Private Roleplay Your Star - Printable Version

Winter had been an experience to say the least. The forest was covered with thick snow, the daughter of fire experiencing first hand the utter cold that swept through the straits during this time. Her home had never experienced such a phenomenon, only rain that drenched the grounds to the point of flooding. Artemisia did not miss those times, and she was sure the bastards was getting watered out. She waded through the blanket of white, the biting cold soothing to her itching legs that still recovered. The wound on her back was already scarred over, the fur growing back ever so slowly.

The trees had kept her company for some time now as she searched, whatever it was that they searched for. Artemisia never wandered too far, not far enough to hear a call at least from Oriana if need be. The ex-Hawkeye was not one to sit idly by, she was a woman of ambition, one to work and do something. She was no pampered princess, she never had been. If her position with Knife had been different, then maybe she would've been different. Maybe she would've been a commander to sit and watch. Life had been difficult, however. She wouldn't even let anyone heal her wounds. They would heal in time by themselves.

The red ex-Hawkeye drifted into a meadow, one pristine in white coverage and a bare willow stood in the near middle. She wondered if this would be full of grass by spring with wildflowers blooming all variant of vibrant colors. Her mind would only allow her to see red, the poppies flowing in the jungle breeze.

Shaking her head, Artemisia waded further in, curious about the tree. She did not see the opening, not until she was halfway through the meadow did she spot the dark mouth of a den. She paused, head held high and ears forward. Now that she stopped and took in her surroundings, there was a scent ever so familiar. Eyes intensely glared at the maw, expecting someone to emerge. One of dappled coat and seafoam eyes, a woman as cold as the snow surrounding them. The ire of the daughter lit aflame in her chest, the furnace igniting flames that licked her core. Before she knew it, Artemisia was in an offensive stance, a snarl ripping through her throat as teeth shined in the dull sun.

Flakes of snow silently fell, witnesses to what was to happen.

"Where are you..." she huffed between growls. "I know you're there..."

I know you're there.

✦ ✦ Speech Text ✦ ✦

@ilunga

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SOL KATTI

There was a new fondness in her heart for the chilly winter months. Once she had feared the approaching cold in its strangeness and its haunting quiet – for when the first brisk winds of autumn had been where she lost the darkling king. But the first snowfall had brought the runaway to her ancient willow. And by the fifth, when the land had been covered in pristine sheets of white, the winter had given her Zasha.

The thaws of spring had brought her new life. The summer had brought her days of trailing after curious puppies. Warm days of singing songs and listening to their chorus of laughter.

(Never had Sol Katti been able to imagine such a lovely sound with her as its composer).

Seasons shifted and once more winter returned to her willow tree. By the first hints of winter winds, her children began to wander. Maeva then Ahi. Illidian and Beansprout, Remus and Romulus…. One by one they’d wander from home. And Sol Katti – the Sovereign, the Sabora, the Tyrant Queen, the uncertain mother… She tried her best to wish them well.

A knot in her chest twisted with a sharp feeling Sol Katti was yet to fully identify as the snowfalls blanketed her meadow and ancient willow tree. The clearing felt far too quiet now. Too still. But Zasha was always her warmth, and she would look to him for reassurance. He never seemed worried for their children – only joyous when they would visit.

Today she lays curled against her husband, the faintest of smiles at her lips as she dozes to his steady rhythm of snores. But there’s a voice from outside that rouses her – and for a moment Sol Katti wonders if Saoirse has come to visit. It was near enough to the half moon when the girl would typically make her appearance, and the spotted mother had promised her daughter a day of hunting together. With a yawn and a stretch, Sol Katti slips out of her den and into the blinding glow of sun kissed snow. "Saoirse, you’re here early this month…" She hums while blinking away sleep from seafoam eyes.

But, the figure a few yards ahead growls, and vivid greens narrow and focus upon familiar reds and black – and the marring of scars across cream cheeks.

The figure isn’t her daughter.

(Oh but Sol Katti, she is, isn’t she?)

The runaway Sabora takes a half step back, foxlike ears flattening against her skull.

“Artemisia....?“

@Gothy