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+--- Thread: Deepwood Weald maybe september, the year you believed in me (/showthread.php?tid=40175)
maybe september, the year you believed in me - Arcturus - March 16, 2020
arcturus left the spear on stealthy limbs, stealing under the cover of night. he bedded under a pile of pinestraw and bracken fern, waiting for dawn's cold arrival. eventually, it came -- he stretched his stiff limbs and yawned, a plume of silvery mist smoking from his muzzle.
he struck north. he went in search of clues, looking for both osiris' attacker and, by chance, maybe dragomir's -- since according to hydra, they were purported to travel together. for the most part, he kept himself concealed, knowing full well he might be in danger out in the open.
RE: maybe september, the year you believed in me - Nefris - March 18, 2020
The Weald draws her in again, this time in search of something rather specific: wild garlic. The nature of the forest alone can't conceal one's tracks entirely, she knows — and spring is here, which gives some advantages. While the scent may not be the most pleasant, it'd certainly be less recognizable than pack-scent. She keeps her nose low as she searches for the early shoots, and eventually she comes across a different scent entirely. Wolf. She snorts, pace picking up as her route changes to follow the trail, however tricky it may be. Eventually, the scent grows fresher, and she knows she's close. Her steps slow, soft and nearly silent in the early morning haze, and she chuffs to call for the other's attention, ears perked as she scans the area.
RE: maybe september, the year you believed in me - Arcturus - March 18, 2020
there were more than one scents to the weald; arcturus remained alert, lest one of those scents be the party of derelicts hydra had warned him of.
throughout the gloom the panther prowled, pausing here and there as a scent became more and more prevalent. he heard the tread of a wolf behind him and whipped around, his fur lifted defensively in case it was one of the very rogues he was instructed to stay away from.
the figure that waded past parting mist was not what arcturus would have called a derelict. rough, sure -- but arcturus did not often judge wolves by the state of their fur. he apprised her with a careful look but did not advance. "who are you?" his voice was gruff, but not without an inflection of curiosity.
no response.
arcturus wondered if he had been seeing things; the mist bucked and rolled in response, but ultimately, the ostrega seemed alone.
perturbed, he pressed on.