The Four Fallen

I am well aware of the controversy surrounding the Spirit Animals book series due to its blatant cultural appropriation and its handling of racial demographics. (Remember how everyone in Stetriol, which parallels Australia, was white? and all of Zhong which ig was supposed to be Asia was basically just China (':) As such, while the characters of this page will remain similar in personality to their original selves, I will not use the words of the title anywhere in it.

Nostalgia is hitting hard and I miss things. This is a tribute to my childhood.

The Leopard.

The rainforest is dark at night, but it is far from being asleep. The shrieks of bats and the calls of night-birds meld into a raucous song, but suddenly—
.
.
.
Quiet.

The noise dies down, until only the rustling of tree branches can be heard. It is the wind, but it is not. The rustling is silenced. A sense of unease settles over the area, as though the whole forest is holding it's breath. A shadow appears and takes form, except...this is not a shadow.

Violet eyes, like amethyst pieces. Sleek and graceful, but powerful. Golden, with black markings of rings and spots. A well-aimed strike from those claws could kill a full-grown elephant.

Fear.

The Wolf.

Has eyes a bright cobalt blue. Rangy and fierce, in cool hues of grey. Assertive in nature and quite decisive.

The Gyrfalcon.

On the mountain high, the air is cool and the space is so freeing. Sound echoes and bounces across the craggy terrain, prompting unrestrained shouts of exhilaration. The sun seems close enough to touch, just a moment away from being caught in a cupped hand.

And then, great wingstrokes are heard, the wings of a giant, beating fiercely at the air. A shadow descends upon the mountain.

Piercing amber eyes, wary. Stands tall with proud posture and an aloof expression. The tawny brown of bird feathers.

The Panda.

Calm eyes like liquid silver, staring at you mournfully. Head bowed, but always watching, ever perceptive.

doot doot long-ranged

She stands quietly; watching, observing. Her face has drawn into itself in solemn thought, but her eyes are alert. Present. The deep brown of a walnut shell, but bright, lit from behind with curiosity and amusement. Her black hair has been woven into many neat braids and pulled back, away from her face so that she may better see. She has a complexion like sun-warmed copper.

A past is revealed, where a girl that is her but not her lives in. Her face is drawn into itself, yes, but not with solemnity. She is downcast, her eyes are lowered to the ground. Beside her are two others, a father and a sister, her family. Always she is outshone by one of them, always she lives in their shadows, at the very edges of their light and radiance.

There was no better person to make the darkness their own.

sheep. delicious

Once, he hunched awkwardly over, unsure of himself.

UHHH a little punk

The rebel plants his feet on the ground with the self-assurance of a person twice his height, but his arms are crossed in front of his chest in a defensive gesture. A smirk is worn across his face, and mischief is worn in his eyes. His hair is dark and cut short; his clothes are ragged.

also a punk, but really, really good at pretending that she is not.

Petite, like a dainty flower. A slight figure that belies the strength she hides. Her black eyes burn with fury, but she conceals it well with a veneer of placidity. The sweet, charming smile she wears on her face is a practiced expression. Her hair is as black as the onyx stone, and knotted at the nape of her neck.