Post by ryuukokoro on May 24, 2007 18:00:32 GMT -5
(This is Ront, my first Lunakune. I have two other adults and three other pups. 
I have a giant pack! Hee hee! They will probably be introduced later!
i174.photobucket.com/albums/w106/lunakunes/022.png )
It's Cold, and I Have Memories of Fire...
He had memories of fire. They varied, fading in and out like dreams. He remembered staring at the weaving bits of light and heat, marveling at it with his weak young eyes. He remembered movement, as the calm adult voices above him fed the flames to keep them happy. Later he remembered something about flashes of light, breaking the darkness. Noise and light growing unbearable, fire wanting more than what the grown ups gave it. Fire demanding more and more, until it burst from its home and attacked them, ripping yellow gashes in the sky. A horrible voice that howled like the wind. A flash of light that picked up his parents and his siblings and tossed them over the land, far away. That was stuff of nightmares, though. He wasn't sure where the memories ended and the nightmares began.
Ront, his mother called him. Smallest of the newborns, last to nurse and last to open his eyes and last to crawl and toddle away from her side. Mother’s favorite, she whispered when everyone else had fallen asleep.
Ront didn’t know where they were, now. His young eyes couldn’t see them in the endless white land, and his nose smelled nothing but cold and water. He liked it most when the wind died and the bright light came to the sky, allowing him to travel even though it bounced off the snow and blinded him with its brilliance. He liked the darkness less, when it grew too cold to move and he had to curl up somewhere and sleep until the day returned.
He wasn’t sure where his family had gone, but he knew he had to keep looking. He had to find them—anyone—anything familiar or welcoming—in this land of endless white. The only other option was to lie down and not get up again, and Ront wouldn’t do that. Not while he still had strength to put one paw in front of another.
So for now, he walked.
* * *
Eventually Ront found the cave. Or rather, he found a crack where the freezing water had expanded a tiny fracture in the stone mountain until it formed an opening. It was a small cave, but the floor was flat and dry, and the wind howled but couldn’t get in. Ront made it his home.
Water was easy. He quickly learned that if he lapped at the snow, water would fill his mouth and quench his thirst. And of course there was no lack of snow around. Food, on the other paw, was an entirely different matter.
Food became Ront’s whole life. He left the cave early in the morning, when the weak sunlight filtered in over the mountains. He learned to follow tracks left by other animals, walking in their prints so he didn’t have to cut his way through the snow himself. He learned to scent the subtle smells on the wind, under the overpowering scent of water and cold. Mostly he lived off of small rodents who stepped from their burrows to pick at the scraggly grasses that poked from the snow. Sometimes if he followed the old prints of a predator, he found an old kill they had left behind. Ront learned that gnawing bones could fill your belly if there were enough of them.
In this way, Ront grew. His fur became longer and fuller, as the soft rusty red puppy fur fell out and was replaced by his permanent coat. Along his back and tail, the fur darkened from red to a deep black, while the hairs of his underbelly, legs and face lightened to cream. By the time he had grown too big for the small crack in the mountain wall, Ront was a wild dog.
He roamed the way the buffalo roamed, taking no one spot as their home by traveling in search of food. At night he dug a hole down in the snow and curled his body inside, soon filling the little cavity he made with his own body warmth. When the sun rose, he would flex all his muscles at once and burst out of the snow to greet the morning, breath visible as he panted and set off in search of breakfast. This was all Ront ever knew. He had no memory of his parents or siblings, the warm comfort of their bodies against his. He didn’t recall how someone in his home could feed the dancing light and control it, to keep the warmth always around them so they never suffered.
But sometimes, still, he dreamed of fire. . . .
I have a giant pack! Hee hee! They will probably be introduced later!i174.photobucket.com/albums/w106/lunakunes/022.png )
It's Cold, and I Have Memories of Fire...
He had memories of fire. They varied, fading in and out like dreams. He remembered staring at the weaving bits of light and heat, marveling at it with his weak young eyes. He remembered movement, as the calm adult voices above him fed the flames to keep them happy. Later he remembered something about flashes of light, breaking the darkness. Noise and light growing unbearable, fire wanting more than what the grown ups gave it. Fire demanding more and more, until it burst from its home and attacked them, ripping yellow gashes in the sky. A horrible voice that howled like the wind. A flash of light that picked up his parents and his siblings and tossed them over the land, far away. That was stuff of nightmares, though. He wasn't sure where the memories ended and the nightmares began.
Ront, his mother called him. Smallest of the newborns, last to nurse and last to open his eyes and last to crawl and toddle away from her side. Mother’s favorite, she whispered when everyone else had fallen asleep.
Ront didn’t know where they were, now. His young eyes couldn’t see them in the endless white land, and his nose smelled nothing but cold and water. He liked it most when the wind died and the bright light came to the sky, allowing him to travel even though it bounced off the snow and blinded him with its brilliance. He liked the darkness less, when it grew too cold to move and he had to curl up somewhere and sleep until the day returned.
He wasn’t sure where his family had gone, but he knew he had to keep looking. He had to find them—anyone—anything familiar or welcoming—in this land of endless white. The only other option was to lie down and not get up again, and Ront wouldn’t do that. Not while he still had strength to put one paw in front of another.
So for now, he walked.
* * *
Eventually Ront found the cave. Or rather, he found a crack where the freezing water had expanded a tiny fracture in the stone mountain until it formed an opening. It was a small cave, but the floor was flat and dry, and the wind howled but couldn’t get in. Ront made it his home.
Water was easy. He quickly learned that if he lapped at the snow, water would fill his mouth and quench his thirst. And of course there was no lack of snow around. Food, on the other paw, was an entirely different matter.
Food became Ront’s whole life. He left the cave early in the morning, when the weak sunlight filtered in over the mountains. He learned to follow tracks left by other animals, walking in their prints so he didn’t have to cut his way through the snow himself. He learned to scent the subtle smells on the wind, under the overpowering scent of water and cold. Mostly he lived off of small rodents who stepped from their burrows to pick at the scraggly grasses that poked from the snow. Sometimes if he followed the old prints of a predator, he found an old kill they had left behind. Ront learned that gnawing bones could fill your belly if there were enough of them.
In this way, Ront grew. His fur became longer and fuller, as the soft rusty red puppy fur fell out and was replaced by his permanent coat. Along his back and tail, the fur darkened from red to a deep black, while the hairs of his underbelly, legs and face lightened to cream. By the time he had grown too big for the small crack in the mountain wall, Ront was a wild dog.
He roamed the way the buffalo roamed, taking no one spot as their home by traveling in search of food. At night he dug a hole down in the snow and curled his body inside, soon filling the little cavity he made with his own body warmth. When the sun rose, he would flex all his muscles at once and burst out of the snow to greet the morning, breath visible as he panted and set off in search of breakfast. This was all Ront ever knew. He had no memory of his parents or siblings, the warm comfort of their bodies against his. He didn’t recall how someone in his home could feed the dancing light and control it, to keep the warmth always around them so they never suffered.
But sometimes, still, he dreamed of fire. . . .
Status: Coooosplayyysss. Vair busy kthxbai.
