[ P ] sunrise salutation

The soft light of the morning chased away the lingering shards of darkness around an hour ago, but Ciara Whelan had been up for a long time before that. Her adventurous spirit did not lend well to calm, uninterrupted slumber. There was always something to be done or somewhere to go, and those thoughts often wheedled their way into her dreams and made even her unconscious a restless place to be. That was no matter, though. Ciara was used to wandering, and she'd traveled these well-worn Highland paths many times before. She did not need light to know her way, even though light now had risen around her. The smells of Tir Na Nog were familiar as to her as anything. She had grown up amongst these trees and stones. She'd grown up shrouded in this mist. The cool air of the elevated mountains did not stick in her lungs; she did not slip on the dewy surfaces; her surefooted paws did not hesitate to scramble carefully over stones or fallen logs in her way. She was a Highlander, and as such, every Highland place was intimately familiar to her. And she was a wanderer, beyond that -- so perhaps she had more knowledge of nature than most others did. She arrived where she wanted to just in time. She crested a ridge, finding a path along the mountains that looked out into the valley below. The sun did what it had been threatening to do for quite some time, and it crested the horizon at last, spattering a beautiful array of gold and orange across the landscape. Ciara imagined she could hear the sizzle of the fog as it began to evaporate in the sunlight, but of course, she could not. She stood on the ridge for a few moments more before she sat down to watch the spread of golden light across the trees below. She could use a rest.                    ""

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Sunlight needles Graeme's green eyes; they are bleary with the ghosts of a sleepless night. The lethargic swing of his limbs and the way his paws scuff in the dirt adds to the mounting evidence that he will likely spend another day in his den, pursuing the rest he should have already gotten overnight. The shade beneath the boughs of the pines provides a respite from the fingers of light that seek every gap between the green, but he still winces each time a golden beam slides across his face. It highlights the array of soft colors in his fur: slate and umber and cream, with a touch of cinnamon. He'd probably be considered handsome if he hadn't picked up the habit of staring broodily into the distance while his thoughts were occupied elsewhere. Courtly niceties and manners weren't as impressed upon the younger Whelan as they were for his sister. Tired as he is, Graeme still recognizes Ciara's scent on the breeze as it whispers past his face. A moment passes in which he considers simply returning home and leaving her to whatever she's doing, but he realizes he hasn't seen her in days. Was it because of his own preoccupation with his self-guided studies, or was she avoiding their father? Perhaps it was a little of both. "It's a nice view," he says as he steps out from between the trees, stepping up to sit at Ciara's side with a comfortable distance between them. Silence stretches between them, until Graeme turns his head to peer at her expression, ready to take measure of whatever might appear there in the next few moments. "Avoiding the Lion?" comes the question, with a wry smile twisting his black lips. "Can't imagine his mood has improved much, unless you've suddenly lost the iron in your spine." There is a true bitterness lurking beneath the sarcasm. Their father has made it fairly clear through word and action that he sees his children as burdens of grief.

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@Ciara

"It's a nice view." She looked around, momentarily startled, but her expression soothed as she saw the familiar face of her brother. She scooted slightly over to allow him room to sit, and the two sat in the comfortable silence that tended only to occur between kin for a while before Graeme spoke next. "Avoiding the Lion?" Ciara scoffed out of habit, a low, dismissive sound in the back of her throat. The irony in her brother's voice meant that he could have probably seen that coming -- and that he, more likely than not, felt it too. "Can't imagine his mood has improved much, unless you've suddenly lost the iron in your spine." She tossed her brother a sharp, slightly impish grin, because his joke had improved her sour mood slightly, though both of them were still markedly shadowed in tone and expression. "He's on his familiar rampage," she said, turning back to face the wilderness below. "Calling me back for lessons that teach me nothing. They've not been helpful in years, brother." His true named nearly rolled off of her tongue easily. She could have used it, if she wished. It was a privilege she could now only share with him. But she abstained because of their proximity to true nature now. One never knew who might be listening. "And now, with Mam gone, ye see how he's been. The way he looks at us." Now she turned her eyes back to him, because she knew that he was the only one who could understand what she meant. "He's impossible to be around." She said this definitively, resolutely, and a familiar edge settled over her fair features. It felt good to vent to someone about it, but the reality of it was always painful when she let it in.                    ""

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Graeme settles in comfortably at his sister's side, scuffing his paws through leaves and grass until he finds the softest spots for them to rest. He smirks at her dismissive reaction, tongue lolling briefly across the edge of his lower jaw in a silent laugh. Neither of them are perfect by any means, and he's often puzzled by some of Ciara's more impulsive decisions, but they were family. After their mother's death, it feels more and more like they were in it together - us against the world. Or, more accurately, against their father's bitterness. He's risked a few underhanded comments, a seemingly idle observation or two, even a sly joke that had earned him a moment of panic in which he thought his father might actually hurt him... but he hasn't really spoken to Ciara about it directly. Until now. He nods sympathetically, chewing pensively on his lip as she makes her complaints. "I've never been more grateful to be the youngest," he finally says, retaining his dry sense of humor despite the sobriety in his gaze as he watches her. "I can get away with things that you can't. I wish he'd be easier on you. The war is over." We should be caring for each other. This time, he can't hide the grief with sarcasm or levity. Their mother was gone, and their father is quickly turning into a stranger that neither of them recognize, and Graeme can almost feel the heavy cloud of resentment growing every day. "Don't know what we can do about it," he sighs, casting his gaze towards the horizon as it continues to brighten. "I was... thinking... of taking a trip to the College, maybe." He speaks slowly, carefully, unsure what Ciara will think. There's an unspoken offer in the words, too, something more daring than the suggestion that he might walk away from the Clan, even for a little while: you could come with me.

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