Lines of Crimson
Authors Note:"Im not really the right kind of writer to be submitting stories and such. It always just flows more freely if I feel like Im talking to you, so my writings always end up in this sort of 'spoken prose' format and that makes it difficult to write long, chaptered out stories. But this is my favorite piece of all the things I've done thus far, and it really lets me convey a love for the transformation aspect and my appreciation for the fandom as a whole. It is for you, and I hope you enjoy."
Lines of Crimson-
.....Delicately, he applied the strokes of paint to the girls skin. Like the sun shining down and giving life to the forest, the lines of crimson streaked across her pale face; giving life to his canvas. He did his craft with the utmost responsibility, for perhaps only he knew the true value of the Lines of Crimson.
They were dedication. Not like the unyielding waves of the ocean, but like its rolling tides moved in unison under the guidance of a divine force. The Lines of Crimson were the dedication of a people who seldom understood the true power of the forest. Yet among their rank and file, some few did show a compassion for Nature. They were the reason for the Lines of Crimson; they were dedication for a lost cause.
And in them there was a unique beauty. A respect for something they should have never held. Like the chorus of the wolf and the owl. They knew that it was not their medium, yet they tried and made the most beautiful music that could be heard under all other sounds. It was the same sense that they were willing to fall with a foreign liege, that made them part of that strange culture of anti-culture.
The girl sat before him in total silence and a void of movement. She was beautiful; maybe more, she was refreshing. Like a flower in the spring, the first color to contrast a uniform white. She was beautiful; yet it would take his help for her to be a masterpiece. And so as he placed the last stroke in his masterpiece her face opened up into a warm smile for the deed he had granted to her.
She got up to leave the cave, her slender body moving with grace and confidence. And as she reached the portal from the raccoon's den set into the cliff side she looked back over her shoulder at the artist who had done such a masterful accomplishment upon her face. She looked back over her shoulder and the white fur of her muzzle broke into a faint smile, all she could whisper to the raccoon was "thank you". For now she could go and die for her home with the knowledge that it was finally hers.
Thanks for reading.