the wind lays heavy

Kierkegaard · November 16, 2014, 02:37 AM

Instinct told him that he was at risk. This pale female was a stranger to him, and if she was aware of his injury, she was more likely to take advantage of him in his weak state. He followed the signs of her face, from the flaring of her nares to the way her pale blue eyes seemed to trail his figure until they had found the festering wound on the back of his leg. The male fought the urge to retreat upwards. He was confident in his knowledge of the ridge, but there was also the pricking of common sense that forced him to realize how slow his climb would be. She would – no doubt – close the distance between them in a matter of seconds. Which, she managed to do anyway. In a few leaps and bounds, she had wedged herself onto his perch and was peering at him curiously.
A cold expression crossed his features and the pallid male drew his lips backwards over his fangs, flattening his ears to his skull in warning. “What does it matter to you?” he snapped in response to her two queries. It was not her concern. Granted, Kierkegaard was allowing the infection to eat his leg and force him to remain in one place for the better parts of most of his days. Nonetheless, he found himself perturbed by her remarks, and the way she seemed to find such interest in the damage done to his hock. He would make short work of her company if she managed to press the issue any further. The ghostly brute was no stranger to forcing others away.