Timestamp: Ninetieth Spring, 510 AV
Where: The Jungle Wilds, near the Suvan
Who: Dasvek, Closed
Thud.
"Petch."
There was a whirring sound, steadily increasing as if an overactive mosquito was buzzing just a little bit too close. A sharp inhalation followed by a controlled grunt and the whirring stopped suddenly. Silence stretched only for a tick or two before the thud repeated itself, followed by the same, vehement curse.
Emalay stalked over to her target tree, bare feet hardly making a sound as she stepped around rocks and fallen twigs; a life in the forest taught one how to walk softly. "Noisy feet mean you don't eat" her parents had chimed together at all their children when they were younger. Each of the woman's movements were graceful and precise, expending only as much energy as was completely necessary; years of dancing and trying conditions were to thank for that.
Two dark green ribbons fluttered in the breeze about chest height from the trunk of the tree. These Emalay grasped and pulled, yanking the little daggers they were attached too from the tough bark; four more ribbons swayed with each movement of her hips, two on each. They looked like decorations, the actual dagger tucked into a similar colored sash that was slung low over her hips. Clad only in tight leather chest wrap and a similar wrap around her waist, the woman hardly looked dangerous.
Once the daggers were removed, the butterfly that had been pinned there as a target fell in a lazy spiral to the forest floor. Watching its decent for a moment or two, Emalay readjusted her ribbon daggers before stepping lightly off into the trees. It was hot for spring, and she had long since learned when enough was enough. The river wound lazily through the trees, the waters low and gurgling over the smooth, slimy stones. It was more than a creek than anything, but it would do.
Stooping by the shores, Emalay cupped her hands and brought some of the cool liquid to her lips, tiny sips taken to avoid mouthfuls of sand; the waters were gentle enough that it was clean enough to drink, but all it took was one hasty gulp to get a mouthful of dirt. Slapping her wet palms on the back of her neck and cheeks, Emalay pushed herself to her feet and glanced around. It was still too early for her to return to camp and she still hadn't caught anything to eat.
Deciding to follow the river, the lithe Myrian stepped off the shore and chose to pick through the foliage. If she had come for water, it was not beyond reason that some other tasty morsel would have as well. Emalay had never been good at hunting or tracking, preferring to set traps and wait than leap and chase after desperately fleeing creatures. Leave that to the children, she had more pride than that.
It was as she stalked along, looking carefully about for a thick, strong vine that she could use as a trap that the sharp smell of salt hit her nose. Straightening in a jerky, startled movement Emalay stared intently in the direction the breeze had come. "Salt?" Her voice was barely a murmur. Apparently, she wasn't very good with directions either. There was no way she was near the sea!
Forgetting all about her traps, Emalay moved quickly to the river bank, hopping from stone to stone as she followed it to its end, hardly ready to believe that she was only a stones throw from the Suvan. But sure enough, after a few chimes of leaping along, the crash of the waves could be heard.
"No way."
Where: The Jungle Wilds, near the Suvan
Who: Dasvek, Closed
Thud.
"Petch."
There was a whirring sound, steadily increasing as if an overactive mosquito was buzzing just a little bit too close. A sharp inhalation followed by a controlled grunt and the whirring stopped suddenly. Silence stretched only for a tick or two before the thud repeated itself, followed by the same, vehement curse.
Emalay stalked over to her target tree, bare feet hardly making a sound as she stepped around rocks and fallen twigs; a life in the forest taught one how to walk softly. "Noisy feet mean you don't eat" her parents had chimed together at all their children when they were younger. Each of the woman's movements were graceful and precise, expending only as much energy as was completely necessary; years of dancing and trying conditions were to thank for that.
Two dark green ribbons fluttered in the breeze about chest height from the trunk of the tree. These Emalay grasped and pulled, yanking the little daggers they were attached too from the tough bark; four more ribbons swayed with each movement of her hips, two on each. They looked like decorations, the actual dagger tucked into a similar colored sash that was slung low over her hips. Clad only in tight leather chest wrap and a similar wrap around her waist, the woman hardly looked dangerous.
Once the daggers were removed, the butterfly that had been pinned there as a target fell in a lazy spiral to the forest floor. Watching its decent for a moment or two, Emalay readjusted her ribbon daggers before stepping lightly off into the trees. It was hot for spring, and she had long since learned when enough was enough. The river wound lazily through the trees, the waters low and gurgling over the smooth, slimy stones. It was more than a creek than anything, but it would do.
Stooping by the shores, Emalay cupped her hands and brought some of the cool liquid to her lips, tiny sips taken to avoid mouthfuls of sand; the waters were gentle enough that it was clean enough to drink, but all it took was one hasty gulp to get a mouthful of dirt. Slapping her wet palms on the back of her neck and cheeks, Emalay pushed herself to her feet and glanced around. It was still too early for her to return to camp and she still hadn't caught anything to eat.
Deciding to follow the river, the lithe Myrian stepped off the shore and chose to pick through the foliage. If she had come for water, it was not beyond reason that some other tasty morsel would have as well. Emalay had never been good at hunting or tracking, preferring to set traps and wait than leap and chase after desperately fleeing creatures. Leave that to the children, she had more pride than that.
It was as she stalked along, looking carefully about for a thick, strong vine that she could use as a trap that the sharp smell of salt hit her nose. Straightening in a jerky, startled movement Emalay stared intently in the direction the breeze had come. "Salt?" Her voice was barely a murmur. Apparently, she wasn't very good with directions either. There was no way she was near the sea!
Forgetting all about her traps, Emalay moved quickly to the river bank, hopping from stone to stone as she followed it to its end, hardly ready to believe that she was only a stones throw from the Suvan. But sure enough, after a few chimes of leaping along, the crash of the waves could be heard.
"No way."
