09-07-2017, 02:52 PM
Woodrow had not a concern in a single bone of his body.
He’d not seen his mate (if he could call her that…) in what seemed like forever or their two mischievous daughters though he scented them every so often but their scents had grown fainter and fainter as the days grew shorter and the nights even longer. Still, he was not overly concerned - to each their own and he’d kept to his coyote ways more than anything else. He knew that his was a transient existence and nothing much stayed or stayed the same. Woodrow did not care that mountains had moved or that forests had fallen - that is what nature does, changes the face of the earth and often, gods were involved with sticky mischievous hands that liked to meddle so he let things be as they are - as they are meant to be.
But the red mare oozed concern and exhaustion, like prey that has almost given up because the hunt is taking far too long and the predators are just playing with their food now. He almost pities her for an instant between tongue-lolls and pants but even he couldn’t sustain the pity long enough for it to matter much to him. Her troubles were her own and she seemed less inclined to make mention of them as she turns her head down to him and blinks slowly like a turtle just coming awake from a great long sleep. Except she was much prettier than a turtle, though the more equine part of his brain that could appreciate long clean legs and nice red hips. She agrees with him about the evening though and even calls him a name in a language he’s heard from no other lips but his family’s own. Mostly his grandmother talked to him that way. Not that she looks anything like that wily old medicine hat mare who simply refused to die - something about a pact with Coyote himself.
She exhales and he feels her grassy breath on his face, closes his eyes to it and shifts his shape back to that of a bay dun roan stallion. Parts of him are still coyote like the tail that brushes against his hindquarters or the way his legs ends in paws instead of hooves. He chuckles and there is a genuine twinkle of mirth and madness (the two were never far apart from one another) in his amber-colored eyes; “No one has called me that since I was a pup! Um… foal, mostly pup - I was stuck a lot in that form.” For a moment, he looks rather bashful. He doesn’t usually offer up things like that so freely to strangers, especially those he’s just met but then Woodrow is an easy-going soul and is rather trusting.
“Mostly my grandmother called me that whenever I tried to nurse from her. She could stomach the coyote teeth unlike my own mother who couldn’t.” There’s no pain in him - just truth, simple and uncomplicated as he looks from her to the meadow below from the top of her hilly overlook. It’s a nice view from up there, for all that he would rather be slinking through the grass in chase of mice to scare and maybe eat.
ooc: eh this post sucked, my son kept interrupting me lol. next one will be better! <3
He’d not seen his mate (if he could call her that…) in what seemed like forever or their two mischievous daughters though he scented them every so often but their scents had grown fainter and fainter as the days grew shorter and the nights even longer. Still, he was not overly concerned - to each their own and he’d kept to his coyote ways more than anything else. He knew that his was a transient existence and nothing much stayed or stayed the same. Woodrow did not care that mountains had moved or that forests had fallen - that is what nature does, changes the face of the earth and often, gods were involved with sticky mischievous hands that liked to meddle so he let things be as they are - as they are meant to be.
But the red mare oozed concern and exhaustion, like prey that has almost given up because the hunt is taking far too long and the predators are just playing with their food now. He almost pities her for an instant between tongue-lolls and pants but even he couldn’t sustain the pity long enough for it to matter much to him. Her troubles were her own and she seemed less inclined to make mention of them as she turns her head down to him and blinks slowly like a turtle just coming awake from a great long sleep. Except she was much prettier than a turtle, though the more equine part of his brain that could appreciate long clean legs and nice red hips. She agrees with him about the evening though and even calls him a name in a language he’s heard from no other lips but his family’s own. Mostly his grandmother talked to him that way. Not that she looks anything like that wily old medicine hat mare who simply refused to die - something about a pact with Coyote himself.
She exhales and he feels her grassy breath on his face, closes his eyes to it and shifts his shape back to that of a bay dun roan stallion. Parts of him are still coyote like the tail that brushes against his hindquarters or the way his legs ends in paws instead of hooves. He chuckles and there is a genuine twinkle of mirth and madness (the two were never far apart from one another) in his amber-colored eyes; “No one has called me that since I was a pup! Um… foal, mostly pup - I was stuck a lot in that form.” For a moment, he looks rather bashful. He doesn’t usually offer up things like that so freely to strangers, especially those he’s just met but then Woodrow is an easy-going soul and is rather trusting.
“Mostly my grandmother called me that whenever I tried to nurse from her. She could stomach the coyote teeth unlike my own mother who couldn’t.” There’s no pain in him - just truth, simple and uncomplicated as he looks from her to the meadow below from the top of her hilly overlook. It’s a nice view from up there, for all that he would rather be slinking through the grass in chase of mice to scare and maybe eat.
ooc: eh this post sucked, my son kept interrupting me lol. next one will be better! <3