Post by Rueff on Aug 16, 2014 7:57:40 GMT -6
 | HAVE YOU ANY IDEA HOW A RAVEN IS LIKE A WRITING DESK...? |
Rueff flattened his one good ear to the short hair of his scalp. Urgh. This was so tedious. But with the dwindling numbers of pack wolves and sane thoughts in his head, Rueff was alone now. He hesitated, hundreds of thoughts whirring past, and he fought to separate coherent thoughts.
Yechta. What's wrong? Speak to me. Amaryllis. Dying. Territory probably gone. Trespassers. Matana. Where'd she go? Hello? Never look back. Left for good. I'm alone. I'M ALONE AGAIN!!!
He churned his long charcoal claws into the ground. He wanted to did the sharp points into his face. A habit of his. Take out your frustrations - on yourself. Alas, he'd been crouched, poised like this for a while. Probably too long, muscles twitching and shaking as they fought to hold his weight. Whoops. He forgot the task at hand. Again.
He crept forwards. Ahh, so tedious. He missed the power, hunting with many, the brute force behind your every move. He parted his lips, drawing them back to snarl, breathing the air in through his teeth. And then he bolted. What would he do without the shadows. Oh, those dainty white wolves stood out like sore thumbs. This was his element.
Hooves pummelled the earth, flicking soil and sand and grass at his face as he weaved blindly through the thin legs. And then he saw the head, bent under the shear weight of the horns that adorned his skull. What was the point of death without a trophy?
He sprinted quicker, every step bringing a lancing pain through his always-injured leg. But he was used to it. And that one slice of agony cleared his head from its permanent fog. He broke his step on purpose, digging his claws into the thick tendon that stood out like rope in the lithe legs of the buck. Rueff tripped, dozens of legs pounding over his head as he protected himself. But he knew the damage was done, and he couldn't help the cruelest smile creeping across his maw.
The elegant buck's leg would not support it, and its step faltered, a hoof misplaced and a sickening crack as it's leg snapped in two. The stampeding herd that studiously avoided Rueff's dark pelt had finished the rest of the work.
Rueff stood, and extended his leg and arched his back, relishing the resounding click of popping bones. He strolled over to his trophy, a bare few paws away. He was met with glassy eyes and twisted limbs. He did not care what state his over sized meal was in. Hunting was a sport.
And his head jerked upward. A stick snapped. He was sure. Approaching foe? It wouldn't be an elk, unless mortally wounded. A stick could have simply fell from the trees. Rueff's one ear swivelled like a sonar dish trying to pick a signal. Rueff was paranoid, and he desperately scrambled for a simply sane thought. He must smile for the camera.
Yechta. What's wrong? Speak to me. Amaryllis. Dying. Territory probably gone. Trespassers. Matana. Where'd she go? Hello? Never look back. Left for good. I'm alone. I'M ALONE AGAIN!!!
He churned his long charcoal claws into the ground. He wanted to did the sharp points into his face. A habit of his. Take out your frustrations - on yourself. Alas, he'd been crouched, poised like this for a while. Probably too long, muscles twitching and shaking as they fought to hold his weight. Whoops. He forgot the task at hand. Again.
He crept forwards. Ahh, so tedious. He missed the power, hunting with many, the brute force behind your every move. He parted his lips, drawing them back to snarl, breathing the air in through his teeth. And then he bolted. What would he do without the shadows. Oh, those dainty white wolves stood out like sore thumbs. This was his element.
Hooves pummelled the earth, flicking soil and sand and grass at his face as he weaved blindly through the thin legs. And then he saw the head, bent under the shear weight of the horns that adorned his skull. What was the point of death without a trophy?
He sprinted quicker, every step bringing a lancing pain through his always-injured leg. But he was used to it. And that one slice of agony cleared his head from its permanent fog. He broke his step on purpose, digging his claws into the thick tendon that stood out like rope in the lithe legs of the buck. Rueff tripped, dozens of legs pounding over his head as he protected himself. But he knew the damage was done, and he couldn't help the cruelest smile creeping across his maw.
The elegant buck's leg would not support it, and its step faltered, a hoof misplaced and a sickening crack as it's leg snapped in two. The stampeding herd that studiously avoided Rueff's dark pelt had finished the rest of the work.
Rueff stood, and extended his leg and arched his back, relishing the resounding click of popping bones. He strolled over to his trophy, a bare few paws away. He was met with glassy eyes and twisted limbs. He did not care what state his over sized meal was in. Hunting was a sport.
And his head jerked upward. A stick snapped. He was sure. Approaching foe? It wouldn't be an elk, unless mortally wounded. A stick could have simply fell from the trees. Rueff's one ear swivelled like a sonar dish trying to pick a signal. Rueff was paranoid, and he desperately scrambled for a simply sane thought. He must smile for the camera.
