the morning is cloaked in a thick veil of fog; the air heavy and soupy as poet stirs awake. poet stretches, finding relief in the action, but is snapped back to reality that he'd just undergone quite a trip to get to this place by the soreness of his paws and muscles. for a brief moment, he'd forgotten.
disorientation had followed then, made worse by the fog. he had intended to travel more, after filling his belly with breakfast but he considers, with a soft frown creasing his lips that perhaps he was best to stay where he was in this unfamiliar territory. to, until the fog burned away, not venture beyond the vale.
poet stretches again, a yawn escaping him as he settles his back against the thick tree trunk he'd slept against, trying to content himself with having a lazy morning.
She had gotten some rest after all of her little escapades and the woman was sure one of the three had worked. Now she was to find a place to call home, although she did want her future babies to be born in black feather woods, the area may not be ordeal.
The woman had no inclination on where she was to go so she traveled forwards in search of prey or a home. Instead she came upon a wolf. Which she found herself doing a lot as of late.
she's being a weirdo, feel free to skip for now. please tag me if she is acknowledged!
the fog leaves little room for visible navigation, though it is by the aroma of a woman that guides her through the lanes of softwood.
she is drawn to it as men might be, though her attraction is only in interest of sampling the potential merchandise that might waltz their way near. she weaves through shrubby and streams, the smog thick with feverish season.
as scent boiled to a roaring strength, the viper's steps slowed. she sought to keep a distance, though the haze prevented her from doing so. it was only as the misty figures appeared in ways of spectral silhouettes that she halted her stride and set to peek through the clouded window like a peeping tom.
it takes poet a moment to realize he is not alone, that the woman he can see approaching isn't just a trick of the dense fog. but when he draws in a breath to gather her scent, it is obvious she is not a trick of the weather. the lingering of her sweet scent, mingled with the musk of men that do not stick strong, draws poet to his paws like a hand tucked beneath his chin coaxing him.
though in his mind, he knows he is logically not old enough to sire cubs, he is still tempted by the scent all the same; thinning as it perhaps was.
howdy,
the saint-forge calls out to her after offering a small chuff of greeting, ghosting towards her a step in an effort to more clearly make her out — unaware that there was another woman nearby.
The shadowy woman hadn’t noticed the other she wolf yet. She looked to the male who had greeted her and walked closer to her. “Hello.” She was just coming across men left and right these days and now that her mission for pups was nearing an end she wasn’t inclined to pursue the men anymore.
So for once in what seemed like a very long week. This encounter wouldn’t end the same as the others had. “I’m moonshadow and you are?” She wanted to get introductions out the way.
though it is hard for him to make out actual details of her, poet regards her as she returns his greeting and jumps right to the introductions. it makes sense, he supposes. but it's more straightforward than he's used to; like a cut-to-the-chase exchange at a sleepy bar.
moonshadow, she calls herself.
tryin' to make sense of direction in this fog,
poet grins, and then lets out a low, sheepish noise; unsure that his humor was welcomed nor needed in this situation. i'm poet saint-forge, ma'am.
and though he isn't sure she could make out the gesture, he tips his head in a gentlemanly greeting, like a cowboy tipping the brim of his hat.