Dawn floods prettily over the moor, red-gold trickling through the high grasses and drenching them in rosy light. It would seem her god has not seen fit to deprive her of creation's beauty just yet, and so she drinks in the sight of the rising sun melting frost from the prairie. She winces, as if struck. She does not deserve to admire it, does she? No. Sanctity picks her way through the open-air nests, devotedly turning her face away from the sunrise.
" Good morrow, " she calls in greeting when she spots a new… Clanmate, are they called? She cannot recall his name, but she knows him by his quilted pelt and for the fact that he sleeps all tangled up with the dapplepelt runner. So many of the cats here are so brilliant in their coloring. All golden and crimson and ocean-blue. It's unsettling.
" Thou art one of the… moor-runners, are they called? Aye? " Sanctity turns a solemn gaze his way. She is still grasping the strange customs of this place, how boisterous and noisy and profane it is, full of laughter and sobs. They weep for death, she has noticed, and it is so… unusual. Sinful, a voice issues from the depths, as you are, as you will always be.
" Tell me, are ye 'moor-runners' swift of foot and skilled in the hunt? " She was formed differently than many of these cats, not so leggy and wind-chafed. She was formed for a different purpose, a lonesome destiny. A destiny you forsook. She shivers all over, though the winter chill is nothing to an ascetic's flesh. " I am beginning to think that may be the path for me, should thy hallowed leader accept me in full. "
Her skin crawls, as if the winter wind were a thousand serpents. The first acceptance of a place beyond her sworn one, of a cottontailed quarry rather than a cattailed one. It is intoxicating and frightening in equal parts, to contemplate a destiny in this place.
" Good morrow, " she calls in greeting when she spots a new… Clanmate, are they called? She cannot recall his name, but she knows him by his quilted pelt and for the fact that he sleeps all tangled up with the dapplepelt runner. So many of the cats here are so brilliant in their coloring. All golden and crimson and ocean-blue. It's unsettling.
" Thou art one of the… moor-runners, are they called? Aye? " Sanctity turns a solemn gaze his way. She is still grasping the strange customs of this place, how boisterous and noisy and profane it is, full of laughter and sobs. They weep for death, she has noticed, and it is so… unusual. Sinful, a voice issues from the depths, as you are, as you will always be.
" Tell me, are ye 'moor-runners' swift of foot and skilled in the hunt? " She was formed differently than many of these cats, not so leggy and wind-chafed. She was formed for a different purpose, a lonesome destiny. A destiny you forsook. She shivers all over, though the winter chill is nothing to an ascetic's flesh. " I am beginning to think that may be the path for me, should thy hallowed leader accept me in full. "
Her skin crawls, as if the winter wind were a thousand serpents. The first acceptance of a place beyond her sworn one, of a cottontailed quarry rather than a cattailed one. It is intoxicating and frightening in equal parts, to contemplate a destiny in this place.
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