09-20-2018, 12:10 PM
[align=center][div style="width: 550px; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; font-size: 9.5pt; line-height: 1.4;letter-spacing:.1px"]When she dreams, it is Always Winter.
--Blistering cold wind whips across the frozen plains, whistling and howling in the darkness. It grabs and tears at the lonesome figure who alone dares to voyage across the nightmarish terrain. Pitch blackness shrouds the empty skies like a heavy blanket, blocking the light from the trillions of stars which usually gleam and shine upon the landscape. There is no moon. Imperia trudges through the icy landscape. She does not walk atop the ice with the uncanny grace common to most wolves, but forces her way through mounds threatening to rise taller than her head. No thoughts other than to primal command to walk fills her brain; barren as the landscape. This is no winter wonderland, but a winter nightmare.
Frozen water and gigantic snowflakes litter Imperia's once stunning pelt. Steam emanates from slightly parted jaws like some ancient frost dragon as the she-wolf pants heavily. The world around her fills Peri with a sense of dread. She feels...empty; void. The Maker is no longer by her side. Her goddess has left her, which only means terrible things are to come--
And then, she awakens. Nothing more than a vague sense of terrifying emptiness remains, and, strangely enough, her breath appears in tiny puffs of steam--but only for a moment and not long enough to register as something real. Imperia shivers in spite of the thick blankets enveloping her delicate frame, wearily pushing herself to her paws and staggering out into the fresh morning air. Imperia stands before the stone edifice of her cottage, pallid silver gaze locked on the bloody horizon. Not yet sunrise--a mere suggestion of daylight.
Comfort arrives in the form of an unusually warm breeze, brushing against her pelt like a gentle caress. Be still, a voice commands in the soothing voice of a mother. I am always with you. A wave of serenity passes over, washing away the residual fear from a dream she can no longer recall in detail. Imperia bows her head in gratitude. In acknowledgment of something greater and more powerful. "Grâce à la Créatrice," murmurs the argentine canine in a soft voice.
After a moment's pause, Peri quietly pads away. She circles around to the back of her cottage, the terrain changing from wild plains to manicured garden. This garden differs greatly from the herb garden she cares for by the Observatory. Roses dominate the space: an impressive hedge sporting blooms of various hues create a natural fence-line. They arch gracefully over the single entryway, permeating the air with their sweet aroma. In the center of the garden lies a shallow pool. Constructed into a perfect circle, the depth is only to Imperia's shin. The water is crystalline, revealing a tile mosaic of a galaxy. Blue, black, purple, silver. An array of colors slowly spiral from a background of darkness and bright pinpricks of white messily dot the mosaic, as random and numerous as the stars themselves. Floating atop the water much like a lotus is a single obsidian hued rose. Black petals sparkle and gleam as if imbued with the light of the galaxy itself, though the phenomenon can easily be dismissed as a trick of the light.
Although it cannot be described as weird, something is unusual about the rose garden. As Imperia hums quietly to herself, tending to the briers with a certain gentleness, an unusual heat seems to radiate throughout the space. Autumn quickly approaches, bringing with it chilled breezes and freezing nights. But it does not exist here in the garden. Something greater has touched this space; blessed it with a warmth which defies nature itself.
After several minutes of careful selection and preening, the gentle cleric emerges from the Holy Place with a wicker basket brimming with roses and empty mason jars. "Would anyone like some roses? They are very special," calls the lovely she-wolf. "They will bring you luck when you need it most." Imperia does not expect most people to believe her. The Maker will reach those who want to be reached, but many others will refuse to see the divinity imbued into the quivering petals. That is fine, of course. If anything, the roses provide an eternal decoration. One that never dies.
[ basically this is a holy garden she keeps in service to her goddess so these flowers are blessed by the Maker. your character can choose to believe that the rose will bring them good luck, and you're free to have the Maker save them from death/injury/sickness/etc. because of it. otherwise, it's just a pretty rose in a jar that never wilts ]
--Blistering cold wind whips across the frozen plains, whistling and howling in the darkness. It grabs and tears at the lonesome figure who alone dares to voyage across the nightmarish terrain. Pitch blackness shrouds the empty skies like a heavy blanket, blocking the light from the trillions of stars which usually gleam and shine upon the landscape. There is no moon. Imperia trudges through the icy landscape. She does not walk atop the ice with the uncanny grace common to most wolves, but forces her way through mounds threatening to rise taller than her head. No thoughts other than to primal command to walk fills her brain; barren as the landscape. This is no winter wonderland, but a winter nightmare.
Frozen water and gigantic snowflakes litter Imperia's once stunning pelt. Steam emanates from slightly parted jaws like some ancient frost dragon as the she-wolf pants heavily. The world around her fills Peri with a sense of dread. She feels...empty; void. The Maker is no longer by her side. Her goddess has left her, which only means terrible things are to come--
And then, she awakens. Nothing more than a vague sense of terrifying emptiness remains, and, strangely enough, her breath appears in tiny puffs of steam--but only for a moment and not long enough to register as something real. Imperia shivers in spite of the thick blankets enveloping her delicate frame, wearily pushing herself to her paws and staggering out into the fresh morning air. Imperia stands before the stone edifice of her cottage, pallid silver gaze locked on the bloody horizon. Not yet sunrise--a mere suggestion of daylight.
Comfort arrives in the form of an unusually warm breeze, brushing against her pelt like a gentle caress. Be still, a voice commands in the soothing voice of a mother. I am always with you. A wave of serenity passes over, washing away the residual fear from a dream she can no longer recall in detail. Imperia bows her head in gratitude. In acknowledgment of something greater and more powerful. "Grâce à la Créatrice," murmurs the argentine canine in a soft voice.
After a moment's pause, Peri quietly pads away. She circles around to the back of her cottage, the terrain changing from wild plains to manicured garden. This garden differs greatly from the herb garden she cares for by the Observatory. Roses dominate the space: an impressive hedge sporting blooms of various hues create a natural fence-line. They arch gracefully over the single entryway, permeating the air with their sweet aroma. In the center of the garden lies a shallow pool. Constructed into a perfect circle, the depth is only to Imperia's shin. The water is crystalline, revealing a tile mosaic of a galaxy. Blue, black, purple, silver. An array of colors slowly spiral from a background of darkness and bright pinpricks of white messily dot the mosaic, as random and numerous as the stars themselves. Floating atop the water much like a lotus is a single obsidian hued rose. Black petals sparkle and gleam as if imbued with the light of the galaxy itself, though the phenomenon can easily be dismissed as a trick of the light.
Although it cannot be described as weird, something is unusual about the rose garden. As Imperia hums quietly to herself, tending to the briers with a certain gentleness, an unusual heat seems to radiate throughout the space. Autumn quickly approaches, bringing with it chilled breezes and freezing nights. But it does not exist here in the garden. Something greater has touched this space; blessed it with a warmth which defies nature itself.
After several minutes of careful selection and preening, the gentle cleric emerges from the Holy Place with a wicker basket brimming with roses and empty mason jars. "Would anyone like some roses? They are very special," calls the lovely she-wolf. "They will bring you luck when you need it most." Imperia does not expect most people to believe her. The Maker will reach those who want to be reached, but many others will refuse to see the divinity imbued into the quivering petals. That is fine, of course. If anything, the roses provide an eternal decoration. One that never dies.
[ basically this is a holy garden she keeps in service to her goddess so these flowers are blessed by the Maker. your character can choose to believe that the rose will bring them good luck, and you're free to have the Maker save them from death/injury/sickness/etc. because of it. otherwise, it's just a pretty rose in a jar that never wilts ]