Territory (Main):
Mountains: The mountains were covered with a rug of trees, green, yellow, scarlet and orange, but their bare tops were scarfed and beribboned with snow. From carved rocky outcrops, waterfalls drifted like skeins of white lawn, and in the fields we could see the amber glint of rivers and the occasional mirror-like flash of a mountain lake... The mountains lay in a great line like the spine of the land. It was as if long ago they were a great beast, only to lie down one day and never get up. Perhaps the beast fell into an enchanted sleep, perhaps its soul was still in there. The range was high to the west and low to the east, curling at the end like a tail. The mountains clustered together like they were cold, and under all that snow I don't doubt they were. I imagined them to shiver under their white coats, the real cause of the avalanches perhaps. Perhaps in that rock they think in the way timeless creatures must, with no regard for time, no concept of what it must be to hurry, be anxious or sad. I'd like to think that deep in the tonnes of granite is a spirit of the earth, slumbering since the time of the dinosaurs or before. At this point I can't tell which of them the road will take me to, it disappears in the forest only fifty meters or so ahead. I only hope that it passes though a valley between two of them rather than having to scale a peak. Indeed, it was a valley that was brought into view, though to the north the mountains towered up again, thick forests spanning the mountain side and continued over the peak only 100 ft up. The seemingly vacant valley was cut in two by that of a thunderpath, a strip of grass in between two larger ones where monsters sped back and forth. On the opposite side fro the forests, a large town of sorts spanned the greenery.
Forests: Upon the forest floor lie trees of yesteryear, fallen in storms long forgotten. The seasons have been harsh, stripping away the bark and outer layers, yet rendering them all the more beautiful. They have the appearance of driftwood, twisting in patterns that remind one of the sun-drown place; even the colour of the moss is kelp-like. They are soft, damp, yet her fingers come away dry. The pines themselves are several houses tall, reaching toward the golden rays of spring. Birdsong comes in lulls and bursts, the silence and the singing working together as well as any improvised melody. The forest is the orchestra of the mind, playing one enchanting symphony after another. Her leaves dance to an unheard beat, whispering their songs to the wind. In here, sheltered by the mighty trees, is every kind of life, from the humble beetle to enchanting birds of every colour. You hold your paws up to feel the cascading light, a brilliant white shaft illuminating the path that takes you onward and home.
Plains: On the plains there were years in which old man winter refused to give up without a fight. Spring would ride in on a gentle breeze, unhindered by any hill. This April air would soothe the embattled flora with its sweet promise of the warmth to come, only to be pushed back by bitter gales and hail. But the spring was patient, always returning in the calm between each storm and each time expanding until it had ebbed out the frigid blasts entirely. Then for some months it rained down both water and soft heat. Some days could still be a blanket of cloud, like the season passed, but mostly they were sporadic and sparse - allowing the brilliant light to strike the fields unhindered. Soon the fields were not brown at all, but swathes of waving green. Always we were in an ocean of white, brown, green or gold, but it was the green one may like best - green stretching way up the mountains in the far north and to the blue of the sky in the south ...the golden plain spread level, golden-tawny grass and golden green wheat checker-boarded in a pattern as wide as the world.
Lake: The small path widened into a multicolored beach with every size of rock - from boulders big enough to sit on, to grains that got stuck between your toes. Beyond was a flat lake, the far shore a thin line in the distance growing into a sheer cliff face. In the black watery mirror was only the constellations, starlight so old and young. Coniferous trees cast shadows across the shoreline, like the soft blanket he hid under as a child, always feeling safer unseen. Looking through the waters of the lake was like peering though perfect glass, unsmudged by the sticky prints of small children. The stones at the bottom were as many hues of brown and grey as there are on a painter's wheel, likely more. The water at the point where you stand had a current, it was where the glacial melt water entered from the mountain peak that stood still white capped behind you.
