Wolf RPG

He wore a bracelet of scabs around his ankle. Blood oozed now more than it dripped, but the fur that it stained was already frosted white by salt deposit. Further up, the junction of his hip was matted and slick. The wound there wasn't deep, but it was in a place where the skin pulled with every step he took, and so it bled when he was not of a mind to stay still — which was often.

He favored that leg. It made his progress slow as he traversed the seaside forest, but he had the look of a man with nowhere pressing to be. Perhaps he would have moved slowly either way.

The bounty hunter paused atop a step rise to look at the deep gully on either side. He scratched his claws into the dirt and found redwood bark underneath. This giant had fallen long ago, and now it crumbled beneath his paws as it was reclaimed by the earth it grew in.

This could not hold his attention. He lifted his head to scan the dense forest, frustrated by the loss of the trail. He'd been going on a hunch for days, now. Perhaps his quarry had gone the other way.

She’d taken up as sentry in the sound. Not out of obligation, or with specific intent, but it came natural to her all the same. And this wasn’t to say she felt particularly protective over this slab of cold, salt-sprayed earth. In fact, she cared very little for its mythic views and its ancient, upswept trees, all with more secrets than branches.

More simply put, Stelmaria was nosy.

From afar, she spied the ambling wolf, studying his uneven prowl with bare interest. Pale eyes scrutinized him further as she made her pantherine approach, taking in more and more of his features the closer she came. The huntress stopped at a healthy distance, her tail swishing slowly as she tried to determine his mood for company.

Though the monolith forest was interesting, and a beautiful sight to behold, the bounty hunter could not help but feel dissatisfied with his fortune. He would have to turn back and hope he could pick the scent up again. If he pressed forward, there was a good chance he was only moving further away from his prey.

He turned, and when he did, his dusky gaze landed at once on a pale figure in the distance.

He moved, picking his way carefully down from his perch and trotting on sure legs in her direction. He did not hurry, giving the stranger time to flee or warn him away. This pace had the added benefit of concealing his limp more thoroughly.

"It's a quite place," he said idly, his voice rough from lack of use. There was a hoarse, airy quality to it that left the impression that he did not want to be overheard. Sotto voce. If the stranger looked closer, she might see the necklace of naked scars he wore around his throat. "Do you get many visitors?"