Post by Rosalind Tarana on Jun 29, 2013 19:23:28 GMT -5
Ordinarily Rosalind would have been wary about using the Savannah roads at this time of night. The grasslands were overrun with bandits and other such unsavoury characters and the road was especially dangerous after dark. Right now, though, she walked with easy fearlessness - they were close enough to the gypsies to obtain safety in numbers, and Rosalind didn't think even the most daring of bandits would carelessly attack someone with a large crocodile for company.
"Are they? What do they usually eat?" Rosalind had never met anyone quite like this little shaman swamp family, out on the road for the first time after generations of isolation. They were fascinating, so different to most people that she didn't know quite what to make of them. She was still putting pieces together in her head, trying to get a handle on their little nuances and habits, when a distant "Rose!" made her head shoot up, gaze searching the horizon. Moments later, much quicker than the distance of the original call would have suggested, a skinny Shifter boy of about seven years old barrelled into her with great enthusiasm.
Rosalind laughed, realising who it was a couple of moments before he reached her and swinging the boy up in an affectionate hug. He wrapped his legs around her waist and hung off her shoulders with monkey-like athleticism, although as an actual fact his true form was a cheetah which accounted for his lanky thinness despite him eating like a horse all the time. This much was given away by the small, neatly rounded ears atop a shock of bright blonde hair and scattered black spots all over his skin, which was a dusky unusual gold tone. Despite the light chill he wasn't wearing a t-shirt or shoes and a long cheetah tail curled out the back of roughspun brown shorts. His eyes were cat-like too - burnished golden orange with slitted pupils - although he escaped having whiskers in his half-form.
"Who're all of you?" The boy peered over Rosalind's shoulder at the shaman family, unafraid even of Levent (if Rosalind was with them he knew they'd be okay) and openly curious.
Having recovered from the surprise of being tackled by a diminutive cheetah Shifter, Rosalind set the boy down and put her arm around his shoulder affectionately.
"They're my friends. Hadjara, Hamza, Zayn, Amira, Ramla, and the little one is Suhail." Fortunately Rosalind was good with names.
"This is my foster brother, one of the gypsy wards," she explained to the others.
"Who shouldn't be so far from the camp this time of night." Rosalind's words took on a scolding tone briefly, and the young Shifter ducked his head to avoid her stern gaze.
"His name is Max. My parents look after him so he's part of my family." Max had been orphaned after his parents were killed by bandits and had been living with Rosalind's family since he was four. As Rosalind spoke he wriggled out from under her arm and approached Amira, ears twitching uncertainly.
"Your name is Amira, then? Where're you all from? Are ya going to join the troupe?"
"Are they? What do they usually eat?" Rosalind had never met anyone quite like this little shaman swamp family, out on the road for the first time after generations of isolation. They were fascinating, so different to most people that she didn't know quite what to make of them. She was still putting pieces together in her head, trying to get a handle on their little nuances and habits, when a distant "Rose!" made her head shoot up, gaze searching the horizon. Moments later, much quicker than the distance of the original call would have suggested, a skinny Shifter boy of about seven years old barrelled into her with great enthusiasm.
Rosalind laughed, realising who it was a couple of moments before he reached her and swinging the boy up in an affectionate hug. He wrapped his legs around her waist and hung off her shoulders with monkey-like athleticism, although as an actual fact his true form was a cheetah which accounted for his lanky thinness despite him eating like a horse all the time. This much was given away by the small, neatly rounded ears atop a shock of bright blonde hair and scattered black spots all over his skin, which was a dusky unusual gold tone. Despite the light chill he wasn't wearing a t-shirt or shoes and a long cheetah tail curled out the back of roughspun brown shorts. His eyes were cat-like too - burnished golden orange with slitted pupils - although he escaped having whiskers in his half-form.
"Who're all of you?" The boy peered over Rosalind's shoulder at the shaman family, unafraid even of Levent (if Rosalind was with them he knew they'd be okay) and openly curious.
Having recovered from the surprise of being tackled by a diminutive cheetah Shifter, Rosalind set the boy down and put her arm around his shoulder affectionately.
"They're my friends. Hadjara, Hamza, Zayn, Amira, Ramla, and the little one is Suhail." Fortunately Rosalind was good with names.
"This is my foster brother, one of the gypsy wards," she explained to the others.
"Who shouldn't be so far from the camp this time of night." Rosalind's words took on a scolding tone briefly, and the young Shifter ducked his head to avoid her stern gaze.
"His name is Max. My parents look after him so he's part of my family." Max had been orphaned after his parents were killed by bandits and had been living with Rosalind's family since he was four. As Rosalind spoke he wriggled out from under her arm and approached Amira, ears twitching uncertainly.
"Your name is Amira, then? Where're you all from? Are ya going to join the troupe?"