[ P ] Golden Dawn

Before daylight found the peaks and valleys of the Highlands, each day without fail, the silver wolfess rose ahead of the sun. It was something of a habit for the woman. Even before her children were born, those little thieves of sleep who were now nearly grown themselves, there had been a distinct pleasure found in greeting each new day from the foothills where she lived – before any miniature disasters could unfold, before someone could do anything to tarnish it. Each morning brought promise, and she savored the changing colors in the east.

Even when all else had been stripped away, no one could take these moments of silence and solitude. Now, Blythe observed the eastern skies as a free woman – no husband to control her waking hours, no further family expectations to stifle her. A calm smile crossed her pale muzzle.

The she-wolf looked quite different from her Highlander country folk, with a silky silver coat whose origin was inexplicable. It was the relic of some ancestor long since dead and decayed, now only dust remained; those whose names had faded from memory long before Blythe’s conception four years ago. She watched until the landscape was alight in a rosy, cheerful hue, and off in the distance. The air was cool and inviting, drawing Blythe away from her humble home and into the familiar woods below, glowing with golden light.

As she walked, eyes like embers kept watch for any opportunities, but the worn trail seemed deserted at this early hour. All around, signs of winter were distinguishable: traces of frost decorating bare branches, the sound of leaves beneath her feminine paws. The femme strayed in solitude for several minutes when a scent caught her attention – almost familiar in its essence, but Blythe was not sure why, or in what context. Whatever the case, Blythe was not afraid; on the contrary, amber pools turned curiously around to see if another of her kind had arrived in the ancient forest.

@Catriona

catriona balmain

While Catriona had aimed to stay tucked away in the faux safety of the unpopulated highlands, the city of Inverness whispered her name like some temptress of fate. Her foraging this late in the season had resulted in a fine bounty thus far for her schemes with a small stock of apples and last minute berries left to ferment in the corner of the wood that she had set up camp. But the busy city could be but a means to an end as it provided her the opportunity to strike a bargain with some pub or whorehouse to which she could sell or trade her wares. She needed a course that would take her into the midst of similarly minded folk: countrymen that could be made to see that their future need not be lorded over some fickle queen or cruel king.

And so armed with a hollowed dried gourd full with the first test of her sweetly smelling mead, the young woman dressed in her finery of fire and hearth pieced carefully through the early morning light as it barely filtered through the canopy above. There’s a hitch to her step, one that is akin to excitement, though her mismatched ears remained perched and alert atop that pretty skull of hers. Eyes the color of honeyed whiskey remain vigilant too, eyeing the flitting shadows expectantly — as though sure there was to be an ambush or the king’s men lying in wait. But even in her caution, the trills of birdsong high above invite a smile to bloom against the burden cradled in her jaws. Perhaps it was the first trial sip of her little potion or her own perchance for adventure but she was thrilled to immerse herself once again into the culture and souls that she had left behind.

Though the cloying perfume of the mead arrested her senses almost wholly, another scent meandered through. It was familiar almost, a subtle reminder of her lost youth — it managed to still her step and curiosity to fill the warm honey gaze as it finally finds purchase on a living, breathing thing. Pale as the mother moon, the woman stood in the chill weald as though expecting her. A careful creamy foreleg lifts to bring her a step closer before balancing her gourd between her paws when her breath catches, wondering what if she was but a spectre? A soul lost to the uprising and hellbent on some type of revenge — the thought of it caused thick ridge of carmine and soot to rise along her spine. “don’t be doaty.” The mumble is hushed as it fails in the back of her now dry throat. Foolish, really, but she knew enough of the fae and of tormented souls to know anything was possible.

“Madainn mhath lass,” Bold as ever and unwilling to be frightened by anything much less something not corporeal, she hails her with her own native tongue and a lazy smile spilling onto her dark lips. “might ye point me in the direction of the nearest pub or otherwise place of ill repute?” The humor sparks in her words to accompany the smile but she has her own motives of course — first, to see if the woman was in fact of the spirit realm and secondly, to discover why she looked so goddamn familiar.

@Blythe

template © bean

*doaty means stupid, madainn mhath means good morning in Gaelic

The sound of crunching leaves was soon followed by the appearance of another, a lass decorated in the tell-tale fiery hues of the high country. Oh yes, this one looked familiar, but the wolfess could not pinpoint how or why, other than looking so much like a Highlander. Blythe’s delicate features wore a kindly smile – the sort of visage that seemed maternal, even for those who were years older than the fae. But the silvery woman could see that this girl was younger, or very near to her own age, and her posture was one of welcoming and serenity. ”Madainn mhath lass.” The stranger spoke in feminine tones as she approached, seemingly unafraid, and Blythe’s face registered her delight to hear the native tongue spoken aloud.

”Might ye point me in the direction of the nearest pub or otherwise place of ill repute?” hAt this question, Blythe’s ears pricked forward curiously. "Céad Mile Fáilte,” she stated first - a traditional greeting that meant ‘a hundred thousand welcomes.’ The strong lilt in her pronunciations when she spoke suggested her Highlander roots where her coat failed to do so: ”I am afraid I do not frequent the pubs often enough to know them well. As for other places of ill repute…” Her sentence tapered off as she considered this – did the girl mean a brothel? This thought disturbed Blythe, as the idea of selling one’s body for profit was horrific. She did not know this one personally, but the thought of it erased the smile from her facade. ”That, I do not know, either.”

It was none of Blythe’s business how this girl conducted her life… perhaps it was simply being a mother that caused Blythe to feel some sense of protectiveness. ”Are you looking for something?” As she watched the stranger, an uncanny feeling was processing through her mind – one of familiarity. ”Ai, I hope you do not mind me asking, but are you from this area? You look like a family that once resided not far from here.”


@Catriona