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He watched the dancer, her movements drawing him in. The firelight behind her, sketching her in relief. Ignoring the others he moved closer, the gifts of his Goddess moving with him. He watched her shiver and this was good, the sheep should always shiver when he drew near.
He cocked his head, watching her reaction to him. Unafraid and still smiling and this too was good for perhaps she had more wolf than sheep in her. Watching her quick, deft movements he decided she was more cat than either. Her scent was delicate but spoke of hard work and a certain wildness.
"Will you dance for Fullgrin" ?
"What sort of dance would you like ?" was the reply.
He increased the gifts of his Goddess, cold radiating strongly now.
" Choose well " was his answer. Unsaid was the fact that she danced for her life, for her fire would feed the Cold Spirt well.
She danced. Her body, lithe and taut as muscles bunched and released. A dance of the wild, of the swaying trees and the wind. The howls of his brothers and the squeak of prey. The balance of all and the freedom of the strong. Her body swayed and moved and Fullgrin saw the lines of the panther, of the great bear and the old oak. The flight of the eagle and the simple nesting of the chickadee.
Strong but supple like a tree bending in the wind this woman was and he relaxed. Forgetting what he was and recalling what he used to be. A Shaman, a passer of the traditions. A teacher of knowledge. His dances were wild and his stories bloody but it was not always so amoung the wolves. The Traditions were passed by dancers as well as Shamans, the knowledge and the stories were not of pain and survival but of wisdom and pack. Of Brothers and sisters, of family and strength.
Then the Tribe gambled and lost and all was cold and survival. Pain and blood and death. The strongest will always survive. Fullgrin, Acheela and Tahlee and a few scattered remnants. The Coldwood was not kind.
She danced, her movements precise and agile. Showing him his past and the beauty of nature and he watched with wide eyes. Her perfection was undeniable but useless to the wolf until she danced and then she shown like the ice after the sun has kissed it for too long. Too bright to look but impossible to look away. Dancers were truly the messengers of the Spirits.
She finished and slightly panting looked to him for approval.
He blinked slightly, he could not let this sheepa know how much she had affected him. He would pay her, the city lovers always adored their gold.
He gave her what he had, caring little for the the value of it.
" The Wolf Tribe has no dancers anymore " he said quietly as he dumped what most would consider a staggering amount of gold in her hand for a simple dance.
"What happened to them ?" was the naive but cheerful question.
"The Cold Wood had no use for dancers..." was the soft reply, so quiet as to be barely heard. All snarl gone from his voice and his eyes downcast.
He wandered away slowly, ignoring the calls for dragon hunts. His thoughts elsewhere. The rain around him turns to ice and swirling snow briefly as he goes.
Soon the lonely calls of the wolves have a new voice as he joins his brothers in calling to the moon.
He cocked his head, watching her reaction to him. Unafraid and still smiling and this too was good for perhaps she had more wolf than sheep in her. Watching her quick, deft movements he decided she was more cat than either. Her scent was delicate but spoke of hard work and a certain wildness.
"Will you dance for Fullgrin" ?
"What sort of dance would you like ?" was the reply.
He increased the gifts of his Goddess, cold radiating strongly now.
" Choose well " was his answer. Unsaid was the fact that she danced for her life, for her fire would feed the Cold Spirt well.
She danced. Her body, lithe and taut as muscles bunched and released. A dance of the wild, of the swaying trees and the wind. The howls of his brothers and the squeak of prey. The balance of all and the freedom of the strong. Her body swayed and moved and Fullgrin saw the lines of the panther, of the great bear and the old oak. The flight of the eagle and the simple nesting of the chickadee.
Strong but supple like a tree bending in the wind this woman was and he relaxed. Forgetting what he was and recalling what he used to be. A Shaman, a passer of the traditions. A teacher of knowledge. His dances were wild and his stories bloody but it was not always so amoung the wolves. The Traditions were passed by dancers as well as Shamans, the knowledge and the stories were not of pain and survival but of wisdom and pack. Of Brothers and sisters, of family and strength.
Then the Tribe gambled and lost and all was cold and survival. Pain and blood and death. The strongest will always survive. Fullgrin, Acheela and Tahlee and a few scattered remnants. The Coldwood was not kind.
She danced, her movements precise and agile. Showing him his past and the beauty of nature and he watched with wide eyes. Her perfection was undeniable but useless to the wolf until she danced and then she shown like the ice after the sun has kissed it for too long. Too bright to look but impossible to look away. Dancers were truly the messengers of the Spirits.
She finished and slightly panting looked to him for approval.
He blinked slightly, he could not let this sheepa know how much she had affected him. He would pay her, the city lovers always adored their gold.
He gave her what he had, caring little for the the value of it.
" The Wolf Tribe has no dancers anymore " he said quietly as he dumped what most would consider a staggering amount of gold in her hand for a simple dance.
"What happened to them ?" was the naive but cheerful question.
"The Cold Wood had no use for dancers..." was the soft reply, so quiet as to be barely heard. All snarl gone from his voice and his eyes downcast.
He wandered away slowly, ignoring the calls for dragon hunts. His thoughts elsewhere. The rain around him turns to ice and swirling snow briefly as he goes.
Soon the lonely calls of the wolves have a new voice as he joins his brothers in calling to the moon.
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