November 16, 2015, 06:26 PM
It was not often the fox could give the slip to his parents. He had tried on numerous occasions and had failed just as often, being herded or carried back before he managed to stray too far. But no wolf was perfect, not even his watchful guardians, and he was observant and growing ever more sly by the day. The pack's caretaker had disappeared and other packmates were scarce, so while the Spire's leadership gathered to discuss something, he saw his chance.
Determined to see more of the world and extend the boundaries of his playground, the third born stole away. On quick and nimble paws he descended the unforgiving slopes, following trails imprinted in the land by his parents and packmates. He could not know the folly of such bold and reckless decisions. The world had only been a thing of beauty to him, of wonder, and nothing had shown him the virtue of fear and caution. It would be learned too late, for with the wind at his back he was disadvantaged, and frolicked and giggled headlong into trouble he never saw, smelled, or heard coming.
A terrified shriek rent the stillness of the cool afternoon.
In its aftermath, Pingasut would not be found. His tracks would end abruptly in soft earth that displayed them clearly, amid tufts of red-orange and white fur and an alarming spattering of blood. Ahead of this, the large prints of a mountain cat would lead away, leaving little to the imagination of what transpired, and no room for hope of a different outcome;
He dead.
Determined to see more of the world and extend the boundaries of his playground, the third born stole away. On quick and nimble paws he descended the unforgiving slopes, following trails imprinted in the land by his parents and packmates. He could not know the folly of such bold and reckless decisions. The world had only been a thing of beauty to him, of wonder, and nothing had shown him the virtue of fear and caution. It would be learned too late, for with the wind at his back he was disadvantaged, and frolicked and giggled headlong into trouble he never saw, smelled, or heard coming.
A terrified shriek rent the stillness of the cool afternoon.
In its aftermath, Pingasut would not be found. His tracks would end abruptly in soft earth that displayed them clearly, amid tufts of red-orange and white fur and an alarming spattering of blood. Ahead of this, the large prints of a mountain cat would lead away, leaving little to the imagination of what transpired, and no room for hope of a different outcome;
He dead.