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In reply to: Circle of Eights, Stories
Oh bugger it, Illi thought… She was rather an impatient spotted gripshawk.
‘When in doubt, go somewhere else’ was her motto, indeed of her tribe. That was the trouble with her tribe, she grumbled, they’d all wandered off….
She cast her eyes around wondering which way to go, and something caught her eye. It looked like a big soft blue-black rock, but on closer inspection turned out to be a heavy cape, sodden from the rain, and smelling unpleasantly of mold.
In reply to: Circle of Eights, Stories
Illi disliked water so much, that she had barely moved since the last sudden rain, as if frozen and electrified by each of the tiny drops that touched her fur. That was not unusual, for she was a gripshawk, a race of strong-willed warriors from the Deserts of the Far South, but more accustomed to the droughts and sands than to unexpected rains.
She mostly looked like a human, but with very feline features, and a soft spotted fur on her supple body. Her two pointed ears had been very early drawn to the music, but that rain had caught her by surprise. How foolish of her to have followed that faint track so far from her hometown…
