The Bracken Woods Apathy

For the barest of moments, as the she-wolf spilled forth like oil, their faces come near. His tail lifts and performs metronome ticks, a king's banner, but not a challenge—A statement rather, that his body was a castle, a fortress, housing the mind and spirit of an imperator. She turned from him, having decided something for herself, and leaving him behind in a river of motions so quick that the copper stag was briefly inoperable. Her lingering scent roused him, and the gears of the train began to churn; he loped after her slowly.

Frozen olives surveyed their surroundings. He stepped onto and over the fallen log rather than jumping, unwilling to expend any of his energy unless it would feed him. His heavy feet kept a deliberate pace, unaccommodating for his company, but she slowed so that they might move as one killing machine. He traveled at her hip, his head level to his broad shoulders and his eyes resuming a scanning motion as he peered to his left and then over her back repeatedly. Her presence beside him made no difference to his task. At any moment she could bail or decide that her mouth was more important that his.

He would deal with things as they came, and not a moment before.