Post by Eli Smith on Aug 3, 2013 12:18:31 GMT -5
Under the starry skies...[/size]
[/font]
The following week had taken its toll on the entire pack’s morale. The season of frost was coming, and all of the animals of the forest could smell the icy chill on the wind, feel it with the crunch of leaves underpaw, see it in the gray skies. The prey had begun to burrow its way into the ground for the season, and the wolves knew that hunting would soon become very difficult, having to resort to tackling the bigger game which dared the cold dawn and evening light to venture out for any hope of plantlife they could find. This was all part of the normal cycle of the forest, and the wolves obeyed this part of nature, changing the way they hunted, the way they lived, to meet the needs of the coming frost. The thing that had put more stress on the pack came in the form of pups, two litters, five extra mouths to feed and two mothers in need of making milk.
He worked harder than the rest of his pack, feeling he owed something to them for being half-abomination, willing to starve if it meant plumping up one of the mothers. He organized countless hunting patrols, stayed many nights in the camp rather than away in his human form, and while the pressing need for him to shift back and get some human food in him bore down on him, the paranoia of smelling her everywhere wasn’t helping the situation.
She was on the wind, creating trails and markers that crossed over his and the pack’s many times, and every now and then he would catch himself following these trails, wanting to see her despite how much she made the blood boil in his veins. She was frustrating, ridiculous and unreasonably stubborn and he felt conflicted between a rage that made him want to rip out her throat and a desire that made him want to worship the very ground she walked on.
He had made it a week.
A week of smelling her everywhere, a week of winter preparation hell, a week of squealing pups and cranky mothers and a run-down pack. Tonight was the night he confronted her.
Eli left his healer in charge, the pack used to him slipping away for one reason or another but never catching on to the fact that he could change shape as he did. He weaved around thick underbrush, his rough pads crunching down on the fallen leaves and pine needles until the wolf grew erect, his paws changed to soft human feet, his pink fleshy body exposed to the elements, but he was close enough to his mortal home, making his way inside to find a pair of shorts- because even in winter he couldn’t stand more than that- and pausing only to realize that the last time he spoke to her he had told her he didn’t care if she wound up dead.
Well, wouldn’t this be a fun reunion?
He followed the trails again, diverging from his trails to hers and following it, this time, all the way to where the scent was strongest and a small ranger’s shack lay hidden amongst the trees. Eli grinned wolfishly then caught himself and dropped it, emerging from his hiding spot and carelessly approaching the little home, straining to remain void of any emotion.
Knock knock.
[/font]
..where eagles have flown...
...this place is paradise...
...It’s the place I call home....[/blockquote]
The following week had taken its toll on the entire pack’s morale. The season of frost was coming, and all of the animals of the forest could smell the icy chill on the wind, feel it with the crunch of leaves underpaw, see it in the gray skies. The prey had begun to burrow its way into the ground for the season, and the wolves knew that hunting would soon become very difficult, having to resort to tackling the bigger game which dared the cold dawn and evening light to venture out for any hope of plantlife they could find. This was all part of the normal cycle of the forest, and the wolves obeyed this part of nature, changing the way they hunted, the way they lived, to meet the needs of the coming frost. The thing that had put more stress on the pack came in the form of pups, two litters, five extra mouths to feed and two mothers in need of making milk.
He worked harder than the rest of his pack, feeling he owed something to them for being half-abomination, willing to starve if it meant plumping up one of the mothers. He organized countless hunting patrols, stayed many nights in the camp rather than away in his human form, and while the pressing need for him to shift back and get some human food in him bore down on him, the paranoia of smelling her everywhere wasn’t helping the situation.
She was on the wind, creating trails and markers that crossed over his and the pack’s many times, and every now and then he would catch himself following these trails, wanting to see her despite how much she made the blood boil in his veins. She was frustrating, ridiculous and unreasonably stubborn and he felt conflicted between a rage that made him want to rip out her throat and a desire that made him want to worship the very ground she walked on.
He had made it a week.
A week of smelling her everywhere, a week of winter preparation hell, a week of squealing pups and cranky mothers and a run-down pack. Tonight was the night he confronted her.
Eli left his healer in charge, the pack used to him slipping away for one reason or another but never catching on to the fact that he could change shape as he did. He weaved around thick underbrush, his rough pads crunching down on the fallen leaves and pine needles until the wolf grew erect, his paws changed to soft human feet, his pink fleshy body exposed to the elements, but he was close enough to his mortal home, making his way inside to find a pair of shorts- because even in winter he couldn’t stand more than that- and pausing only to realize that the last time he spoke to her he had told her he didn’t care if she wound up dead.
Well, wouldn’t this be a fun reunion?
He followed the trails again, diverging from his trails to hers and following it, this time, all the way to where the scent was strongest and a small ranger’s shack lay hidden amongst the trees. Eli grinned wolfishly then caught himself and dropped it, emerging from his hiding spot and carelessly approaching the little home, straining to remain void of any emotion.
Knock knock.
bryan adams lyrics
