09-22-2018, 09:14 PM
[align=center][div style=" background-color: transparent; border: 0px solid black; width: 550px; min-height: 6px; font-family:; line-height: 110%; text-align: justify; color:; padding: 20px"][font=georgia]In her life, Stellamaris would have not so easily admitted to indulging in the gentle security of religion; to falling into its arms when she was a scared child, believing so readily in the idea of a better life after this one high above in the clouds. Admitting it would be admitting to having a weakness, and the stigma following such a belief was no walk in the park either.
When she'd been a child her mother had given her a necklace. She had been told that it'd belonged to her father. It was a cross, carved roughly of oak and smelling faintly of ash and blood. The copper stains embedded in the wood had long since turned brown with age, and a young Stella had looked at it ignorantly, questioning why it was of any significance to her. It had been lost quickly enough. The sting of its absence came later, when she could barely remember her mother by anything but a freckled blur in the darkness of a dank cave.
But in the weeks since her death she was perfectly content in a heaven of her own. Her memory of it - or the incident leading up to her inevitable demise - were foggy at best, but she could recall (with some difficulty) the feeling of being tossed among waves, of a deep blue substance floating around her and lifting up the furs of her pelt. It was so... nice. Unexpected, but comforting; it reminded her of Sunhaven, smelled like Sunhaven, and not of jungle terrain and scrapping her paws from climbing too hard.
And then she'd woken up.
Stellamaris had heard of those rising from the dead with a new face, but she had never thought it would happen to her. Nevertheless, the new feel of heavy limbs was a jaunting journey as she woke from her short slumber, and so was the heavy experience that came with having the head of a lion. Everything as a clouded leopard had been lean, nimble. As a lioness - (she had looked down into the waters below her paws, staring at the pale-white face that glared back at her, cheeks gaunt with hunger and belly sunken in with an unquenchable thirst, pale sea-green eyes both achingly familiar and so very foreign) - she had to be more mindful of herself, lest she wanted to disturb her prey with her noisy steps and fawn-like balance.
The first thing on her list had been to track down Sunhaven. Food could wait - she needed to get back, see them. She had never missed someone so much as she undoubtedly missed Monroe. While their bond was a fragile one, she saw the other as a worthy companion (perhaps something more?) and did so want to look upon his face again one last time if this change was as temporary as she feared.
Needless to say, when the lioness arrived on the border, she ignored the anxiety gnawing at her sunken belly in favor of continuing further. Flowers. She needed to get to the flowers. In her delirious state, Stellamaris wandered upon the meadow to call out her shaky greeting. "Hello? It's Stella. I'm here. Monroe?" Please, please let them be here.
When she'd been a child her mother had given her a necklace. She had been told that it'd belonged to her father. It was a cross, carved roughly of oak and smelling faintly of ash and blood. The copper stains embedded in the wood had long since turned brown with age, and a young Stella had looked at it ignorantly, questioning why it was of any significance to her. It had been lost quickly enough. The sting of its absence came later, when she could barely remember her mother by anything but a freckled blur in the darkness of a dank cave.
But in the weeks since her death she was perfectly content in a heaven of her own. Her memory of it - or the incident leading up to her inevitable demise - were foggy at best, but she could recall (with some difficulty) the feeling of being tossed among waves, of a deep blue substance floating around her and lifting up the furs of her pelt. It was so... nice. Unexpected, but comforting; it reminded her of Sunhaven, smelled like Sunhaven, and not of jungle terrain and scrapping her paws from climbing too hard.
And then she'd woken up.
Stellamaris had heard of those rising from the dead with a new face, but she had never thought it would happen to her. Nevertheless, the new feel of heavy limbs was a jaunting journey as she woke from her short slumber, and so was the heavy experience that came with having the head of a lion. Everything as a clouded leopard had been lean, nimble. As a lioness - (she had looked down into the waters below her paws, staring at the pale-white face that glared back at her, cheeks gaunt with hunger and belly sunken in with an unquenchable thirst, pale sea-green eyes both achingly familiar and so very foreign) - she had to be more mindful of herself, lest she wanted to disturb her prey with her noisy steps and fawn-like balance.
The first thing on her list had been to track down Sunhaven. Food could wait - she needed to get back, see them. She had never missed someone so much as she undoubtedly missed Monroe. While their bond was a fragile one, she saw the other as a worthy companion (perhaps something more?) and did so want to look upon his face again one last time if this change was as temporary as she feared.
Needless to say, when the lioness arrived on the border, she ignored the anxiety gnawing at her sunken belly in favor of continuing further. Flowers. She needed to get to the flowers. In her delirious state, Stellamaris wandered upon the meadow to call out her shaky greeting. "Hello? It's Stella. I'm here. Monroe?" Please, please let them be here.
