Wolf RPG

In the light of the setting sun, Ashmedai was hunting. The skies would soon be painted in reds and yellows of the evening - but it was still blue, still a deep, rich blue above him. So he walked, pelt blending in magnificently with the surroundings about him, and his steel-blue eyes glinting harshly in the shadows. They were pale and cold, the eyes of a predator, as the hunter lost himself in the familiar motions of stalking and prowling so he could wander in his own mind while his body did the task required of it. 

Elwood had shown him the Alpha den and given him 'brownie points', which the old wolf still smirked at, to himself. Alone in the woods, by himself and left to himself, Ashmedai was a completely different person. He was much more cynical, more sarcastic and infinitely more expressive. He could smirk to himself, smile to himself, grin to himself - and if he so desired, he could cry to himself. Perhaps now he could boost himself up more by hunting again - and besides, he wanted to be able to hunt more freely.

Small frame no deterrent from the hunt, Ashmedai pounced on a rabbit, cleanly snapping its neck before he dug a hole and unceremoniously stuffed the carcass in, then kicked dirt over it. He'd come back for it later (assuming that he could remember the location), and happily wandered off in search for bigger game. Not thinking of the fact that he'd just slaughtered a rabbit with such ease, Ashmedai proceeded to walk away, content in the assumption that he'd come back to the same rabbit only slightly dirty.

Ha, joke's on him, or so he'd find out.

Nose in the air and eyes bright, the man continued to shift in the shadows, and the first hues of orange started to litter the sky.

He only had vague tendrils of information concerning his charge. She spoke lovingly of her home: Blackfeather Woods, a dark forest in the region known as Teekon Wilds where her family resided. It was dark and eerily quiet, save for the calls of warring crows and ravens and the howls of the Dark Brotherhood that resided there. Inigo listened to her speak time and time again, sensing her homesickness as she did so. He didn't mean to get separated from her: it just happened. But he was still alive, still kicking, still searching for her. He couldn't rest until he found her again. He had no intentions on returning to Hag Fen: he had enough of babysitting little witches. He sensed that here, with all of these packs, that he would find some kind of interesting plot to nudge himself into, or interesting wolves to love.

As the light faded from the sky, Inigo shifted himself. He still stuck to his old habits from Baja California, waking with dusk and dawn at the coolest times of the day. He knew that here, in the north, where the cold was more of a danger than the blazing heat, it wasn't an ideal strategy, but old habits died hard. The lean Mexican stretched, his rump in the air as he yawned. Shaking his thin pelt, the Mexican strode into the dark woods next to the forest where he met the young boy.

At first he thought that the dark woods he wandered through was the forest Potema talked about, but he smelled no pack whatsoever, old or new. Begrudgingly, the wolf kept wandering, his ears and eyes alert for anything. The rustle and the quiet squeak that he recognized as the dying scream of a rabbit caught his attention and soon he saw the other wolf stalking through the woods. Inigo followed, quiet as he could closing in on the wolf until he thought he was close enough to speak. Bueno?