Post by Vada of the Caves on Mar 9, 2013 9:07:03 GMT -5
Papua's humidity lay trapped in her gravity stricken folds of skin. She'd never been obsessive about remaining dry, particularly in the caves. But there was a difference in being damp due to the elements and damp because of your sweat glands *reactions* to the elements. The bodies' own pesky cause and effect system was in full swing.
With enough advanced warning she could have created a ward with her own powders against such but that was not how the evening had played out. What started as an observation round of her little lamb had resulted in a full scale journey to the swamp center of civilization. There was still some speculation about the gypsy connection to the native Papuans. It had been a long held belief by many that they were distant cousins.
She was moving at a glacial pace and had to stifle a chuckle when the one called Jolicia made mention of not being able to walk any slower. Every step yielded a new creak in her bones that echoed off the twisted trees as if threatening to buckle. An event she knew no matter how badly it felt oncoming, was not going to happen. At least... not until she saw it. There, amongst the half wilted greenery on their third lap of the small groups trek was a mud brown box turtle. His front claws dug into the muck, his neck stretched out he uttered a screeching, "eeeeooch." The symbol of slow, methodical wisdom grounded in a murky situation came thru clearly. Her bunched knuckles stretched quietly into the sky as she called on the words of power. For now, this moment, the evening was over.
With enough advanced warning she could have created a ward with her own powders against such but that was not how the evening had played out. What started as an observation round of her little lamb had resulted in a full scale journey to the swamp center of civilization. There was still some speculation about the gypsy connection to the native Papuans. It had been a long held belief by many that they were distant cousins.
She was moving at a glacial pace and had to stifle a chuckle when the one called Jolicia made mention of not being able to walk any slower. Every step yielded a new creak in her bones that echoed off the twisted trees as if threatening to buckle. An event she knew no matter how badly it felt oncoming, was not going to happen. At least... not until she saw it. There, amongst the half wilted greenery on their third lap of the small groups trek was a mud brown box turtle. His front claws dug into the muck, his neck stretched out he uttered a screeching, "eeeeooch." The symbol of slow, methodical wisdom grounded in a murky situation came thru clearly. Her bunched knuckles stretched quietly into the sky as she called on the words of power. For now, this moment, the evening was over.