Post by Jayheart on Sept 13, 2009 19:55:54 GMT -5
Fog drifted slowly across the ground, billowing slowly forwards like a ghost, covering everything in a gray, wet, blanket. The moon, which had been a perfect cresent only moments before, had vanished behind a screen of clouds, taking the stars with it. The only light came from a a pair of shockingly red eyes, floating in the fog.
The chirping of crickets and buzzing of cicadas came to an abrupt halt, the fog rolling over the patches of grass where they resided. The shadow that drifted along with the fog did not seem to notice the sudden silence, for the young cat was used to it. Her appearance was slightly off-setting to most. Her jet-black pelt, which was always perfectly groomed, seemed as smooth as liquid darkness. Her red eyes, like two pools of blood, seemed to dance in the darkness of night. Her claws, which curved into perfect points, seemed to pierce the night as she walked, like they could be at your throat in the blink of an eye. But it was not for these reasons that Breakingdawn remained an outcast; it was by her own choice. The she-cat had never been one for meaningless small talk, as she thought herself superior to all others.
And so she drifted through the canyon, spending each night in a different cave, a crumbling ledge, a treacherous pile of boulders. Like a ghost she traveled, her pawsteps silent and her scent covered by the fog that always seemed to follow her. Almost never seen by living eyes, Breakingdawn, or Break, as she preferred, was the phantom of the canyon, in her own mind.
How she had evaded contact with all means of life, one would never know. It seemed that Break was always hiding from something, though in truth she did not fear anything, not the claws of a wolf nor the jaws of a badger. At only seven moons, Break felt that she had mastered all means of fighting, and considered herself the only one to do so. But tonight was different from most others, for even in the shelter of the fog, Breakingdawn felt as though someone was watching her cross the canyon, like another pair of eyes was waiting beyond the next tree, waiting to sink its claws into her small, lethal body.
The chirping of crickets and buzzing of cicadas came to an abrupt halt, the fog rolling over the patches of grass where they resided. The shadow that drifted along with the fog did not seem to notice the sudden silence, for the young cat was used to it. Her appearance was slightly off-setting to most. Her jet-black pelt, which was always perfectly groomed, seemed as smooth as liquid darkness. Her red eyes, like two pools of blood, seemed to dance in the darkness of night. Her claws, which curved into perfect points, seemed to pierce the night as she walked, like they could be at your throat in the blink of an eye. But it was not for these reasons that Breakingdawn remained an outcast; it was by her own choice. The she-cat had never been one for meaningless small talk, as she thought herself superior to all others.
And so she drifted through the canyon, spending each night in a different cave, a crumbling ledge, a treacherous pile of boulders. Like a ghost she traveled, her pawsteps silent and her scent covered by the fog that always seemed to follow her. Almost never seen by living eyes, Breakingdawn, or Break, as she preferred, was the phantom of the canyon, in her own mind.
How she had evaded contact with all means of life, one would never know. It seemed that Break was always hiding from something, though in truth she did not fear anything, not the claws of a wolf nor the jaws of a badger. At only seven moons, Break felt that she had mastered all means of fighting, and considered herself the only one to do so. But tonight was different from most others, for even in the shelter of the fog, Breakingdawn felt as though someone was watching her cross the canyon, like another pair of eyes was waiting beyond the next tree, waiting to sink its claws into her small, lethal body.