The wolf seems to perk up a little at her words; there's no visible sign that it intends to move or follow her, but it does tilt its head, letting her touch and pet for a moment before it settles down. We'll bring it back to life together- However she meant it, it seems to please the beast. There's no wagging tail, no sign of anything in the way it moves or shifts, but there's a sense of approval in the air, the feeling of having done something right. It's a dream, after all, and memories intermingling with emotions make for an experience unlike anything else.
Of course, wolves can't speak and this one makes no effort to do anything more than observing for now. It takes a few moments for it to pick itself up and move closer, but it soon settles down properly, making itself comfortable as it rests its head on its legs, eyes drinking in the surroundings. The mist from before, the pale green echoes of the Fade, falls away and reveals the murals in their glory, the shapes and delicate work that defined the world of the Elvhenan before the Fall. There's much here that might be found half-mentioned in the back of a history book, misremembered and described badly, and the shapes of the Gods are clear as day.
Andruil, with a bow shaped like a harp, looking like the weight of judgement. Sylaise, with soft colours of pale whites and greens. June, the anvil, hands on the metal. Ghilan'nain, with a halla before her.
They're all memories of Gods that had once been, and time never seems to change. It's as if these, too, are a memory, caught in a moment, shared with someone who had stepped into the realm of dreams.
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Of course, wolves can't speak and this one makes no effort to do anything more than observing for now. It takes a few moments for it to pick itself up and move closer, but it soon settles down properly, making itself comfortable as it rests its head on its legs, eyes drinking in the surroundings. The mist from before, the pale green echoes of the Fade, falls away and reveals the murals in their glory, the shapes and delicate work that defined the world of the Elvhenan before the Fall. There's much here that might be found half-mentioned in the back of a history book, misremembered and described badly, and the shapes of the Gods are clear as day.
Andruil, with a bow shaped like a harp, looking like the weight of judgement. Sylaise, with soft colours of pale whites and greens. June, the anvil, hands on the metal. Ghilan'nain, with a halla before her.
They're all memories of Gods that had once been, and time never seems to change. It's as if these, too, are a memory, caught in a moment, shared with someone who had stepped into the realm of dreams.