirs everywhere, the flower is Lobelia, a combined name of both wolves, to never be forgotten.

Her tale was finished, and she bowed her head low and curled her reptilian tail around her heels, pleased. Was he expecting it? Or did the old timer know of the tale already? It was one out of Minstrel's favourite stories, such tales of hidden compassion, bloody battles that turned into something beautiful. Ever the optimist, Minstrel hoped to see something like that. See a wolf burst into stars or flowers, that would truly be a magnificent sight.

She peeked an eye open, shaking with excitement. Hungry for feed-back and praise, there was nothing the lady would enjoy more than praise. Was her voice loud? Did he see the battle in his mind like she? The fury in each one another's eyes when the two warriors clawed at each other throats? Or the final fall? The power of a story, told right is powerful. It can change a thought with meaning and moral. Did he? Did he feel the energy that radiated from such an old, yet well-woven tale?

[V.anadium]

The sincerity and passion this woman held within her made me think of my younger days, when I had the lust and passion for battle. The fire within her eyes sparked as I encouraged her to go on and I sat down comfortably as she wove her tail of riches through the air. The first thing I noticed about her was the snake tail that curled around her rump, smacking the air next to her as she grew excited. It was joyful to me, as an elder, to see youth so passionate about something. The story she began to paint for me was one of interest, one that I have heard in different variations time and time again, though of course not with the same characters but with similar morals and ideas. I could hear the cries of Bloodshed ringing out, the bloodied gurgles of warriors falling onto the red poppy field, their blood only bringing a more rich color of crimson to the scarlet petals. Flowers that had blossomed from gore, right along the lines of the little mantra this bard was telling.

As I listened to the rest of the tale I closed my eyes lightly to allow the pictures more room to grow. I saw the bloody battles of family, those who fought over such kingdoms. I sympathized with the story; I myself had come from a sanctuary in which thrones were constantly being fought over, where the blood spilled freely and the glory of war was strong in everyone's hearts.

"A beautiful tale, my dear. One that has been passed down through many generations, though do not worry, yours is the first of it's tribute I have heard. The ideas have been long pondered," I told her with a pleasant and acknowledging nod of my slim white head. I took another look at her reptilian tail as it shifted to curl around her feet, and I cocked my head slightly to the side. "An interesting feature, if you do not mind me saying so. My name is Xecir Fuentes, and yours?"

[huzzah!]

Her eyes stretched and widened, brightened with the praise, the much needed praise that she needed to hear. Praise, feedback helped any minstrel, and true to her name of birth, a minstrel was what Minstrel was.

Yes! She exploded, jumping from her tightly curled sitting position into a standing position. She bowed a little wobbly, but it was low with respect. Respect for the old man who took the time out of his shortened life to listen to a tale, that was hardly interesting and short.

Thank you! I have a fondness for reptiles, and pleased that I was given such a luxury of being halfed of wolf and snake.

[/color] She hissed slightly, her mouth turning up slightly at the ends in a warm smile.

Even as she said so, she looked down at the scaled tail and felt the purple tongue flicker at the roof of her mouth. Long like mamba, thick like a constrictor and was like a fifth arm, or another sense. It was just a tail, but another limb. are you fond of them as well? Minstrel certainly hoped so, for she had feeling that this slightly scarred elder and she, a simple bar with no stories of her own, would get along swimmingly. Snakes had a terrible reputation, for being sly, cruel. They decieved and tricked, but they were good-hearted too.

Her ears flicked forward and her head rose with attentive shock and she smiled. Minstrel Snakestongue, keeper of legends, teller of tales. That is me. She bowed once more, low and pleased. Just as important as their tales, a bard's introduction was important as well. Jester often told her, that it to be short, to the point. You could weave tall and long tales later.

It was such a shame that today's youth was not nearly as interested in tales of heroics and legends of monsters and treasures. It pained her deeply, that no one had the time to listen to stories. You could really learn something form heros and villians, old war soldiers. but no one listened. [/size][/blockquote]