Tulimaq had grown tired of investigating the various signs of pack life back when he entered the eastern valley, and by the time he reached the hinterlands he had become jaded and bitter to the whole experience. He had come here with a mission, a goal in mind, and while he was certain he wasn't going to spend the rest of his life in this place he wasn't enthusiastic any longer to the lifestyle of the native population. It had become tiring to seek out the wolves of the valley, the realm between the mountain ranges, and here — here in the hinterlands where there didn't seem to be any wolves at all. He'd found traces of one pack so far, and steered clear of them; signs of lone wolves were plentiful as well and yet, Tulimaq found himself avoiding them too (for the most part). He trailed his way east until he was surrounded by mountains on all sides save for the way he had come. He felt as if he were at a dead end.
He followed the river until it seemed to terminate, and found that there were mountains arcing around his position — most of which he couldn't look at from his vantage point because the earth dipped lower and lower as he went, pooling with water that turned to thick ice in most places; he'd found the morass, and it was like stumbling upon the world's end. A great pit of nothing good. There were no wolf scents here which was a nice change, but he was soaking from the boggy soil and feeling colder here than he ever had in the far north. At least in the north you could burrow in the snow and insulate yourself; here, at least so far, Tulimaq had found mud and ice and — ugh.
The man let out a rough groan, his frustration having built up over the past few weeks and spoiling his spirit. He needed to do something constructive — hunt something maybe, or beat the crap out of someone, something physical to release all of his anger, and all this tension. He finally turns to face the distant mountains — and they're foreign but they're impressive — lifts his chin, and howls a challenge in to the winter wind.
He followed the river until it seemed to terminate, and found that there were mountains arcing around his position — most of which he couldn't look at from his vantage point because the earth dipped lower and lower as he went, pooling with water that turned to thick ice in most places; he'd found the morass, and it was like stumbling upon the world's end. A great pit of nothing good. There were no wolf scents here which was a nice change, but he was soaking from the boggy soil and feeling colder here than he ever had in the far north. At least in the north you could burrow in the snow and insulate yourself; here, at least so far, Tulimaq had found mud and ice and — ugh.
The man let out a rough groan, his frustration having built up over the past few weeks and spoiling his spirit. He needed to do something constructive — hunt something maybe, or beat the crap out of someone, something physical to release all of his anger, and all this tension. He finally turns to face the distant mountains — and they're foreign but they're impressive — lifts his chin, and howls a challenge in to the winter wind.
« Next Oldest | Next Newest »
Messages In This Thread
enemies foreign and domestic - by Tulimaq - November 26, 2018, 04:20 AM