salvador was no longer sure how long he’d been walking through the coniferous and deciduous forest, it’s floor littered with bracken and thick underbrush of thorn riddled bushes. he’s already left several tufts of fur behind throughout his trek through the seemingly never-ending forest where it had gotten snagged on the thorns that grasp out like greedy fingers. a few scratches, too, from where the sharpened points have skimmed and sliced his skin though he knows enough of the healing arts — albeit through his knowledge of the poisonous arts — to ascertain that the cuts are all shallow and will heal in a few days time, provided he can leave them alone. the trouble is that they sting and itch and he pauses to nibble at such a scratch upon his front, right leg. teeth scrape against his shorn, silvered fur there — shorter and silkier than the longer, wispy tendrils of his northern’s pelt thick even in the summer months — a hiss curling from his lips as the small cut smarts even as he sates the insufferable itch. a few swipes of his tongue over the wound smooth the fur and the healing flesh is pacified …for now. it won’t be for long if he cannot cleanse it and cease acting upon the itch despite how insistent it is.
the coast cannot be far away, he thinks, but first… first he must free himself from this damned forest. it could not possibly go on forever, sal thinks with a low, unintelligible grumble rumbling up his throat and passing betwixt lips. loathe as the sepulchral creature is to admit it, perhaps the wife — ex wife that is — was right: perhaps he is becoming incorrigible and surly in his old age. Regardless, he was getting too old for this shit; for this restlessness that seizes him. yet, it persists and unable to ignore the siren’s call of his mid-life crises restless nature he keeps moving forward wondering if there is an end to it or if he will wander until the day he dies.
the coast cannot be far away, he thinks, but first… first he must free himself from this damned forest. it could not possibly go on forever, sal thinks with a low, unintelligible grumble rumbling up his throat and passing betwixt lips. loathe as the sepulchral creature is to admit it, perhaps the wife — ex wife that is — was right: perhaps he is becoming incorrigible and surly in his old age. Regardless, he was getting too old for this shit; for this restlessness that seizes him. yet, it persists and unable to ignore the siren’s call of his mid-life crises restless nature he keeps moving forward wondering if there is an end to it or if he will wander until the day he dies.
August 17, 2017, 05:03 PM
Hawthorne came from the glaciers of Duskfire. The wolverine wasn't aware that it was called that way the only thing he was aware of was that the snow stopped. He was sad to see the end of the ice and snow. The male knew that it would soon be cold once more. The ever hungry animal was out for food. There was one thing that he couldn't find on the glacier and that was that one thing. Hence why the glutton was now on his way to a thick forest.
His nose was tracking something. Perhaps he could take down an Elk or Caribou. That was how hungry he was. The male was quite brave to tackle such big prey alone but he had done it before. Hawthrone liked and disliked hunting at the same time. He was more of a scavenger than a hunter, but in summer when food was scarce for him he would have to hunt. The fresh meat was welcomed over the frozen carcasses.
The musky smelling animal followed a scented trail, though it seemed old. His nose caught a new one. Wolf. He let out a huff. He had met several of those lately, some with mixed responses. There seemed to be an extreme amount of wolves in this location, curiously enough. The wolverine jumped on a log and sniffed the air once more. His nose turned him in the right direction. There the wolf was. He squinted his eyes, as it looked lost.
His nose was tracking something. Perhaps he could take down an Elk or Caribou. That was how hungry he was. The male was quite brave to tackle such big prey alone but he had done it before. Hawthrone liked and disliked hunting at the same time. He was more of a scavenger than a hunter, but in summer when food was scarce for him he would have to hunt. The fresh meat was welcomed over the frozen carcasses.
The musky smelling animal followed a scented trail, though it seemed old. His nose caught a new one. Wolf. He let out a huff. He had met several of those lately, some with mixed responses. There seemed to be an extreme amount of wolves in this location, curiously enough. The wolverine jumped on a log and sniffed the air once more. His nose turned him in the right direction. There the wolf was. He squinted his eyes, as it looked lost.
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