08-17-2017, 01:31 PM
Don't be afraid when the night wolves cry,
feast on their bones, suck the marrow dry.
feast on their bones, suck the marrow dry.
It is the season of the hunt.
Autumn dons her cloak of fiery red and crown of gold with the authority of centuries past and yet to come, while her subjects change their summer dance to a slow, unhurried waltz. Between the bend of trunk and limb Longclaw is weaving, nose quivering at the fore of his face while at the aft, his ears pick up the semblance of a quarreling squirrel’s tet-a-tet; food is growing scarce and those who gather must resort to base means for survival: stealing, hiding, perhaps even a challenge for den rights here and there. But Longclaw is situated near the top of this food chain, above even his own kind for they, unlike him, do not all possess the ability to trade their skin for a more suitable one.
And my, how his skin does suit him. It is silver in coloration, glimmering along his shoulders, belly, and spine like gossamer threads that glint whenever the spotted sunlight chances to glance down upon him. About his legs and belly it bleeds to a mute grey, lending him shadow while his eyes and snout are kept white-washed. A wolf, he is, lean and leonine, focused wholly on a singular goal that gives his muscular body purpose in every step, every twitch of muscle or hide. Like nature herself, centuries have shaped him to be an agile, perfect predator with the ever-present law of kill or be killed humming in his breast.
It’s this law that drives him now out of the heart of his cover and into the sparsely adorned stretch of grassland, treading quietly, quickly, over the earth with muted paws to the riverbank where his prey will be gathering to drink. Still too early yet to be called dawn, the wetness of last night’s dewcover now soak his legs and belly through but it serves as no distraction from the endgame. He switches direction; a breeze scuttles by and keeps him now downwind of what he’s hunting and when he can safely go no further without detection, he stops.
Inching, barrel set low to the ground, he shoulders past the slim curtain of drying grass and peers out with wide, vibrant green eyes upriver to settle on a kill.
Alone, haloed by the rising eastern sun, is a lovely mare.
Autumn dons her cloak of fiery red and crown of gold with the authority of centuries past and yet to come, while her subjects change their summer dance to a slow, unhurried waltz. Between the bend of trunk and limb Longclaw is weaving, nose quivering at the fore of his face while at the aft, his ears pick up the semblance of a quarreling squirrel’s tet-a-tet; food is growing scarce and those who gather must resort to base means for survival: stealing, hiding, perhaps even a challenge for den rights here and there. But Longclaw is situated near the top of this food chain, above even his own kind for they, unlike him, do not all possess the ability to trade their skin for a more suitable one.
And my, how his skin does suit him. It is silver in coloration, glimmering along his shoulders, belly, and spine like gossamer threads that glint whenever the spotted sunlight chances to glance down upon him. About his legs and belly it bleeds to a mute grey, lending him shadow while his eyes and snout are kept white-washed. A wolf, he is, lean and leonine, focused wholly on a singular goal that gives his muscular body purpose in every step, every twitch of muscle or hide. Like nature herself, centuries have shaped him to be an agile, perfect predator with the ever-present law of kill or be killed humming in his breast.
It’s this law that drives him now out of the heart of his cover and into the sparsely adorned stretch of grassland, treading quietly, quickly, over the earth with muted paws to the riverbank where his prey will be gathering to drink. Still too early yet to be called dawn, the wetness of last night’s dewcover now soak his legs and belly through but it serves as no distraction from the endgame. He switches direction; a breeze scuttles by and keeps him now downwind of what he’s hunting and when he can safely go no further without detection, he stops.
Inching, barrel set low to the ground, he shoulders past the slim curtain of drying grass and peers out with wide, vibrant green eyes upriver to settle on a kill.
Alone, haloed by the rising eastern sun, is a lovely mare.
Longclaw
@[Diorae]
![[Image: sScEgld.png]](http://i.imgur.com/sScEgld.png)