Two-leg Place: The town was what a village becomes with no city planning and a great enthusiasm for architecture. Every building was different, borrowing this and that from another era. It made the place as glorious as a beloved grandmother's quilt, ever patch unique and as eye catching as the one before. After weaving through the labyrinth of roads, the paths eventually converged and unveiled the piazza. Flocks of pigeons gathered everywhere; their numbers delighted foreigners as they huddled around the birds, and either fed them crumbs of bread, or took photographs. The visitors’ inclination towards the pigeons differed from the locals’; the birds were considered nuisances, and treated as such. A sea of people, of all ages and ethnicities, filled the square. Streets jammed with cars, traffic at a crawl, town parking lot full, Saturday afternoon shoppers, hustle, bustle, market day, streets lined with stalls selling organic produce, fresh meat, local cheeses, baked goods, large iced cinnamon buns, home-made trinkets, pot plants and herbs, stall holders with chalk boards, deal of the day, calling out prices, special offers, rows of shops, flats above, harassed mothers with strollers and toddlers.
Quarry: The canyon path was narrow and uncivilized. Plants grew in every which way, leaving minimal room for the path itself. The dirt road snaked around ancient, withering trees. There was a beauty to it - raw and barren - even with the grainy wind, yet amid the mosquito swarm no joy was felt.
Thunderpath: The thunderpath lay before them like a tarmac ribbon; albeit, one that had been worn over time. A white line ran down the center, relatively unbroken compared to the scarred and potholed concrete. The road was a black velvet ribbon draped over the twilight hills. Desolate country road in a way, pot holes, dirt track, lined with hedges, tree lined, loose gravel, narrow, open road, like a black ribbon over the highlands, disappearing into the horizon where earth meets big sky, endless river of black, baked in the August sun, draped over the mountains like orange peel. The highway stretched out like a beast, a thin line of grimy grass through the middle while cars moved to and fro across the stone on either side.
Territory (Clan 1):
Forest: Upon the forest floor lie trees of yesteryear, fallen in storms long forgotten. The seasons have been harsh, stripping away the bark and outer layers, yet rendering them all the more beautiful. They have the appearance of driftwood, twisting in patterns that remind one of the sun-drown place; even the colour of the moss is kelp-like. They are soft, damp, yet her fingers come away dry. The pines themselves are several houses tall, reaching toward the golden rays of spring. Birdsong comes in lulls and bursts, the silence and the singing working together as well as any improvised melody. The forest is the orchestra of the mind, playing one enchanting symphony after another. Her leaves dance to an unheard beat, whispering their songs to the wind. In here, sheltered by the mighty trees, is every kind of life, from the humble beetle to enchanting birds of every colour. You hold your paws up to feel the cascading light, a brilliant white shaft illuminating the path that takes you onward and home.
Training Hollow: The hollow lay still, the moss along the ground seeming to swamp over everything from the other plants to the trees nearby, stopped from going further by some invisible force. Stepping into the area, the moss is soft underpaw, layered upon itself to make a cushion of sorts. The ground throughout the area shows signs of claws marks and others thrown about as if they were rag dolls. In this clearing, the training is done, the training that leads to the future of clans.
Lilly Fields: Edge of woodland, slopes down gently to bramble filled ditch,ditch overgrown with cow parsley and nettles, bare patches, thick lush dew laden grass, cowslip with it's broad yellow flowers trumpeting the music of spring, Dandelions, Ragwort, scattered clusters of rabbit droppings, hawthorn hedge, five bar gate, brook half chocked with weeds, purple thistle, bumble bee, rutted track, cow pats, clump of figwort. Among these, at every clear spot, bundles of lilies sprouted up, their cascades of colours adding a beauty to the fields that was unseen normally.
Hazel's Valley: Through this valley a clear stream rushed and roared over an exceedingly rocky bed. The ground swerved into the narrow valley that was almost a gorge , it ran for around ten miles before sloping back up. The forest had been the heart of this world but now we were in the soul.
