Post by kodadoo on Feb 14, 2016 1:51:41 GMT -5
Peach Tree
"We have before us an ordeal of the most grievous kind. We have before us many, many long months of struggle and of suffering. You ask, what is our policy? I can say: It is to wage war, by sea, land and air, with all our might and with all the strength that God can give us; to wage war against a monstrous tyranny, never surpassed in the dark, lamentable catalogue of human crime. That is our policy. You ask, what is our aim? I can answer in one word: It is victory, victory at all costs, victory in spite of all terror, victory, however long and hard the road may be; for without victory, there is no survival." -Winston Churchill, May 13, 1940. Blood, Toil, Tears and Sweat
The sight of mountains where they met in hiding of mankind, blanketed by fir and pine and shaking birch leaves, their echo reverberating in your chest and dusting light against your hands. The land, though unknown, seemed illuminated now by a vast and familiar smell of earthy petrichor that stuck to the creature's nose like stiff nostalgia, a feeling he easily welcomed even through his trial and errors of existence. He pressed and curled his padded paws into the mud, smelling the rising Actinomycetes, or spores, that danced in the moist air like little faes. Though an aching hunger was beginning up in the small of this creature's stomach, he was still eager nonetheless to face the uncharted and little-known forest that his bare paws scuffed against. Moss, thorns, twigs, grass, each texture he knew and loved despite a temporary pain that plagued his feet on month long walks, causing his crimson blood to seep into the earth. He wouldn't last an eternity, not even the next hundred years, but by god would he try to fix what was broken in that meantime.
Vesuvio, was what he recalled himself as in one regard or another. In any other way, shape, or form, he was nameless. With only his clothes and cloak on his back, there wasn't any reputation to withhold so long as he was there to cradle and care for the things that thrived and lived around him. His lungs filled with the sweet dew of post-rain petrichor, the earth now washed clean and exposed in its most pure, dirty form. The dirt that he favored, sat in, examined, hell.. ate. Vesuvio held a familiar adoration to anything and everything around himself that he could consider alive, or help the living. It was a fellow feeling, the symphonic hum that birch and aspen branches fluttered out as the wind graced their leaves, dancing like a parade on the wings of life and song. It was now, mantled by the dripping and lovely scent of a dew-heavy western hemlock spruce that dripped fat, cold rain drops onto his hair, ears, and skin, dripping down and washing the haltija in pure and utter bliss. Paws dug into the mud, fingers felt along the damp, thirst quenched green moss beneath his palm and dusted along the soft texture while he gulped in a cooling lungful of the crisp, wet air. It filled him with calamity and an ethereal joy, lighting up his stars beautifully along the expanse of his dirt covered, downy soft tail. A youthful joy, perhaps, but it felt only right in the rainfall. To have his feet, his legs, tail, submerged in mud and squirming every so often to get a good feel of the thing. All that was desired now, excluding the pleasant drip of pine-scented water trickling down his soft face and neck, would be some food...
[[ ah h sorry it's a bit lackluster, I'm tired; here u go peachie! ]