The plains is covered in a sheet of snow and the dawn is frigid. Lorcan had been sure to bulk up before he’d departed his natal pack: gaining weight that he knows he will shed during his time as a lone wolf. There is no definable time-table as to how long he will remain a lone wolf: the extra meat on his bones that took his build from natural mesomorph to endomorph will only last for so long. His footfalls are heavier, his tai-roan pelage thick, heavy and coarse to insulate during the glacial winter winds. The wind that breezed through the plains this morning was definitely glacial but it not truly surprising. He had passed around a glacier that had glowed like a beacon in the moonlight during the night.
Lorcan’s steps are heavy, the loose, compact snow crunching beneath his large paws. Stealth was once his forte but he’s forsaken it in the desire to keep himself alive …or at the very least give himself a fighting chance at surviving the winter with or without a pack. These Wilds are foreign to him: he knows nothing about their packs; for all he knows there are no packs. What he’s explored of the taiga so far has told him that it is uninhabited by packs but there is still much to explore yet. He draws his salmon tongue across his jowls and swipes it over his cold, leathery nose. He moves towards the heart of the plains, pausing as he steps down and sends a flock of quail begrudgingly to the sky though their flight is low and they swoop back down to the thick and tall grasses partially bowed by weight of the snow that blankets them.
Lorcan lowers to use the tall grasses to his own advantage, peering over them to see the tall grasses ahead shiver and hear the plop of snow as it falls to the earth. They are alerted to him now and he is like a bull in a china shop: makes too much noise and struggles to accumulate to his extra bulk. He isn’t sure how many chance he’ll get before they scatter and lose him. He can outrun them easily and their reluctance to fly could be a pro for him. One quail will hardly sate his appetite but he knows better than to be greedy. One at a time, he tells himself as his muscles tense and he lunges through the dry grasses towards what he thinks is quail.
Lorcan’s steps are heavy, the loose, compact snow crunching beneath his large paws. Stealth was once his forte but he’s forsaken it in the desire to keep himself alive …or at the very least give himself a fighting chance at surviving the winter with or without a pack. These Wilds are foreign to him: he knows nothing about their packs; for all he knows there are no packs. What he’s explored of the taiga so far has told him that it is uninhabited by packs but there is still much to explore yet. He draws his salmon tongue across his jowls and swipes it over his cold, leathery nose. He moves towards the heart of the plains, pausing as he steps down and sends a flock of quail begrudgingly to the sky though their flight is low and they swoop back down to the thick and tall grasses partially bowed by weight of the snow that blankets them.
Lorcan lowers to use the tall grasses to his own advantage, peering over them to see the tall grasses ahead shiver and hear the plop of snow as it falls to the earth. They are alerted to him now and he is like a bull in a china shop: makes too much noise and struggles to accumulate to his extra bulk. He isn’t sure how many chance he’ll get before they scatter and lose him. He can outrun them easily and their reluctance to fly could be a pro for him. One quail will hardly sate his appetite but he knows better than to be greedy. One at a time, he tells himself as his muscles tense and he lunges through the dry grasses towards what he thinks is quail.
i think there's a f l a w in my c o d e
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Messages In This Thread
adulthood is hell - by Lorcan Barebone - December 03, 2017, 05:21 AM
RE: adulthood is hell - by Mün - December 04, 2017, 05:30 PM