Bubbling Creek: So you go along the hurrying creek, which fell over little cascades in its haste, never looking once at the primroses that were glimmering all along its banks. However the creek is mighty. Many torrents of water travel its path, rapids flick up against its surface like paint flakes off a distressed door. Boulders rise out of the water like the bows of a sunken fleet, and the hiss of far off waterfalls are the screams of their drowned clanmares. The scent of moss and lichen be-fowls the air for leagues across. The stream is the reminder to all that witness its majesty the ignorance of presumption, and the existence of exemption.
Territory (Clan 2):
Plains: On the plains there were years in which old man winter refused to give up without a fight. Spring would ride in on a gentle breeze, unhindered by any hill. This April air would soothe the embattled flora with its sweet promise of the warmth to come, only to be pushed back by bitter gales and hail. But the spring was patient, always returning in the calm between each storm and each time expanding until it had ebbed out the frigid blasts entirely. Then for some months it rained down both water and soft heat. Some days could still be a blanket of cloud, like the season passed, but mostly they were sporadic and sparse - allowing the brilliant light to strike the fields unhindered. Soon the fields were not brown at all, but swathes of waving green. Always we were in an ocean of white, brown, green or gold, but it was the green one may like best - green stretching way up the mountains in the far north and to the blue of the sky in the south ...the golden plain spread level, golden-tawny grass and golden green wheat checker-boarded in a pattern as wide as the world.
Marigold Fields: The meadow was a glorious expanse of grass and meadow flowers, grass rustling gently in the breeze. There was a narrow brook flowing through it choked with weeds. Tall water-mint with pale lilac flowers, like dozens of tiny bells were growing at the edge of the brook. There was a shallow ditch at edge of the meadow. The grass was thick and lush grass, growing in dense tussocks. The oak tree provided sun-flecked shade, a cool and refreshing respite from the mid-summer sun. The white umbrellas of cow parsley were becoming brown. The rutted track, once boggy was mud hardened and cracked. The meadow lay peaceful. The meadow was a riot of colour. The burnt orange Butterflyweed stood tall amongst the grasses and the prairie Black-eyed Susans appeared to reflect the brilliant yellow of the sun herself. The Prairie Blazingstar stood like tall purple bushy cat-tails. Near the edges of the lazy river grew the blue-violet Wild Irises, tall and proud.
Sunflower Plains: The hills that lie friendly in the day - like the pillows of the land - are darkly ominous by night. The paths that were illuminated just hours before become lost in a blackness that even moonlight cannot help. Steep hills with winding stepped paths lead upwards to open views of the lake, gorse bushes set the hills ablaze with their yellow blooms to the other, heather carpets the ground right up to the cliff edge, wide paths of short grass, bare patches, scattered clusters of rabbit droppings, occasional small thickets of woodland, birch trees, oak trees, ash trees, thin-stemmed blooms of snow drops, splashes of bluebells. Sunflowers cascaded over every open place, drowning the landscape in their golden color.
Fire's End: The white water cascaded down a series of rocky outcrops, giving the effect of many waterfalls rather than just one. Then it flowed on its way, nonchalant, as if nothing had occurred. From a distance the waterfall had been like a silent white stream cascading over the rocky outcrops. As they had drawn closer the noise had increased steadily until they were only a few hundred metres away. They could no longer even shout to one another over the deafening roar of the water. Closer still they drew until they were in the plume of water vapour that hung over the plunge pool and in only minutes they were as wet as they would have been in any rainstorm.
Sunset Gorge: The walls were sheer rock, coarse and unforgiving; undulating with overhangs and ledges. Like a rope of jewels the gorge spread beneath him, purple, sapphire blue, yellow and pinkish white. Noble walls carved by nature, sandstone flanks, tunneled wind, river like a thin silver ribbon, river winding in a dusty bed fringed by green trees, red cliffs, arid grandeur, in a sea of desert, amber-gold rocks, alcoves, rugged canyon, sombre gateway, soft-tinted rock, barren rock, springs in canyon walls crowded with green leaves, walls of clay and silt, clinging bushes and vines.
