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Post by [({Listen})] on Oct 16, 2009 13:00:31 GMT -5
xxx. a gentle giant
Tawny, tall, muscular. And a slave. Quiet, kind, brave. And a slave. A wonderful slave, yes. But a slave. He had run, escaped his old wanderings, when the sickness had hit. But now he needed a home, because, quite simply, he liked being a slave. He was odd that way, but it pleased him, made him feel at ease, to know he had a master who would take care of pack affairs while he carried out his orders. He was calm, and kind, and gentle, and very strong, a gentle giant.
And so he wandered, lost. Not very quickly, but not particularly slow. He killed and ate what he could find, but was very careful to see that it wasn't infected first. But even so, his pelt hung ripped and ragged around his frame, his every rib showing through clearly and his eyes haunted. He had had several fights with other roaming wolves and also horses, the most recent of which, that had been with a towering blood-bay stallion, was burned into his memory.
He had been stalking a deer at the time, a deer and her fawn, rather. The fawn was his target, and he had stalked them for hours, waiting for an oppurtunity; his luck had been unusually good, and the pair had not scented nor heard him. However, just as he had been poisted to kill, he had stumbled upon quite another pair: the stallion and his mare-slave. They had been in quite a process, and the stallion was so enraged at being disturbed that, in his fury, the stallion flew at him, attacking without hesitation. He had had to flee, running for nearly an hour before the stallion gave up chase. It had certainly been a hair-raising experience, and he had his own brand of fury, for the fawn had been his best chance at good prey in moons.
Now, however, his goals expanded beyond staying alive and finding prey; they also included finding a home to settle into; most understandibly, a good bit of this longing for home and master had come after the attack of that brute of a stallion. So now he had been scenting and scenting, searching for the strongest scent of wolf he could find. He had found, indeed, more than he had hoped for: three territories. One he had skipped on account of the thick fog 'round the base of the mountain, and the queer calls made by the creatures inside the borderline. So he had wandered on to the next one, but something had just not felt right as he oogled at the already brazenly fall-colored leaves, so on he had wandered.
But this third territory... it seemed promising. A tall-grass plain, of medium size, dotted with flowers. And he could see deer, his favorite of all prey, along with rabbits, sprinting and dancing from one sparse patch of trees to the next. There were the first beginnings of a hopefull feeling in his bones as, gathering his courage, Sundiata took a single timid step over the scent-marked border.
Tawny, tall, muscular. And a slave. Quiet, kind, brave. And a slave. A wonderful slave, yes. But a slave. He had run, escaped his old wanderings, when the sickness had hit. But now he needed a home, because, quite simply, he liked being a slave. He was odd that way, but it pleased him, made him feel at ease, to know he had a master who would take care of pack affairs while he carried out his orders. He was calm, and kind, and gentle, and very strong, a gentle giant.
And so he wandered, lost. Not very quickly, but not particularly slow. He killed and ate what he could find, but was very careful to see that it wasn't infected first. But even so, his pelt hung ripped and ragged around his frame, his every rib showing through clearly and his eyes haunted. He had had several fights with other roaming wolves and also horses, the most recent of which, that had been with a towering blood-bay stallion, was burned into his memory.
He had been stalking a deer at the time, a deer and her fawn, rather. The fawn was his target, and he had stalked them for hours, waiting for an oppurtunity; his luck had been unusually good, and the pair had not scented nor heard him. However, just as he had been poisted to kill, he had stumbled upon quite another pair: the stallion and his mare-slave. They had been in quite a process, and the stallion was so enraged at being disturbed that, in his fury, the stallion flew at him, attacking without hesitation. He had had to flee, running for nearly an hour before the stallion gave up chase. It had certainly been a hair-raising experience, and he had his own brand of fury, for the fawn had been his best chance at good prey in moons.
Now, however, his goals expanded beyond staying alive and finding prey; they also included finding a home to settle into; most understandibly, a good bit of this longing for home and master had come after the attack of that brute of a stallion. So now he had been scenting and scenting, searching for the strongest scent of wolf he could find. He had found, indeed, more than he had hoped for: three territories. One he had skipped on account of the thick fog 'round the base of the mountain, and the queer calls made by the creatures inside the borderline. So he had wandered on to the next one, but something had just not felt right as he oogled at the already brazenly fall-colored leaves, so on he had wandered.
But this third territory... it seemed promising. A tall-grass plain, of medium size, dotted with flowers. And he could see deer, his favorite of all prey, along with rabbits, sprinting and dancing from one sparse patch of trees to the next. There were the first beginnings of a hopefull feeling in his bones as, gathering his courage, Sundiata took a single timid step over the scent-marked border.
