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Post by Morgan on Feb 7, 2006 6:31:37 GMT -6
my eyes flicked to the tattoo on her arm, curious. But, not wanting to pry into such matters, I continued the rest of my story. "A wolf's honor and pride are everything. Without them, he has little business calling him self a wolf." I clenched my fists. Again I saw the battle between me and Borgoth . . .as the memory played itself out in my mind, I was reminded all too well of my deeds. Borgoth had been a wolf among wolves. He was a massive male who stood nearly six inches taller then me at the shoulder. His snow white coat and battered muzzle had told the story of his life, and his victories. Every scar was a tale of his glory, and how he had become, and still remained, the leader of the pack . . .and I had challenged him. "I was young and foolish . . ." I whispered to myself "He defeated me with little effort . . ." The pain upon recieving my scar, seired through me, and I winced without knowing that I had.
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Post by Sita on Feb 7, 2006 21:02:18 GMT -6
Sita put a hand to his cheek and used her power to take his pain from him. "I got this tatt from my father. He wanted to mark me so he could never lose me, if I deemed myself no longer his daughter a pain like no other would sear through my blood until I took it back. So in other words it's a curse/tracking device." She stood up silently and walked over to the edge of the cliff again and picked up her flute and started playing a soft, slow song.
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Post by Morgan on Feb 9, 2006 17:51:26 GMT -6
I listened with interest as Sita described the nature of her tattoo and her father . . .it was a sad story indeed. But when she got up and walked to the edge of the cliff, I heard again the soft slow music that Sita let flow from her flute . . . I closed my eyes and listened to the melody, the sound reminded me of an evening wind through the passes and peaks of my mountain home . . .sad and cool . . .
And again, I was the wolf. Sitting there in Sita's borrowed clothing, my eyes half closed and my nose sampling the night air.
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Post by Sita on Feb 9, 2006 19:39:27 GMT -6
Sita started bobbing her head to the music, something she did often when playing. The song reminded her of her mother but soon she was so rapped up in the music that she completely forgot about her mother and even her surroundings.
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Post by Morgan on Feb 9, 2006 19:53:33 GMT -6
As the music intensified, it seemed that the lines between my mind and reality had become blurred. My more primal half squirmed out of Sita's clothing so that he could be where she was and sing with the melody that she played . . . He sang as any wolf does, howling a mornful and haunted song . . .one of the earth's oldest tunes. The wolf sang softly at first but, as Sita continued to play, he began to voice the songs of his ansestors, his kin . . .and he became lost in the music of the flute.
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Post by Sita on Feb 9, 2006 19:57:07 GMT -6
Slowly Sita put down the flute and started singing the ancient words of the song, in a deep, haunting soprano voice.
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Post by Morgan on Feb 9, 2006 20:02:56 GMT -6
As Sita traded her flute for her own voice, I found that it too held a certain beauty . . .almost like a wolf. Her song reached with his into the night sky and, for a moment, just a moment, Morgan thought that he heard the voices of his clan reaching up into the heavens and touching the very stars with their stories. Then, finally, the wolf lowered his muzzle and looked out at the veiw from the cliff top . . .a beautiful expance of land, so far and vast that he thought it would be impossible to ever travel afoot. Not being able to help himself, the wolf wined softly. He suddenly felt homesick . . .
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Post by Sita on Feb 9, 2006 20:07:02 GMT -6
Sita finally felt the song was over and bent her head as a tear fell down her cheek, one singal solitary tear. She knew how Morgan felt, homesick for the village that she was raised in.
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Post by Morgan on Feb 9, 2006 20:12:26 GMT -6
When all sounds of song had faded. I looked up and saw Sita shed a single tear. *How lucky for you, Sita . . .you can cry for what you feel. Wolves never cry, and, unfortunately, native born werewolves soon loose that ability also. What we feel must be expressed in song . . .I envy you.*
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Post by Sita on Feb 9, 2006 20:18:21 GMT -6
Sita turned her head away from Morgan, she had not known that he had saw her crying. She got up slowly and walked away from him. She leaned against a tree with her head bowed.
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