in a different skin [OPEN]

[ladysarmour]

Characters: Sansa Stark, OPEN
Where: In and around Schwanheim and the castle
When: Rebirth 17, evening → night
What: From the touch of a spindle Sansa sleeps, and dreams wolf dreams.
Warnings: Mild violence, blood. It is a wolf after all.

In Schwanheim there is a wolf. Young still; but large even for a pup, with fur the grey of a rainy sky and glowing yellow eyes. She slinks through the castle and town, avoiding any guards; lesser wolves fear men, but she knows yet to be cautious of steel. The world is dulled of color, but the smells - smells of man and stone, rain and mud, damp wood, fire. Each smell should be familiar but is somehow different from what she knows: nothing smells of ice the way she knows. Down an alley and another she stalks and kills a rat, the bones crunching to splinters between her jaws and warm blood flooding her mouth. Her brothers and sister might have been able to catch better prey, larger or quicker, but she is small and has always been the milder.

A new scent catches her nose, and she turns to follow it.

Comments

[ladysarmour]

She keeps pace easily, her legs long and strong even for a pup. The night air is cool and full of sounds: here their paws padding the ground, there the rustling of a rodent in the grass, and the whispering of the wind through the leaves. Above the stars are hidden by clouds, but every so often a sliver of moonlight peeks through. She does not care where they're headed; she runs for the sheer joy of it and because she has not felt so unbound in so long.

[sorcerous]

He smells a deer fleeing, far ahead, and he doubles his speed, chases it for the joy of it, not to catch. Night breeze through his fur, and he moves as a shadow would.

[ladysarmour]

Her movements have none of his dark elegance; they are light and graceful, like a maiden in spring. But she is fast: as his pace quickens hers does too, the shackles that have bound her for so long falling away link by link. A lightness overtakes her, demanding to be given voice, so she complies, throws her head back and sings to the wild sky.

[sorcerous]

His howl joins hers, free and terrifying and wild. A harmony of the hunt.

He feels in his bones that the creatures all around, their prey, have been struck with terror.

Good; best that they know there are hunters now, in these woods. True hunters.