the matriarch doesn't attend the hunt - she stays in her throne room, dancing and chatting and schmoozing in all her manic energy. instead, a gaggle of weary dapifers hurry along a herd of massive elk. originally they'd been meant to be saved, the three males who stomp and shake their heads at the dogged shepherds, to tide the courts over through the wintertide. but when the matriarch demanded they be marched to the three rat briar and
released to hunt, there was no one who could say a thing to her.
not even her daughters spoke up.
so the shepherds sigh and let the males loose - bemused and angry to potentially lose three animals that would have served their herds well. the other royal court members that cluster nearby ( a handful of constables, a herald and a few royal scions ) frown. this seems hardly like a hunt, chasing down creatures who'd been raised in their herds and were not accustomed to such a bloody chase and hunt.
but the matriarch.... yes, yes they've all heard her decree.
so they wait for the gathered hunters to come together, some excited and some quietly displeased.
The Great Hunt
- You have 4 days to make your joining post!
- After 4 days, GM will respond as the prey and the hunt is on
- This is a great chance to test out our prey and hunting system :>
Intended Prey
3 bull elk
here she is again on the fringes of their society, watching as the crowds go about the events, the small food stalls, and games. It looks like fun, even if she can’t participate in much of it. she keeps to the shadows of midday, dark enough to fade into them if she’s still, following after the horns of the hunt and the shepherds of the matriarch’s famous herds.
It must be boring to have whatever you want, whenever you wanted it. She couldn’t do it, Wren thinks as she watches the tired expressions of the shepherds. Do they love their queen? Or do they resent her like the other she’s heard whisper under their breath when they think they’re alone.
Even at high noon, the winter is bitter cold against her skin, a moment of envy shoving into her stomach at the sight of the oseth and their long, long hair. Curious, she follows quietly after them, interested to see where it goes. Halfway in, she realizes her mistake, muscles taut and ears twitching. This isn’t an event to watch and she’s just stumbled into volunteering herself.
Wren flattens herself into the snow, unprepared for people to see her fully in the midday sun. A spangle of blushes, violets, and freckles. The sour taste of anxiety is on her tongue and pounding in her ears. What if they saw her for what she was? What if they would, allmother forbid, exile her?
she watches the yearling with an absent sort of interest. the little wisp of a creature is bustled along with the crowd until she's deposited in the front of it - with the hunters. a smirk curves her jaws and she ghosts along the outskirts of the excited gathering - but when the horror dawns on wren's face and there's a few nasty glances thrown her way, the hybrid can't help a long suffering sigh that escapes her. allmother be damned, wasn't she supposed to be unfriendly? swallowing the urge to leave, the vagrant shoulders her way through the group with a flash of fang here and a threat there. they don't part easily for her - an unnamed woman among the courtly masses - but she finds a way to twine through them until she's at the waif's side.
ashe's smile widens but there's no humor in it. she's not quite kind ( does she know how to be? ) as she crouches just to the girl's side, her one long ear angling back to hear the crowd humming behind them. "buck up, bitch, you're in it now."
there’s people staring at her. Her attempt to blend into the ground failing. The stark white of the snow only seems to make her stand out more. At best, she can only hope they’re caught up in the way she looks like a fool sprawling against the ground, laughing at the yearling who couldn’t hunt, and at worse they’re snickering at that lack of colorful mohawk. the mark of her shame. Wren can feel her cheeks starting to heat despite the cold and her eyes burn with unshed tears.
And then, the voice all seem to stop at the insistence of a rough looking woman standing close. Her voice is a gruff as the rest of her, but she as freckles. Wren can help but stare, dumbly finding her feet before she remembers to speak. ”Thank you,” she murmurs, long ears twisted back.