Eternal has been a wonderful and magical place for many of us to write creatively with those we care for most. Unfortunately, as with all good things, it must eventually come to an end. That end is now. For the past year, Eternal has been a safe haven for open creativity, community, and fun, with like-minded individuals and incredible friendships. Alas, the sun has come and set, and will rise no more. Eternal is closed, indefinitely. Please collect your coding tables, profile information, and anything personal from the site. The site will be permanently shut down on February 1st. The boards are no longer open for posting, but all can still be accessed. This is not goodbye - it is merely "until we meet again". We are out there in the community, writing, celebrating friendship and the incredibly complex, intricately woven stories we've all created with the characters we so love. Please consider our affiliates (Fimbulvetr, Caeleste, Novus) to continue your incredible stories, or join us at Ourania.

Thank you for being a part of Eternal, and thank you for a wonderful year.

[O] broken, like a gun
the she-bear

26 Posts
5 Threads
Ursine Physiology (Grizzly)
[T2 - Beginner]

She pads quietly; wide, round, furred paws over new snow, banked up against larch and pine, rimy bodies, laid low, and ever-to-be-still by the glacial epoch. 
Winter is the Taker. The Reaper of what the gentle months sow; the lean days that follow the glut, that are meant to strength the backbone of bowman and warrior; mother and child. 
It is the ordinance of nature, that the strongest survive.

(Back home, boys became men in many different, ritualistic ways ‒ persevering through a hard winter was one of them. 
So, what of me, father? What of the wintertide I survived?
Which of you boy-warriors would like to match spears with me, now?

The wind whines through needled hands. She stops, thin streamers of vapour from her black nostrils ring her whiskered muzzle. Her furry ears twitch on her broad head, searching for wolf bay or the snapping of a twig. Muted. But not quite as quiet as the preceding long, aching months. 
There, the moaning creak of a tree, thawing the sap in its veins where sunlight splays like a goddess’ hand on its body. The chirrup of a hardier bird, perhaps ‒ though she can scarcely believe it to be true, after all this time. The unfurling of nature ‒ the dance of the earth, bowed to Day, finally restored by the Night. The world beneath the worrying curve of her claws is becoming heliotropic ‒ arching back and breasts to the motion of the sun.
The delicate, amethyst petals of her hallowed wisteria ‒ woven around the vine choker at her throat ‒ shiver and then settle; the claw sways, and then follows suit. In a moment she is different, the second soul. Long-legged and straight-backed, her wide nostrils flaring to show the flesh-pink within. Her mane curls around her neck, pulled by the breeze. Her green eyes flutter shut for a brief moment.

And then, she walks on, hooves ploughing furrows in the snow.

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