we're always running scared but holding knives
Being a jaguar is pretty good, actually. Isla has lazed around in the cradle of trees in the Oerwoud; she's preened and preened some more, she's caught a fish in the river and played with it for a bit, and now? Now she's found the Brittlebone Bridge, her ears pricking here and there at the sound of the plants creaking, the vines waving at either side of the structure like something is about to go peeping through it.
Huffing out a sound that's not not a growl, the jaguar prowls forward and scents the ground, tail swaying lazily from left to right and back again. She thinks she's heard stories about this place somewhere, maybe. About not parting the vines or something. Either way, she's got little interest in it, whiskers twitching as she makes her loping way across.
Huffing out a sound that's not not a growl, the jaguar prowls forward and scents the ground, tail swaying lazily from left to right and back again. She thinks she's heard stories about this place somewhere, maybe. About not parting the vines or something. Either way, she's got little interest in it, whiskers twitching as she makes her loping way across.
Isla
