Myst is surprising me so far with her thoughts and decisions, and she is always in need of a kind word and a friend. Feel free to join in, though I think I may cap it at two other player characters (plus Myst) to keep it simple (preferably ones that aren't going to be tempted to kill each other! Or Myst, lol). So, three people all together. ))It was raining.
Pouring rain. Huge drops of rain, pelting from the sky like little pebbles, soaking whatever chanced to be out in it almost immediately. It was so heavy that it bent branches and bushes toward the ground, sluiced over the soil without sinking in, washing away in gullies and swelling streams and rivers. There was little wind, so the rain pelted straight down onto the earth, unrelenting.
The thunder boomed overhead. Deafening blasts of sound that followed the bright, flickering flashes of lightning, highlighting the thick, black clouds overhead. Rolling over the landscape in whip cracks and rolling booms.
Myst hated the rain. Hated the thunder and lightning.
Hated being wet.
She huddled in a cave, soaked to the skin, her feathers dripping, her fur slicked and sticking out in all directions. She'd been flying close to sunset when the storm hit with a vengence. And of course, with the clouds and the rain came the thunder and night. Her eyes were useless in the dark, and fearing lightning strike, she had landed among the trees. But she hadn't found shelter in time to escape the rain.
Now she huddled, a miserable wet gryphon with her ears flattened to her head in dismay (the thunder hurt her sensitive hearing), in a cave with a sandy floor, as the storm raged outside. She peered out into the darkness, effectively blind in the stormy night.
She was a small gryphon, hardly higher at the shoulders than the average human's hips. She still had a bit of growing to do, being young still, but even full grown wouldn't be too big. If one cared to examine her closely, and if one knew their birds and felines well, they'd notice that she looked like a cross between and osprey and a lynx.
Her wings and forequarters were bird. Her head, neck, breast, and part of her forelegs was feathered, as were her wings. She had pale gold eyes that glared like a bird of prey, and a dark gray beak that was curved and sharply pointed. Two small, triangular ears with black tufts sat atop her head. Her feathers were white, black, and gray. Her fore legs were that of a bird, scaly from the elbows down, pale gray, with three long toes pointed forward and one toe pointed back. Each toe had a long, curved, black talon.
Her hindquarters were a different matter altogether. Feline, with long legs, a narrow body, and thick gray and white fur that had a non-pattern of black, smudgy spots. She had very long legs, in comparison to her lean body. They made her feel awkward, and as a result, she often walked in a half crouch to hide their length.
The tail was short, but more bird than cat. Her long, blue gray tail feathers were held up at a sharp angle as she sat. Occassionally she spread and shook them, scattering a few droplets of water around the cave. It was much the same with her large, black and white wings. She held them up off the ground, but open, so that the water could run off and evaporate. She fanned them once in a while to speed the process.
The whole cave stank of wet gryphon. Even with her poor sense of smell, she could detect it. Wet feathers. Wet fur. Soggy gryphon smell.
She flinched at another boom of thunder. She wanted to cover her head and shiver, but she was trying to minimize her contact with the sand. No sense having wet sand stuck to wet feathers. It was bad enough that it was stuck to her feet.
She sighed, her breath gusting out with a small puff of vapor, and kneaded the small rucksack at her feet. It was made from woven strips of tree bark. Pretty crude really. She'd seen much more beautiful things in her travels, but this was the highest level of craftsmanship that her small home group of gryphons could manage. It held her most precious possessions.
She opened the rucksack and withdrew a small object. It was woven from stringy bark and dried leaves and thin willow twigs. There was a head, a suggestion of wings, and no limbs or body to speak of. Two eyes had been drawn in ochre paint, and faint markings still adorned it's wings.
She cuddled the crude little doll under her chin, and thought about home, and how lonely she was.
And how much she hated the rain.
