Arsynia,
Lioness of Prideless
Played by dusk

The mountains had always comforted her; the air was thin, and as autumn encroached upon the wispy cliffsides, Arsynia's warm breath escape in small billows of condensation. Arsynia prowled among the rocks, soft dustings of snow nestling between the thick wolfish fur of her legs, lightning the deep onyx into a sort of off-white. Her mountainside promenade was lonesome, but such was the nature of a woman subjected to her strange solitude, content to lose herself in the titillations of songbirds and the brusque whipping of winds around her. Eventually, she came to pause near a cliffside, watching as the steep pathway fell before her, a forest of sky-reaching trees carving a path hundreds of feet below her like a sea of green, the winds awashing over its canopy like the ceaseless tide clawing away at the shore.

Her paws fell from underneath her, a more-slender-than-usual belly pressing into the ground, shuddering slightly at the bitter chill. Eventually, however, warmth began to settle, and even the wind had grown to become an old friend as it howled so despondently in her ears. The sun had long begun to fall behind the cusp of the sierra, illuminating the mountains in a fading orange light, promising and even colder night to come. But here, even in the bitter cold and harrowing winds, Arsynia could see all of Aesseldar sprawled out before her.

Art by soar