Post by majestikal on Dec 19, 2009 0:03:20 GMT -5
The cautious uncertainity of twilight would soon fall into the star-speckled darkness of night, but for a time, the land was bathed in gray light, and the open sky was painted with gentle purples and pinks as the sun fell away and the moon made its grand enterance. Creatures of Day halted their primal activities and nestled themselves in their shelters as their nocturnal bretheren replaced them. The natural chorus of songbirds was replaced by utter silence occasionally broken by the rustling of the few dead leaves left clinging to skeletal trees. A bitter breeze animated the trees and caused even the hardiest of animals to shiver with discomfort and fear towards the notion that this would not be the coldest wind to plague the land as a biting autumn transitioned into a brutal winter. Regardless of this weather, the creatures would persist, hunting and gathering to prevent this creeping cold from invading their bodies and stopping their hearts.
Aspen did not want to be exposed to the brutish touch of nature; as he walked, his mind played visions of a snug den, another body to press against for warmth. The thick brown fur that adorned the behemoth's muscled form helped shield him from the venom of twilight's bite, but the discomfort persisted. At the very least, he longed to transform into a tree, to grow insensitive to the breeze that harshly enveloped him. The wolf could not do this, however. He was on a mission, and regardless of his lazy desires, Aspen would not pause. Heavy steps carried him across humming streams and stray stones. He would occasionally falter, but he would not fall. His bear-steps were clumsy, but they were with great purpose, and the male knew that, if he fell, he would most likely halt his journey. Aspen was weak from living the life of a rogue, and his mind was weak from his colorful, comfortable imaginings.
The beast's body froze as he came to a scent barrier, completely inanimate but for the ruffling of tangled fur as a breeze passed by. He had found what he wanted, but was the ready for a life of structure and normalcy? Was he even capable of interacting with others? The wolf had belonged to a small, intimate community for the majority of his life, and as a young adult, he was naive to the world of other wolves. He was about to cross into a land of strangers, and he was a foreigner and a pariah. Glittering, forest-green eyes closed as Aspen's undulating chest took in and expelled heavy breaths. A sudden reluctance struck his soul like a mallet. His independence was about to die, and Aspen was the one holding the knife. The brute recalled his moments of freedom, running through the grass unrestrained by the boundaries of others. Yet, he also remembered his social despiration, the desire to interact with others and live life as a pack-wolf. He remembered speaking to stones and trees and corpses, calling them comrades. He had even cried over the decay of a particuarly good corpse-friend. Aspen opened his eyes, furrowing his brows. He was not going to take a fern as a mate and a bird as a child.
And so he crossed into the lands of the Toko Forest, form fluid with confidence at the movement. However, Aspen was immediately struck with nostalgia. It manifested in his chest and spread to his limbs like a sharp, lingering pain. He writhed and frowned but attempted to shake it off by padding deeper into the Toko lands. The creature did not know the wolves within this land, but he hoped for acceptance. Aspen knew that he was a desirable asset; he was young, strong, and well-raised. He would succeed, even if he did have to objectify himself based upon his traits. The wolf quickened his steps until he was submerged in the territory. He then halted and seated himself upon well-muscled haunches. He pressed his short tail against his body and shifted a bit, attempting to provide himself comfort. Blunt muzzle lifted and parted, and a low, resonant howl escaped his mouth to reverberate against the trees. He called for an alpha, a ranked wolf, anybody who would accept him.
He plunged his knife into his autonomy and killed it.
Aspen did not want to be exposed to the brutish touch of nature; as he walked, his mind played visions of a snug den, another body to press against for warmth. The thick brown fur that adorned the behemoth's muscled form helped shield him from the venom of twilight's bite, but the discomfort persisted. At the very least, he longed to transform into a tree, to grow insensitive to the breeze that harshly enveloped him. The wolf could not do this, however. He was on a mission, and regardless of his lazy desires, Aspen would not pause. Heavy steps carried him across humming streams and stray stones. He would occasionally falter, but he would not fall. His bear-steps were clumsy, but they were with great purpose, and the male knew that, if he fell, he would most likely halt his journey. Aspen was weak from living the life of a rogue, and his mind was weak from his colorful, comfortable imaginings.
The beast's body froze as he came to a scent barrier, completely inanimate but for the ruffling of tangled fur as a breeze passed by. He had found what he wanted, but was the ready for a life of structure and normalcy? Was he even capable of interacting with others? The wolf had belonged to a small, intimate community for the majority of his life, and as a young adult, he was naive to the world of other wolves. He was about to cross into a land of strangers, and he was a foreigner and a pariah. Glittering, forest-green eyes closed as Aspen's undulating chest took in and expelled heavy breaths. A sudden reluctance struck his soul like a mallet. His independence was about to die, and Aspen was the one holding the knife. The brute recalled his moments of freedom, running through the grass unrestrained by the boundaries of others. Yet, he also remembered his social despiration, the desire to interact with others and live life as a pack-wolf. He remembered speaking to stones and trees and corpses, calling them comrades. He had even cried over the decay of a particuarly good corpse-friend. Aspen opened his eyes, furrowing his brows. He was not going to take a fern as a mate and a bird as a child.
And so he crossed into the lands of the Toko Forest, form fluid with confidence at the movement. However, Aspen was immediately struck with nostalgia. It manifested in his chest and spread to his limbs like a sharp, lingering pain. He writhed and frowned but attempted to shake it off by padding deeper into the Toko lands. The creature did not know the wolves within this land, but he hoped for acceptance. Aspen knew that he was a desirable asset; he was young, strong, and well-raised. He would succeed, even if he did have to objectify himself based upon his traits. The wolf quickened his steps until he was submerged in the territory. He then halted and seated himself upon well-muscled haunches. He pressed his short tail against his body and shifted a bit, attempting to provide himself comfort. Blunt muzzle lifted and parted, and a low, resonant howl escaped his mouth to reverberate against the trees. He called for an alpha, a ranked wolf, anybody who would accept him.
He plunged his knife into his autonomy and killed it.